The Seats of the Mighty: Being the Memoirs of Captain Robert Stobo, Sometime an Officer in the Virginia Regiment, and Afterwards of Amherst's Regiment

IV.

WHEN I waked I was alone. At first nothing was clear to me; my brain was dancing in my head, my sight obscured, my body painful, my senses were blunted. I was in darkness, yet through an open door there showed a light, which, from the smell and flickering, I knew to be a torch. This, creeping into my senses, helped me to remember; for I recalled that the last thing I saw in the Intendant’s courtyard was a burning torch, which suddenly multiplied to dancing hundreds, and then went out. I stretched out a hand, and it touched a stone wall. I moved, and felt straw under me. Then I fixed my eyes steadily on the open door and the shaking light, and presently it all grew upon me: the events of the night, and that I was now in a cell of the citadel. Stirring, I felt the wound in my body had been bound and cared for. A loosely tied scarf round my arm showed that some one had lately left me, and would return to finish the bandaging. I raised myself with difficulty, and saw a basin of water, a sponge, bits of cloth, and a pocket-knife. Stupid and dazed as I was, the instinct of self-preservation lived, and I picked up the knife and hid it in my coat. I did it, I believe, mechanically, for a hundred things were going through my mind at the time.

All at once there rushed in on me the thought of Juste Duvarney as I saw him last, — how long ago was it? — his white face turned to the sky, his arms stretched out, his body dabbled in blood. I groaned aloud. “Fool, fool! to be trapped by these lying French ! To be tricked into playing their shameless games for them, to have a broken body, to have killed the brother of the mistress of my heart, and so cut myself off from her and ruined my life for nothing, — for worse than nothing ! ” I had swaggered, boasted, had taken a challenge for a bout and a quarrel like any hanger-on of a tavern. I cursed myself in good stout terms, and then in another breath, almost, — and how the human mind can play chameleon so I cannot guess, — I called on God to save our cause, to teach wisdom to those gentlemen in England who muddled our affairs, and to tread down his Majesty’s enemies. It may be I was a little light of head then, — heavy of heart I know I was, —for through it all I kept calling softly, as if with another voice, “ Nay, flower of my heart, he shall not die, he shall not die ! The bird shall sing again, the sap shall run in the bruised branch.”

It is strange that many voices may be speaking at once in us without confusion. And I have often thought that each of us is not one, but many, and that one part of us may long be dead before the other. But this may be because I have not mind enough to see such things clearly, and I let my rough fancy carry away my logic.

However that be, many voices were speaking in me, and one of them was telling of that bird which used to hang at Alixe’s window where her brother played, and of that maple-tree where she and I gathered sap the year before. But suddenly I heard footsteps and voices outside ; then one voice, louder than the other, saying, “ He has n’t stirred a peg — lies like a log — aho ! ”

And another voice added, “ You will not need a surgeon — no ? ” It was Doltaire, his tone, as it seemed to me, less careless than usual.

And Gabord answered, “ I know the trick of it all — what can a surgeon do ? This brandy will fetch him to his intellects and to his nuts to crack. Crack! he ’ll have enough to crack! And by and by crack’ll go his spine— aho ! ”

You have heard a lion growling on a bone : that is how Gabord’s voice sounded to me then, — a rich, brutal rawness ; and for an instant it made me shiver; but it came to my mind the same moment that this was the man who had laughed as he told me of Voban, and brought him to do me service. I fondly hoped he was playing the lion before Doltaire, to be a lamb afterwards to me. Whatever Doltaire thought, he said nothing save this :

“ Come, come, Gabord, crack your jaws less, and see you fetch him on his feet again. From the seats of the mighty they have said that he must live — to die another day, and so be it; and see to it, or from those seats they will say that you must die to live another day — in a better world, kind Gabord. ”

I longed, in my distress of mind, to cry out and ask them of that which they did not speak of by so much as a word,— of Juste Duvarney. But I dared not. There was a moment in which the only sound was that of tearing linen, and I could see the shadows of the two upon the stone wall of the corridor wavering to the light of the torch ; and then the shadows shifted entirely, and their footsteps came on towards my door. I was lying on my back as when I came to, and, therefore, probably as Gabord had left me, and I determined to dissemble, to appear still in a faint. But I could, however, see through nearly closed eyelids. I saw Gabord enter, and Doltaire stand in the doorway and look at me as the soldier knelt beside me and lifted my arm to take off the bloody scarf. I could not see Doltaire with perfect distinctness, but I felt his manner imperturbable as ever, and his face, even after the wild night, showed little save a deeper general disdain. Even then I wondered what his thoughts were, what pungent phrase he was suiting to the time and to me. I do not know to this day which more interested him, — that very pungency of phrase, or the critical events which inspired his reflections. He had no sense of responsibility ; his mind loved talent, skill, and devilish cleverness, and though it was scathing of all usual ethics, for the crude, honest life of the poor it had sympathy. I remember what he said to me as we stood in the market-place a year before, and saw the peasant in his sabots and the wife in her homespun cloth.

“These,” said he, “ are they who will save the earth one day, for they are like it, kin to it. When they are born they lie close to it, and when they die they fall no height to reach their graves. The rest — the world—are like ourselves in dreams: we do not walk; we think we by, over houses, over trees, over mountains ; and then one blessed instant the spring breaks, or the dream gets twisted, and we go falling, falling, in a sickening fear, and, waking up, we find we are and have been on the earth all the while, and yet can make no claim on it, and have no kin with it, and no right to ask anything of it — quelle vie — quelle vie / ”

Sick as I was, I thought of that as he stood there in the doorway, looking in at me; and though I knew I ought to hate him, I admired him in spite of all. It might be I should kill him one day, and yet I knew also that I should be sorry for that, and, like Harry over Hotspur, — if one might set great things by small, — should take my scarf in pity to cover his face.

Presently he said, “ You ’ll come to me at noon to - morrow, and see you bring good news. He breathes — he is alive ? ”

Gabord put a hand on my chest and at my neck, and said at once, “ Breath for balloons — aho ! ”

At that Doltaire threw his cloak over his shoulder and walked away, his footsteps sounding loud in the passages. Gabord began humming to himself as he tied the bandages, and then he reached down for the knife to cut the flying strings. I could see this out of a little corner of my eye. When he did not find it, he settled back on his haunches and looked at me. I could feel his lips puffing out, and I was ready for the “ Poom ! ” that came from him. Then I could feel him stooping over me, and his hot strong breath in my face. I was so near to unconsciousness at that moment by a sudden anxiety that perhaps my feigning had the look of reality. In any case, he thought me unconscious, and that lie must have taken the knife away with him, for he tucked in the strings of the bandage. And then, lifting my head, he held the flask to my lips ; for which I was most grateful — I was dizzy and miserably faint.

As I think, myself, I came to with rather more alacrity than was wise; but he was deceived, and his first, words were, “ Ho, ho ! the devil’s knocking. Come, my pretties, who’s for home — aho? ”

As will be seen, the fashion of his speech was singular. He put all things allusively, using strange figures and metaphors. And yet, when one was used to him and to them, their potency and force seemed greater than any polished speech and ordinary phrase.

I sat up and pretended to view him with surprise. He offered me more brandy, which I drank, and then, without preface, I asked him the one question which sank back on my heart like a load of ice even as I sent it forth. “ Is he alive ? ” I inquired. “ Is Monsieur Duvarney alive ? ”

With exasperating coolness he winked an eye, to connect the event with what he knew of the letter I had sent to Alixe, and, cocking his head, he blew out his lips with a soundless laugh, and said,—

“ To pack the brother off to heaven is to say good-by to sister and pack yourself to Father Peter.”

“ For God’s sake, tell me, is the boy dead ? ” I asked, my voice cracking in my throat.

“ He’s not mounted for the journey yet,” he answered, with a shrug, “ but the Beast is at the door.”

Thank God, he was not dead. There was yet a hope — how much ? I plied my man with questions, and learned that they had carried him into the palace for dead, but found life in him, and straightway used all means to save him. A surgeon came, his father and mother were sent for, and when Doltaire had left there was hope that he would live. As Gabord put it, —

“ And the Beast at the door chewed his bit and stamped, to get away with laddie on his back ; but laddie would not ride that day — aho ! ”

I learned also that Voban had carried word to the Governor of the deed to be done that night; had for a long time failed to get admittance to him, but was at last permitted to tell his story ; and Yaudreuil had gone to the Intendant’s palace to have me hurried to the citadel before harm was done, and had come just too late. There was one more thing to learn : had Voban given my letter to Alixe ? As I thought more and more, I saw that this was scarce possible, for the night was far along when he left me, and he had spent much time in reaching the Governor’s presence. I shuddered at the thought that my letter would not get to her until news of her brother had come to the Manor, — of his injury, perhaps death, by my hand. But I felt she would not judge me bitterly till she knew the whole truth, if one day I or some one else might tell it to her.

After answering my first few questions, Gabord would have nothing more to say, and presently he took the torch from the wall, and, with a gruff goodnight, prepared to go. When I asked that a light be left, he shook his head, said he had no orders, and that I had better try to sleep. Whereupon he left me, the heavy door clanging to; the bolts were shot, I could hear the distant sound of footsteps, and then I was alone in darkness with wounds and misery. My cloak had been put into the cell beside my couch, and this I now drew over me, and lay and thought upon my condition and my prospects, which, as may be seen, were not cheering. I did not suffer great pain from my wounds, — only a stiffness that troubled me not at all if I lay still, — and I had little fever, for which I was most grateful. After an hour or so passed — for it is hard to keep count of time when one’s thoughts are the only timekeeper — I fell asleep.

Here lay the secret why, in tortures and miseries enough to kill most men, I lived on. bent but not broken : after the worst of days I was able to sleep. I do not think this power to sleep quietly in the most perilous times is a matter of easy conscience, for I am no saint, as my enemies have proven now and then. However it be, I have lain down often with insult, and injury, and aching body, and death set for the morrow, and have slept like a child at its mother’s breast. And so, that night, after all that sore day, I stretched on my bag of straw, drew my cloak up to my chin, laid my wounded arm across my breast, and traveled away into those padded lanes which lead to the drowsy valley. Good nourisher of this poor plant the body, calm apothecary of the mind, suave doctor of fiery hearts, dear medicine, — by it I have been held in the bath of rest, drenched in a pool of hope, and lifted again upon the sands to feel the sun of life give me courage for another day, that I might serve my country and my mistress with no less effort than delight.

I know not how long I slept, but when I woke I was refreshed ; and though my body was stiff and sore, my brain was clear, I was not fevered, and I had — for which I was glad — a desire to act. It was still dark, and yet I could not think I had slept but an hour or so, — it must have been four o’clock when I fell asleep, — for I was rested in brain and body, and that surely meant some hours of unconsciousness. I stretched forth my uninjured arm, moving it about. In spite of my will, a sort of hopelessness went through me, for I could feel long blades of corn grown up about my couch, an unnatural meadow, springing from the earth floor of my dungeon. I drew the blades between my fingers, feeling towards them as if they were things of life like myself, out of their place, struggling to live without their father the sun, nourished only by their mother the earth. I wondered what color they were. Surely, to myself I said, they cannot be green, but rather a yellowish white, bloodless, having only fibre, the heart all pinched to death. Last night I had not noted them, yet now, looking back, I saw, as in a picture, Gabord the soldier feeling among them for the knife that I had taken. So may we see things, and yet not be conscious of them at the time, waking to their knowledge afterwards. So may we for years look upon a face without understanding, and then, suddenly, one day it comes flashing out, and we read its hidden story like a book.

I put my hand out farther, then brought it back near to my couch, feeling towards its foot mechanically, and now I touched an earthen pan. A small board lay across its top, and moving my fingers along it I found a piece of bread. Then I felt the jar, and knew it was filled with water. Sitting back, I thought hard for .a moment. Of this I was sure : the pan and bread were not there when I went to sleep, for this was the spot where my eyes fell naturally while I lay in bed looking towards Doltaire ; and I should have remembered it now, even if I had not noted it then. My jailer had brought these while I slept. But it was still dark. I waked again as out of a sort of sleep, startled: I was in a dungeon that had no window.

Here I was, packed away in a farthest corner of the citadel, in a deep hole that maybe had not been used for years, to be, no doubt, denied all contact with the outer world — I was going to say friends, but whom could I name among them save that dear soul who, by last night’s madness, if her brother were dead, was forever made dumb and blind to me ? Whom had I but her and Voban ! — and Voban was yet to be proved. The Seigneur Duvarney had paid all debts he may have owed me, and he now might, because of the injury to his son, leave me to my fate. On Gabord the soldier I could not count; be would train a firelock on me without a second’s pause, if I tried to escape.

There I was, as Doltaire had said, like a rat in a trap. It was a thought to chill the blood, for in all my hard experiences I had not yet been shut off from light and the faces of men. But I would not let panic seize me. I would not waste the strength my sleep had given me by walking the treadmill of lament and railing. I felt, too, that I dared not let myself begin thinking of my sweet maid and her brother, of Braddock and our cause, — not yet. So, with direct intention, I sat and ate the stale but sweet bread which had been left for me, took a long drink of the good water from the earthen jar, and then, stretching myself out, drew my cloak up to my chin, and settled myself for sleep again. And that I might keep up a sweet delusion that I was not quite alone in the bowels of the earth, I reached out my hand, and, drawing the blades of corn between my fingers, said to them, “ Good-night, comrades ; be of good cheer ; there’s many a slip ’twixt the field and the sickle. And God is watching, comrades.”

Speaking thus comforted me, so that T smiled at my own harmless conceit, and felt a kind of comfort, too, from my preaching. I was never a religious man, and down in Virginia they tell what open house I kept to revelers, and how, when I went out with George Washington to fight these French, I had two butts of wine with me, and other ripe stores, and fed my friends well in the wilderness, without forgetting my duty as a soldier either. For it has always been my creed that man should feed well on the good things of this world, and have the full heart which wine inspires, that he may endure the hardships of war or the dull prosperity of peace. But I have never forgotten the Master of all Pleasant Gifts, and Ceremonies, and Plans, and Givings and Takings, and Gardens and Deserts, though it was but the rough-and-ready remembrance of a soldier.

And so, with this fanciful speech, I drew my chin down to my shoulder, and let myself drift out of painful consciousness almost as easily, I am glad to say, as a sort of woman can call out tears at will. My sleep was sound ; I did not dream, — I do not think, indeed, that I stirred, — but in the perfect silence and gloom regaled my mind and body against my trials. When I waked, it was without a start or moving, without confusion, — just a wide opening of the eyes, a perfect understanding of my position, and with nerves entirely rested, though I felt my body weak and needing nourishment; I was bitterly hungry. That was my first thought; the next was that, beside my couch, with his hands on his hips and his feet spread out, stood Gabord, looking down at me in a quizzical and unsatisfied way. A torch was burning near him.

“ Wake up, dickey-bird,” said he in his rough, mocking voice, “ and we ’ll snuggle you into the pot. You ’ve been long hiding; come out of the bush, my dear — aho! ”

I drew myself up painfully. “ What is the time ? ” I asked, and meanwhile I looked for the earthen jar and the bread. There was more bread, and I reached for it.

“ Time since when, dickey-bird dear? ” said he.

“ Since it was twelve o’clock last night,” I answered.

“ Fourteen hours since then,” said he.

The emphasis arrested my attention. “ I mean,” I added, “ since the fighting in the courtyard.”

“ Thirty-six hours and more since then, monsieur the dormouse,” was his reply.

I had slept a day and a half since the doors of this cell closed on me. It was Friday then ; now it was Sunday afternoon. Gabord had come in to me three times, and seeing how sound asleep I was had not disturbed me, but had brought bread and water,—my prescribed diet, at, I was told, the Governor’s command ; by which I knew that the Intendant had told his story — some story — to my further misery. How shall a man get justice or mercy if he speak to the walls of a dungeon in an enemy’s country ? Should Juste Duvarney be dead, that would account for my present treatment.

But while these thoughts flashed through my mind, the dread of that one thing was there, also, — what of the young gentleman ? I looked at Gabord. He stood there, his feet buried in the blanched corn, — I could see the long yellowish - white blades, — the torch throwing shadows about him. His back was now against the wall, his legs were thrust forward. I looked carefully round my dungeon. There was not a sign of a window ; I was to live in darkness. But I thanked Heaven that moment for one thing: the walls were dry ; there was no rank dampness, that vile foe to spirits and health. If I were but allowed candles, or a lantern, or a torch, some books, paper, pencil, and tobacco, and the knowledge that I had not killed my sweet maid’s brother, I could abide the worst with some sort of calmness and unacted cheerfulness. I should soon learn of this ; yet with Gabord standing there, his eyes running about in his head like little balls, and conscious knowledge in his aspect, for a moment I lacked the courage. How much might have happened, must have happened, in all these hours of sleep ! My letter to Alixe must long ere this have been delivered ; my trial, no doubt, had been decided on. What had Voban done ? Had he any word for me ? Dear Lord ! here was a mass of questions tumbling one upon the other in my head, while my heart thumped behind my waistcoat like a rubber ball to a prize-fighter’s fist. Misfortunes may be so great and many that one may find grotesqueness in their impossible conjunction and multiplicity. I remembered at that moment a friend of mine in Virginia, the most unfortunate man I ever knew. Death, desertion, money losses, political defeat, flood, came one upon the other all in two years, and coupled with this was loss of health. One day he said to me : —

“ Robert, I have a perforated lung, my liver is a swelling sponge, eating crowds my waistband like a balloon, I have a swimming in my head and a sinking at my heart, and I cannot say litany for happy release from these, for my knees creak with rheumatism. The devil has done his worst, Robert, for these are his, — plague and pestilence, being final, are the will of God, — and, upon my soul, it is an absurd comedy of ills.” At that he had a fit of coughing, and I gave him a glass of spirits, which eased him.

“ That’s better,”said I cheerily to him.

It ‘s robbing Peter to pay Paul,” he answered ; “ for I owed it to my head to put the quid refert there, and here it’s gone to my lungs to hurry up my breathing. Did you ever think, Robert,” he added, “ that this breathing of ours is a labor, and that we have to work every second to keep ourselves alive ? We have to pump air in and out like a blacksmith’s boy.” He said it so drolly, though he was deadly ill, that I laughed for half an hour at the stretch, wiping away my tears as I did it ; for his pale gray face looked so sorry, with its quaint smile and that odd, dry voice of his.

As I sat there in my dungeon, with Gabord cocking his head and his eyes spinning, that scene flashed on me, calling up the procession of my own disasters ; and I laughed outright at myself as at a clown, — so much and so thoroughly that Gabord puffed out his lips, and flamed like bunting on a coast-guard’s hut, and his eyes beneath were like two spying telescopes trying to read into my thoughts, very villainous, if they inspired me to laughter at him ! And the more he stared, the more I laughed, till my wounded side hurt me and my arm had twinges. To see him spluttering and scowling added to my laughter ; but my mood changed suddenly, and I politely begged his pardon, telling him frankly then and there what had made me laugh, and how I had come to think of it. The flame passed out of his cheeks, the revolving fire of his eyes dimmed, and his lips broke into a soundless laugh, and then, in his big voice, he said, “ You’ve got your knees to pray on yet, and crack my bones, but you ’ll have need to con your penitentials if what they say abroad is true.”

“ Before you tell of that,” said I, — for now I must have news of my dear maid’s brother, — “ how is young Monsieur Duvarney ? Is — is he alive ? ” I added, as I saw his face lower a little.

“The Beast was at the door again last night, wild to be off, and the foot of the young Seigneur was in the stirrup, when along comes sister with a certain drug got from an Indian squaw who nursed her when a child ; she gives it him, and he drinks; they carry him back, sleeping, and the Beast must stand there tugging at the leathers yet.”

“His sister — it was his sister,” I said, as calmly as I could, “ that brought him back to life ? ”

“ Like that — aho ! They said she must not come, but she will have her way. Straight she goes to the palace at night, no one knowing but — guess who ? You can’t — but no! ”

A light broke in on me. “ With the Scarlet Woman — with Mathilde,” I said, hoping in my heart that it was so, for somehow I felt even then that she, poor vagrant, would play a part in the history of Alixe’s life and mine.

“ At the first shot,” he said. “ ’T was the crimson one, as quiet as a baby chick, not hanging to the ma’m’selle’s skirts, but watching and whispering a little now and then — and she there in Bigot’s palace, and he not knowing it! And the maids do not tell him, for they knew the poor wench in better days — aho! So there she bides till the young lady goes back to the Manor ; and that’s soon, if the drug goes on well with its work.

I got up with effort and pain, and went to grasp his hand in gratitude, for he had done me here great kindness ; but he drew back and put his hands behind him.

“ No, no,” said he, “ I am your jailer. They’ve put you here to break your high spirits, and I’m to help the breaking, day by day, till you are fit for heaven.”

I admired his sturdy honesty more than ever, and I knew, with great distinctness, that whatever he might or might not permit me, he would never give the least chance of escape ; he would be vigilant, and in the way of duty would spit me like a fowl.

“ But I thank you just the same,” I answered him ; “ and I promise to give you as little trouble as may be while you are my jailer — which, with all my heart, I hope may be as long as I ’m a prisoner.”

He waved out his hands to the dungeon walls, and lifted his shoulders as if to say that I might as well be docile, for the prison was safe enough. “ Poom ! ” he said, as if in genial disdain of my suggestion.

I smiled, and then, after putting my hands on the walls here and there to see if they were, as they seemed, quite dry,

I drew back to my couch and sat down. Presently I stooped to tip the earthen jar of water to my lips, for I could not lift it with one hand ; but my humane jailer took it from me and held it to my mouth without a word. When I had drunk, “ Do you know,” asked I as calmly as I could, “ if our barber gave the letter to Mademoiselle ? ”

“ M’sieu’, you’ve traveled far to reach that question,” he said, jangling his keys as if he enjoyed it. “ And if he had, what would be in the head of dormouse? ”

I caught at his vague suggestion, and my heart leaped.

“ A reply,” said I, “ a message or a letter,” though I had not dared to let myself even think of that.

He whipped a tiny packet from his coat. “ ’T is a sparrow’s pecking — no great matter here, eh ? ” — he weighed it up and down on his fingers, —“ a little piping wren’s par pitie.”

I reached out for it. And I should read it,” said he. “ There must be no more of this. But new orders came after I ’d got her dainty àa monsieur ! Yes, I must read it,” said he, — but maybe not at first,” he added, “ not at first, if you ’ll give word of honor not to tear it.”

How hungry I was for it! “ On my sacred honor,” said I, reaching out still.

He looked it all over again provokingly, and then lifted it to his nose, for it had a delicate perfume. Then he gave a little grunt of wonder and pleasure, and handed it over. By the superscription I could see that the ink had not been long dried. My heart stood still : it had been written since her brother was hurt by me !

I broke the seal, and my eyes ran swiftly through the lines, traced in a firm, delicate hand, which even in a sore time to her — mind and body — showed no nervousness. I could see through it all the fine, sound nature, by its healthy simplicity mastering anxiety, care, and fear.

“ Robert,” she wrote, “ by God’s help my brother will live, to repent with you, I hope, of Friday night’s ill work. He was near gone, yet we have held him back from that rough-rider, Death. But this business has come near to killing you both and spoiling my life ; though if it were a point of duty I would not let my life weigh too much. Yet I love life, I who am not yet one of the world, not yet of those who flutter at the Grand Château.

“ Robert, you will thank God, will you not, that my brother did not die ? Indeed, I feel you have. I do not blame you; I know — I need not tell you how — the heart of the affair, and even my mother can see through the wretched thing. My father says little, and he has not spoken harshly ; for which I gave thanksgiving this morning in the chapel of the Ursulines, where I went after seeing my brother awake and know me, and fall asleep again on my arm. He loves me, Robert, and you cannot guess what pain is at my heart that you and he should stand condemned in my eyes ; that you should both have gone so far towards a horrible end. Yet I would not have you downcast — no. You are in a dungeon, covered with wounds of my brother’s making, both of you victims of others’ villainy, — ay, I must say it, though those others may, by some wicked chance, see these words, — alone in darkness and pain, no willing hand to give you comfort or tend your needs ; and you are yet to bear worse things, for they are to try you for your life. But never shall I believe that they will find you guilty of dishonor. I have watched you these three years ; I know your heart. Yours is an honest face, Robert; your eye does not evade ; your words are not fine enough to be false, nor are you all gallant like so many here, though I mean not that against the gentlemen of my country. I mean only that you have a rough sweetness like a true soldier, carrying truth where a daintier lover would charm and leave doubt behind. I do not, nor ever will, doubt you, dear friend of my heart. I wept last night as I thought of him and you lying low, but this morning I smiled when I rose from my prayers at the chapel.

“ Y ou would not believe it, Robert, and you may think it fanciful, but as I got up from my prayers I looked towards a window, and it being a little open, for it is a sunny day, there sat a bird on the sill, a little brown bird that peeped and nodded. I was so won by it that I came softly over to it. It did not fly away, but hopped a little here and there. I stretched out my hand gently on the stone, and putting its head now this side, now that, at last it tripped into it, and chirped most sweetly. I lifted it to my cheek, and as I smiled the tears fell too, for it seemed to me as if my prayer had been answered so — nay, do not laugh, you who are not fanciful, for you must feel it was strange — our birds are so wild here, and this is autumn, as you know. And I will tell you more. After I had kissed it I placed it back on the windowsill, that it might fly away again. But no, it would not go, but stayed there, tipping its gold-brown head at me as before, as though it would invite me to guess why it came. Again I reached out my hand, and again it tripped into it. I stood wondering and holding it to my bosom, when I heard a voice behind me say, ‘ The bird would be with thee, my child. God hath many signs.’ I turned and saw the good Mère St. George looking at me, she of whom I was always afraid, so distant was she. I did not speak, but only looked at her, and she nodded kindly at me and passed on. So I held the bird close to my breast, and came with it to this place where my brother lies. More than once, as I came, I opened my hand that it might fly away, but it only nestled down, and never stirred a wing, not once.

“And, Robert, as I write to you here in the Intendant’s palace (what a great wonderful place it is ! I fear I do not hate it and its luxury as I ought!), it is beside me in a cage upon the table, with a little window open, so that it may come out if it will. And my brother lies in the bed asleep ; I can touch him if I but put out my hand. My mother is asleep also, and my father is gone to the Governor, and the nurse is lying down, and I am alone save for one person. Who is it, Robert? You sent two messengers: can you not guess the one that will be with me ? Poor soul, she sits and gazes at me till I almost fall weeping. But she seldom speaks, she is so quiet, — as if she knew that she must keep a secret. For, Robert, though I know you did not tell her, she knows — she knows that you love me, and she gave me a little wooden cross which she said would make us happy.

“ My mother did not drive her away, as I half feared she would, and at last she said that I might house her with one of our peasants. But meanwhile she is with me here. She is not so mad but that she has wisdom too, and she shall have my care and friendship. It would make you sad to hear her talk of flowers, and to my little bird she whispers things which I am sure good angels tell her. And I whisper to the little linnet, also. Do you not wish you could hear what I say ? You do, I know, for there’s whispering that you never heard before, Robert, never.

“ I have written you a long letter, for I do not know when I may write again. The city is all agog at the defeat of the British, and you are to be a sacrifice to their joy, if they can fetch you to the point of guilty. But I trust you shall not be brought there. You have a friend whose heart for you is greater than her power, but she will find a way to power too.

“Ay, cherish her, Robert, for young though your comrade is, she will not be proven childish when the great test comes. And has it not been said that out of the mouth of babes hath God ordained strength ? I will keep mine own counsel, and I bid you be of good courage, nor ever think, though no word comes to your solitude, that I grow idle in your behalf. Voban is to be trusted, and I know one other. I know, for there are things that make men and women true. Alas that they should suffer, while the wicked prosper ! But one day the hungry shall be filled, and the rich sent empty away.

“ I bid thee to God’s care, Robert. I need not tell thee to be not dismayed. Thou hast two jails, and one wherein I lock thee safe is warm and full of light. If the hours drag by, think of all thou wouldst do if thou wert free to go to thine own country, — alas that thought! — and of what thou wouldst say if thou couldst speak to thy A TLIE.

“ Postscript. I trust that they have cared for thy wounds, and that thou hast light and food and wine. Voban hath promised to discover this for me. The soldier Gabord, at the citadel, he hath a good heart. Though thou canst expect no help from him, yet he will not be rougher than his orders. He did me a good service once, and he likes me, and I him. And so fare thee well, Robert. I will not languish ; I will act, and not be weary. Dost thou really love me ? ”

V.

When I had read the letter, I looked up at Gabord, who had stood watching me. Without a word I handed it up to him. I wished, if possible, to have an open confidence, to treat him as though I trusted him; for he had enough knowledge of this secret of Alixe’s and mine to ruin us, if he chose. He took the letter, turned it over, looking at it curiously, and at last, with a shrug of the shoulders, passed it back.

“ ’T is a long tune on a dot of a fiddle,” said he, for indeed the letter was but a small affair in bulk. “ I ’d need two pairs of eyes and telescope — aho ! Is it all Heart-o’-my-heart, and Cometrip-in-dewy-grass — aho ? Or is there knave at window to bear m’sieu’ away ? ”

I took the letter from him. “ Listen,”said I, “ to what the lady says of yourself, and judge from it. ” And then I read him that part of her postscript which had to do with himself.

He put his head on one side like a great wise magpie, and, “ H’m — ha ! ” said he whimsically, “ aho I Gabord the soldier, Gabord. thou hast a good heart — and the birds fed the beast with plums and froth of comfits till he died, and on his sugar tombstone they carved the words. ‘ Gabord had a good heart.’ Gabord, Gabord, did I not warn thee ? and yet thou hadst a sweet tooth, and with a musket cocked across thy knee thou didst swear to kill the pretty birds if they quarreled with their cage and vexed Gabord.”

“ It was spoken out of a true heart,” said I petulantly, for I could not bear from a common soldier even a tone of disparagement, though I saw the exact meaning of his words. So I added, “ You shall read the whole letter, or I will read it to you, and you shall judge, on the honor of a gentleman, all of it! ”

“ Poom ! ” said he, “English fire-eater ! corn-cracker ! Show me the ‘ good-heart ’ sentence, for I’d see how it is written, how Gabord looks with a woman’s whimsies round it.”

I traced the words with my fingers, holding the letter near the torch. “ ‘ Yet he will not be rougher than his orders,’ ” said he after me, and “ ’He did me a good service once.’ ”

“Comfits,” he continued ; “ well, thou shalt have comfits, too,” and he fished from his pocket a parcel. I knew it as soon as I laid eyes on it; or rather, I smelt it. It was my tobacco and my pipe. He had brought me these ; for though my persecutors had forbidden many things, and had said I should have but bread and water, he had had no orders yet as to tobacco ; and thus he was “ not rougher than his orders.”

Truly, my state might have been vastly worse. I had a dry dungeon, I had tobacco, I had bread and water, I had my dear girl’s letter in my breast, and the assurance of her love and of the present well-being of her brother. There was little more said between Gabord and myself, but he refused bluntly to carry message or letter to anybody, and bade me not to vex him with petitions. Still, he left me the torch and a flint and steel, so I had light for a space, I had my blessed tobacco and pipe, and I had more bread and water. When the doors clanged shut and the bolts were shot, I lay back on my couch and gave myself up to thought. I would reserve my smoking for another hour ; I would have the double joy, — it and the dreaming of it.

I was not all unhappy. How could that be with Alixe’s letter there ? But, besides, I had then no violent hate of my captivity, of my prison. Fiery of spirit as I was, as I have ever been, I yet did not fret my soul to death, now that action, occupation, light, society, the world, were all shut out, cut off. There is that in me which does not let my soul beat against the inevitable, which holds me steady in crises and vexed times. I have heard of men shrieking aloud on being left alone in darkness and the silence of a dungeon, and coming out so broken in brain and body that they nevermore recovered. It might have been so with me, perhaps, had there not come the good doctor Sleep and calmed all my nerves, whereby the silence and the solitude soaked into me, and I became, when I waked, in some wise a part of it. Indeed, it did not distress me greatly, though you may say a longer time must be the test of that, as it was ! One cannot always be thinking of one’s self, or of one’s lover, or of one’s enemies, without action ; and what resources should I have here ? No books, no paper for writing, no single occupation ; and I had heretofore been an active man, even as a prisoner.

Ay, I knew the test was to come, if I were kept here long. Thank God, they had not put chains on me, as Governor Dinwiddie had done with Monsieur Laforce, a French prisoner at Williamsburg, for whom I had sought to be exchanged two years before, and failed, though he was my equal in all ways and importance. Doltaire was the cause of that, as you shall know. Well, there was one more item to add to his indebtedness. My face flushed and my fingers tingled at thought of him, and so I resolutely turned my reveries elsewhere, and again in a little while I seemed to think of nothing, but lay and bathed in the silence, and indulged my eyes with the good red light of the torch, inhaling its pitchy scent, sweeter to me than cinnamon or roses. I was conscious, yet for a time I had no thought: I was like something half animal, half vegetable, which feeds, yet has no mouth, nor sees, nor hears, nor has sense, but only lives. I seemed hung in space, as one feels when going from sleep to waking, —a long lane of half-numb life, before the open road of full consciousness is reached. I am sure all this feeling came from the silence, acting upon a mind relieved of a great pressure. For the well-being of Juste Duvarney was my chief trouble. Painful as had been to me the passing defeat of our cause, here was a thing vital to me as to her I loved devotedly.

At last I waked from this good stupor. The sudden cracking of a knot in the torch did it. It sounded, I remember, prodigiously loud, — as resonant in that stillness as a cannon shot from Sault au Matelot on the Heights without. Looking, I knew by the length the torch had burned that some time had passed, — perhaps two hours. I saw also that it would last but a few hours more. I determined then to put it out, for I might be allowed no more light, and even a few minutes of this torch every day would be a great boon. So I took it from its place, and was about to quench it in the moist earth at the foot of the wall, when I remembered my tobacco and my pipe. Can you think how joyfully I packed full the good brown bowl, delicately filling in every little corner, and at last held it to the flame, and saw it light ? That first long whiff was like the indrawn breath of the cold, starved hunter, when, stepping into his house, he sees food, fire, and wife on his hearthstone. I hugged the warm bowl in my fingers, gave the stem to my teeth once more, put out the good torchlight, and then went back to my couch and sat down, the bowl shining like a star before me.

My brain was swimming again with many scenes, and there and then a thought came to me, — something which would keep my brain from wandering, my nerves from fretting and wearing, for a time at least. I determined to write to my dear maid the true history of my life, even to the point — and after — of this thing which now was bringing me to so ill a pass. But I was in darkness, I had no paper, pens, nor ink: how could this be done ? I cast about in my mind. There was the wall; but then, how slow a process it would be, and for the task I had only the knife which I had secreted. It would soon be worn to the hilt, and I was keeping it for contingencies. And more than all, this tale of mine was for the eyes of my dear maid, not for all who chose to hold a torch to a dungeon wall. Besides, I hoped that this imprisonment would be a matter of weeks at most. After a deal of thinking I came at last to the solution. I would compose the story, and learn it by heart, sentence by sentence, as I so composed it. Thus there could be no proud haste of composition, and every sentence should be chewed to digestibility. The idea pleased me mightily, for it had a look of giving me scope for play of thought and interest, and exercise in precision of mind. Then, in learning it, I could speak aloud easily and naturally. This would be a good thing, for I knew well that many a poor prisoner had come to listen to his own voice as though it were some wild sprite shouting from elfish hills. And that is the beginning of madness. When the man shrinks back from himself, when some one faculty seems alien to another, and he resolves himself into his many selves, he is getting ready to be driven over the steeps into the sea. To be sure, there was Gabord to speak to, but I was not certain even that would last; and then there were the numberless minutes out of the day when he would not be with me. I would write my story to Alixe in my mind, and tell it to her some time, as the prophets of old told their histories, as the poets their tales in antique times, by the wide sea, under good blue skies. I laughed to myself at the conceit. Indeed, it is not so hard to laugh, even in the thick of one’s miseries.

So, there and then, I began to run back over the years of my life, even to my first remembrances, that I might see it from first to last in a sort of whole and with a kind of measurement. But when I began to dwell upon my childhood, one little thing gave birth to another swiftly, as you may see one flicker in the heaven multiply and break upon the mystery of the dark, filling the night with clusters of stars, a very garden of fireflies. I had not guessed there were so many memories in me, but they came trooping to me in the encouraging silence of my dungeon, where the noises of the world were shut out, — the voices of friends or foes, the sound of human feet, the rolling wheels of carriages, the horses’ hoofs striking the ground, the chisel on the stone, the rattle of a ship’s chains, the devouring saw, the shrill happiness of children, and a thousand other sounds. I heard the small pipings of childhood, the first lispings of life and knowledge. As I thought, I kept drawing spears of the dungeon corn between my fingers softly, and presently there flashed before me the very first memory of my life. It had never come to me before, and I knew now that it was the beginning of conscious knowledge, for we can never know till we can remember. When a child remembers what it sees or feels, it has begun life.

I put the picture into the letter that I wrote my dear maid, and it shall be set down here forthwith and in little space, though it took me so very many days and weeks to think it out, to give each word a fixed place, so that it should go from my mind no more. And it never has. Every word of that story as I told it is as fixed as stone in my memory ; for all other things fail me at times, but never it. Yet it must not be thought I can give it all here ; it would take much too long, and the concerns of my later fate should have more interest to those who read these pages. I shall set down only a few things of what I wrote her, but keeping to the original word for word ; and though it will be but scraps, you shall find in it the spirit of the whole. Slowly I thought the first sentences out, then spoke them aloud, said them over and over, altered them here and there, and often again and again, that I might be brief and to the point, and yet not too abrupt. I will not set down the preface, but will come at once to the body of the letter.

VI.

“ And I would have you know of what I am and from where I came, though I have given you glimpses in the past. That done, I will make plain why I am charged with this that puts my life in danger, which would make you blush that you ever knew me if it were true. And I will show you first a picture as it runs before me, sitting here, the corn of my dungeon garden twining in my fingers.

“ A multiplying width of green grass spotted with white flowers, an upland where sheep browsed on a carpet of purple and gold and green, a tall rock on a hill where birds perched and fluttered, a blue sky arching over all. There, sprawling in a garden, a child pulled at long blades of grass, as he watched the birds flitting about the rocks, and heard a low voice coming down the wind. Here in my dungeon I can hear the voice as I have not heard it since that day in the year 1730, — that voice stilled so long ago. The air and the words come floating down, for the words I knew years afterwards: —

“ Those words came crooning over the grass of that little garden at Balmore which was by my mother’s home. I here I was born one day of June, though I was reared in the busy streets of Glasgow, where my father was a prosperous merchant, and famous for his parts and honesty.

“ I see myself, a little child of no great strength, for I was, indeed, the only one of my family who lived past infancy, and my mother feared she should never bring me up. I can see her in that picture, too, tall, delicate, yet firm of face, but with a strong brow, under which shone grave gray eyes, and a manner so distinguished that none might dispute her kinship to the renowned Montrose, who was lifted so high in dying, though his gallows was but thirty feet, that all the world has seen him there. There was one other in that picture, standing near my mother, and looking at me, who often used to speak of him, — my grandfather, John Mitchell, the Gentleman of Balmore, as he was called, out of regard for his ancestry and his rare merits. I have him well in mind : his black silk breeches and white stockings and gold seals, and two eyes that twinkled with great humor when, as he stooped over me, I ran my head between his calves and held him tight.

I recall how my mother said, ‘ I doubt that I shall ever bring him up,’ and how he replied, — the words seem to come through great distances to me, — ‘ He ’ll live to be Montrose the second, rascal laddie ! Four seasons at the breast ? Tut, tut! what o’ that ? ’T is but his foolery, his scampishness! No, no ! his epitaph’s no for writing till you and I are tucked i’ the sod, my Jeanie. Then, like Montrose’s, it will be, —

“ I can hear his laugh this minute, as he gave an accent to the words by stirring me with his stick, and I caught the gold head of it and carried it off, trailing it through the garden, till I heard my mother calling, and then forced her to give me chase, as I pushed open a little gate and posted away into that wide world of green, coming quickly to the river, where I paused and stood at bay. I can see my mother’s anxious face now, as she caught me to her arms ; and yet I know she had a kind of pride, too, when my grandfather said, on our return, ‘ The rascal’s at it early. Next time he ‘ll ford the stream and skirl at ye, Jeanie, from yonder bank.’

“ That is the first of my life that I remember. It may seem strange to you that I thus suddenly recall not only it, but the words then spoken, too. It is strange to me, also. But here it comes to me all on a sudden in this silence, as if another self of me were speaking from far places. At first all is in patches and confused, and then it folds out, — if not clearly, still so I can understand, — and the words I repeat come as if filtered through many brains to mine. I do not say that it is true, — it may be dreams ; and yet, as I say, it is firmly in my mind.

“The next that I remember was climbing upon a chair to reach for my grandfather’s musket, which hung across the chimney. I got at last upon the mantelshelf, and my hands were on the weapon, when the door opened, and my grandfather and my father entered. I was so busy I did not hear them till I was caught by the legs and swung to a shoulder, where I sat kicking. ‘You see his tastes, William,’ said my grandfather to my father; ‘ he’s "white o’ face and slim o’ body, but he ’ll no carry on your hopes.’ And more he said to the point, though what it was I knew not. But I think it to have been suggestion (I heard him say it later) that I would bring Glasgow up to London by the sword (good doting soul!) as my father brought it by manufactures, gaining honor thereby. However that may be, I would not rest till my grandfather had put the musket into my arms. I could scarcely lift it, but from the first it had a charm for me, and now and then, in spite of my mother’s protests, I was let to handle it, to learn its parts, to burnish it, and by and by — I could not have been more than six years old — to rest it on a rock and fire it off. It kicked my shoulder roughly in firing, but I know I did not wink as I pulled the trigger. Then I got a wild hunger to fire it at all times ; so much so, indeed, that powder and shot were locked up, and the musket was put away in my grandfather’s chest. But now and again it was taken out, and I made war upon the unresisting hillside, to the dismay of our neighbors in Balmore. To heighten the fever in my veins, my grandfather taught me soldiers’ exercises and the handling of arms : to my dear mother’s sorrow, for she ever fancied me as leading a merchant’s quiet life like my father’s, hugging the hearthstone, and finding joy in small civic duties, while she and my dear father sat peacefully watching me in their decline of years.

“ Dear jailer of my heart, I have told you of that river which flowed near my father’s house. At this time most of my hours were spent by it in good weather, for at last my mother came to trust me alone there, having found her alert fears of little use. But she would very often come with me and watch me as I played there. It was a pleasure to count myself a miller, and my little millwheel, made by my own hands, did duty here and there on the stream, and many drives of logs did I, in fancy, saw into piles of lumber, and loads of flour send away to the City of Desire. Then, again, I made bridges, and drove mimic armies across them; and, if they were enemies, craftily let them partly cross, to tumble them in at the moment when part of the forces were on one side of the stream and part on the other, and at the mercy of my men. My grandfather taught me how to build forts and breastworks, and I lay in ambush for the beadle, who was my good friend, for my grandfather, and for half a dozen other village folk, who took no offense at my sport, hut made believe to be bitterly afraid when I surrounded them, and drove them, shackled, to my fort by the river. Little by little the fort grew, until it was a goodly pile; for now and then a village youth helped me, or again an old man, whose heart, maybe, rejoiced to play at being child again with me. Years after, whenever I went back to Balmore, there stood the fort, for no one ever meddled with it, nor tore it down, boy, or man, or maid.

“ And here, best light of this grave world, I will tell you one reason why this was, and you will think it strange that it should have played such a part in the history of the village, as in my own life. You must know that people living in secluded places are superstitious. Well, when my fort was built to such proportions that I had to use a small ladder to fix new mud and mortar in place upon it, something happened. Now, once a year there came to Balmore — and he had done so for a generation — one of those beings called The Men, who are given to prayer, fasting, and prophesying, who preach the word of warning ever, calling even the ministers of the Lord sharply to account. Well, this Man one day came by me in my fort, some people with him, looking for him to preach or prophesy to them. And he suddenly turned and came inside my fort, and, standing upon the ladder against the wall, spoke to them fervently. His last words became a legend in Balmore, and spread even to Glasgow and beyond.

“ ‘ Hear me ! ’ cried he. ‘ As I stand looking at ye from this, wall, calling on ye in your natural bodies to take refuge in the Fort of God, the Angel of Death is looking ower the battlements of heaven, choosing ye out, the sheep frae the goats ; calling the one to burning flames, and the other into peaceable habitations. I hear the voice now,’ cried he, ‘ and some soul among us goeth forth. Flee ye to the Fort of Refuge.’ I can see him now, his pale face shining, his eyes burning, his beard blowing in the wind, his grizzled hair shaking on his forehead. I had stood within the fort watching him. At last he turned, and, seeing me intent, stooped, caught me by the arms, and lifted me upon the wall. ‘ See you,’ said he, ‘ yesterday’s babe a warrior to-day. Have done, have done, ye quarrelsome hearts. Ye that build forts here shall lie in darksome prisons ; there is no fort but the Fort of God. The call comes frae the white ramparts. Hush ! ’ he added solemnly, raising a finger. ‘ One of us goeth hence this day ; are ye ready to walk i’ the fearsome valley ? ’

“ I have heard my mother speak these words over often, and they were, as I said, like an old song in Balmore and Glasgow. He set me down, and then walked away, waving the frightened people back, and there was none of them that slept that night.

“And now comes the stranger thing. In the morning The Man was found dead in my little fort, at the foot of the wall. Henceforth the spot was sacred, and it may be it stands there as when I last saw it, twelve years ago, but worn away by rains and winds. Again and again my mother said over to me his words, ‘ Ye that build forts here shall lie in darksome prisons ; ’ for always she had fear of the soldier’s life, and she was moved by signs and dreams. But this is how the thing came to shape my life. About a year after The Man died, there came to my grandfather’s house, while my mother and I were there, a gentleman, Sir John Godric by name, and he would have my mother tell the whole story of The Man. When it was done, he told her that The Man was his brother, who had been bad and wild in youth, a soldier, but afterwards had gone as far the other way, giving up place and property, and cutting off from all his blood and kind. This gentleman noticed me greatly, and in the end said that he should be glad to see more of me. As so he did, for in the years that followed he would visit at our home in Glasgow when I was at school, or at Balmore until my grandfather died.

“My father liked Sir John greatly, and they grew most friendly, walking forth in the streets of Glasgow, Sir John’s hand upon my father’s arm. I remember one day they came to the school in High Street, where I learned Latin and other accomplishments, together with fencing from an excellent master, Sergeant. Dowie of the One Hundredth Foot, for which my grandfather had provided. They found me with my regiment at drill; for I had got full thirty of my schoolfellows under arms, and spent all leisure hours in mustering, and marching, and drum-beating, and all manner of forms of discipline which I had been taught by my grandfather and Sergeant Dowie. Those were the days soon after which came Dettingen, and Fontenoy, and Charles Edward the Pretender, and the ardor of arms ran high. Sir John was a follower of the Stuarts, and this was the only point at which he and my father came to pause in their good friendship. When Sir John saw me with my thirty lads marching in good order, all fired with the little sport of battle, — for to me it was all real, and our sham-fights often saw broken heads and bruised shoulders, — he stamped his cane upon the ground, and said in a big voice, ‘ Well done ! well done ! For that you shall have a hundred pounds next birthday, and as fine a suit of scarlet as you please, and a sword from London too.’

“ He came to me then and caught me by both shoulders. ‘ But alack, alack ! there needs more blood and flesh here, Robert Stobo,’ said he. ‘ You have more heart than muscle.’ This was true. I had ever been more eager than my strength, — thank God, that day is gone ! — and sometimes, after Latin and the drill of my Lightfoots, as I called them, I could have cried for weakness and weariness, had I been a girl, and not a proud lad. And Sir John kept his word, liking me better from that day forth, and coming now and again to see me at the school, — though he was much abroad in France, — giving many a pound to my Lightfoots, who were no worse soldiers for that. I could see his eye running Us over sharply, and his head nodding, as we marched past him ; and once I heard him say, ‘ If they had had but ten years each on their heads, my Prince ! ’

“ It was at this time that my father died ; that is, when I was fourteen years old. Sir John was left one of the executors with my mother, and at my wish, a year after, I was sent to the university, where at least fifteen of my Lightfoots went also; and there I formed a new battalion of them, though we were watched at first, and even held in suspicion, because of the known friendship of Sir John for me ; and he himself had twice been under arrest for his friendship to the Stuart cause. That he helped Prince Charles was clear: his estates were mortgaged to the hilt. He died somewhat suddenly on that day of January when Culloden was fought, before he knew of the defeat of the Prince. I am glad to say I was with him at the last. After some most serious business, which I shall come to by and by, ‘ Robert,’ said he, ‘ I wish thou hadst been with my Prince. When thou becomest a soldier, fighit where thou hast heart to fight; but if thou hast conscience for it, let it be with a Stuart. I thought to leave thee a good moiety of my fortune, Robert, but little that’s free is left for giving. Yet thou hast something from thy father, and down in Virginia, where my friend Dinwiddie is Governor, there’s a plantation for thee, and a purse of gold, which was for me in case I should have cause to flee this troubled realm. But I need it not; I go for refuge to my Father’s house. The little vineyard and the purse of gold are for thee, Robert. If thou thinkest well of it, leave this sick land for that new one. Build thyself a name in the great young country, wear thy sword honorably and bravely, use thy gifts in council and debate, — for Dinwiddie will be thy friend, — and think of me as one who would have been a father to thee if he could. Give thy good mother my loving farewells. . . . Forget not to wear my sword — it came from the first King Charles himself, Robert.’ After which he raised himself upon his elbow and said, ‘ Life — life, is it so hard to untie the knot ? Then a twinge of agony crossed over his face, and afterwards came a great clearing and peace, and he was gone.

“ King George’s soldiers entered with a warrant for him even as he died, and dropped their hands on my shoulder at the same time. I was kept in durance for many days, and was not even at the funeral of my benefactor; but through the efforts of the provost of the university and some good friends who could vouch for my loyal principles, I was released. But my pride had got a setback, and I listened with patience to my mother’s prayers that I would not, as had been my wish, join the King’s men. With the anger of a youth, I blamed his Majesty for the acts of Sir John Godric’s enemies. And though I was a good soldier of the King at heart, I would not serve him now. We threshed matters back and forth, and presently it was thought I should sail to Virginia to take over my estate. My mother urged it, too, for she thought if I were weaned from my old comrades, military fame would cease to charm. So she urged me, and go I did, with a commission from some merchants of Glasgow, to give more weight to my coming to the colony.

“ It was great pain to leave my mother, but she bore the parting bravely, and away I set in a good ship for Virginia. Arrived there, I was treated with great courtesy in Williamsburg, and the Governor gave me welcome to his home for the sake of his old friend ; and yet, too, a little for my own, I think, for we were of one temper, though lie was old and I young. We were both full of impulse and proud, and given to daring hard things, and my military spirit suited him. In Virginia I spent a gay and busy year, and came off very well with the rough but gentlemanly cavaliers, who rode through the wide, sandy streets of the capital on excellent horses, or in English coaches, with a rusty sort of show and splendor, but always with great gallantry. The freedom of the life charmed me, and with minors of war with the French there seemed enough to do, whether with the sword or in the House of Burgesses, where Robert Dinwiddie said his say with more force than complaisance. So taken was I with the life — my first excursion into the wide working world — that. I delayed my going back to Glasgow, the more so that some matters touching my property called for action by the House of Burgesses, and I had to drive the affair to the end. Sir John had done better by me than he thought, and I thanked him over and over again for his good gifts.

“ Presently I got a letter from my father’s old partner to say that my dear mother was ill. I got back to Glasgow only in time — but how glad I was of that! — to hear her last words. I had one uncle left, and he was ever kind to me ; but when my mother was gone, I turned towards Virginia with longing, for I could not so soon go against her wishes and join the King’s army on the Continent, and less desire had I to be a Glasgow merchant. Gentlemen merchants had better times in Virginia. So there was a winding-up of my father’s affairs, not greatly to my pleasure ; for it was found that by unwise ventures his partner had periled the whole, and lost part of the property, which he, with my father, had made valuable. But as it was, I had a competence and several houses in Glasgow, and I set forth to Virginia with a goodly sum of money and a shipload of merchandise, which I should sell to merchants, if it chanced I should become a planter only. I was warmly welcomed by old friends and by the Governor and his family, and I soon set up an establishment of my own in Williamsburg, joining with a merchant there in business, while my land was worked by a neighboring planter.

“ Those were hearty days, wherein I made little money, but had much pleasure in the giving and taking of civilities, in throwing my doors open to acquaintances, and with my young friend, George Washington, laying the foundation for a Virginian army, by drill and yearly duty in camp, with occasional excursions against the Indians. I saw very well what the end of our troubles with the French would be, and I waited for the time when I should put to keen use the sword which Sir John Godric had given me. Indeed, those were cheerful days, and life beat high, for I was in the first joy of manhood, and the spirit of a rich new land was waking in us all, while in our vanity we held to and cherished forms and customs that one would have thought, to see left behind in London streets and drawing-rooms. These things, these functions in a small place, kept us a little vain and proud, but I hope it gave us some sense of civic duty, too.

“ And now I come to that which will, comrade of my heart, bring home to your understanding what lies behind the charges against me.

“ Trouble came between Canada and Virginia with her sister colonies, and George Washington, one Captain Mackaye, and myself marched out to the Great Meadows, where at Fort Necessity we surrendered, after hard fighting, to a force three times our number. I, with one Captain Van Braam, became a hostage. Coulon Villiers, the French commander, gave his bond that we should be delivered up when an officer and two cadets, who were prisoners with us, should be sent on. It was a choice between Mackaye of the Regulars and Washington, or Van Braam and myself. I thought of what would be best for the country; and besides, Coulon Villiers pitched upon my name at once, and held to it. So I gave up my sword to Charles Bedford, my lieutenant, with more regret than I can tell, for it was sheathed in memories, charging him to keep it safe ; that he would use it worthily I knew. And so, sorrowfully bidding my friends good-by, away we went upon the sorry trail of captivity, arriving in due time at Fort Du Quesne, at the junction of the Ohio and the Monongahela, where I was courteously treated. There I bettered my French and made the acquaintance of some ladies from Quebec city, who took pains to help me with their language.

“ Now, there was one to whom I talked with some freedom of my early life and of Sir John Godric. She was interested in all, but when I named Sir John Godric she became at once much impressed, and I told her of his great attachment to Prince Charles. More than once she returned to the subject, begging me to tell her more; and so I did, still, however, saying nothing of certain papers Sir John had placed in my care. A few weeks from the first occasion of my speaking, there was a new arrival at the fort. It was — can you guess ? — Monsieur Doltaire. The night after he came he visited me in my quarters, and after courteous passages, of which I need not speak, he suddenly said, 1 You have the papers of Sir John Godric, —those bearing on Prince Charles’s invasion of England?’

“ I was stunned by the question, for I could not guess his drift or purpose, though presently it dawned upon me. Among the papers were many letters from a great lady in France, a growing rival with La Pompadour in the counsels and favor of the King. She it was who had a secret passion for Prince Charles, and these letters to Sir John, who had been with the Pretender at Versailles, must prove her ruin if produced. I had promised Sir John most solemnly that no one should ever have them while I lived, except the lady herself, and that I would give them to her some time, or destroy them. It was Doltaire’s mission to get these letters, and he had projected a visit to Williamsburg to see me, having just arrived in Canada, after a search for me in Scotland, when word came from the lady gossip at Fort Du Quesne, who had been on most familiar terms with him, that I was there.

“ When I said I had the papers, he asked me lightly for ‘ those compromising letters,’ remarking that a good price would be paid; adding my liberty as a pleasant gift. I instantly refused, and told him I would not be the weapon of La Pompadour against her rival. With cool persistence he begged me to think again, for much depended on my answer.

“ ‘ Sec, monsieur le capitaine,’ said he, ‘this little affair at Fort Necessity, at which you became a hostage, shall or shall not he a war between England and France as you shall dispose.’ And when I asked him how, he said, ‘ First, will you give me your word that you will not, to aid yourself, disclose what I tell you ? You can see that matters will be where they were an hour ago, in any case.’ I agreed, for I could act even if I did not speak. So I gave my word. Then he told me that if those letters were not put into his hands La Pompadour would be enraged, and, fretful and hesitating now, would join Austria against England, since in this provincial war was an emphatic cue for battle. If I gave the letters up, she, being in good humor, would not stir, and the disputed territory between us should be by articles conceded by the French. I thought much and long, during which he sat smoking and humming, himself seeming to care little how my answer went. At last I turned on him, and told him I would not give up the letters, and if a war must hang on a whim of malice, then, by God’s help, the rightness of our cause would be our strong weapon to bring France to her knees.

“ ‘ That is your final answer ? ’ said he, rising, fingering his lace, and viewing himself in a looking-glass upon the wall.

“ ‘ I will not change it now or ever,’answered I.

“ ‘ Ever is a long time,’retorted he, as one might speak to a willful child. ‘ You shall have time to think, you shall have space for reverie. For you must know that if you do not grant this trifle, you shall no more see your dear Virginia; and when the time is ripe, you shall go forth to a better land, as the Grande Marquise shall give you carriage.’

“ ‘ The Articles of Capitulation I ‘ T broke out. He waved his fingers at me.

“‘Ah, that/ he rejoined, — ‘that-is a matter for conning. You are a hostage. Well, we need not take any man the English offer in exchange for you. Indeed, why should we be content with less than a prince or a royal duke ? For you are worth more to us just now than any prince we have ; at least so says the Grande Marquise. Is your mind quite firm to refuse?’ he added, nodding his head in a bored sort of way.

“ ‘ Entirely/ said I. ‘ I will not part with those letters.’

“ 4 But think once again/ he urged ; 1 the gain of territory to Virginia, the peace between our countries.’

“ ‘ Folly ! ’ said I. 4 I know well you overstate the case. You turn a small intrigue into a game of nations. Yours is a schoolboy’s tale, Monsieur Doltaire.’

“ ‘ You are something of an ass/ he mused, and took a pinch of snuff.

‘“And you — you have no name/ retorted I. I did not know how this might strike home in two ways, when I spoke, or I should not have said it. I had not meant, of course, that he was King Louis’s illegitimate son.

“ 4 There is some truth in that/ he replied patiently, though a red spot flamed high ou his cheeks. 4 But some men need no naming to give them distinction, and others win their names with proper weapons. I am not here to quarrel with you. I am acting in a large affair, not in a small intrigue ; a century of fate may hang on this. Come with me,’he added. ‘ You doubt my power, maybe.’

“ He opened the door of the cell, and I followed him out, past the storehouse and the officers’ apartments, to the drawbridge. Standing in the shadow by the gate, he took keys from his pocket. ‘ Here.' said he. ‘ are what will set you free. This fort is all mine : I act for France. Will you care to free yourself? You shall have escort to your own people. You see I am most serious,’ he added, laughing lightly. ‘ It is not my way to sweat or worry. You and I hold war and peace in our hands. Which shall it, be? In this trouble France or England will be mangled. It tires one to think of it when life can be so easy. Now, for the last time,’he urged, holding out the keys. ‘ Your word of honor that the letters shall he mine — eh ? ’

“ ‘ Never,’ I concluded. ‘ England and France are in greater hands than yours or mine. Hie God of Battles still stands beside the balances.’

“ He shrugged a shoulder. ‘ Oh well,’ said he, ‘ that ends it. It will be interesting to watch the way of the God of Battles. Meanwhile you travel to Quebec. Remember that however free you may appear you will have watchers, that when you seem safe you will be in most danger, that in the end we will have those letters or your life ; that meanwhile the war will go on, that you shall have no share in it, and that the whole power of England will not be enough to set her hostage free. That is all there is to say, I think. . . . Will you have a glass of wine with me ? ’ he added courteously, waving a hand towards the commander’s quarters near the gate.

“ I assented, for why, thought I, should there be a personal quarrel between us ? We talked for an hour or more on many things, and his I found the keenest mind that ever I have met. There was in him a dispassionateness, a breadth, which seemed most strange in a trifler of the Court, in an exquisite — for such he was. And I sometimes think that his foppery was deliberate, lest he should be taking himself or life too seriously. His intelligence charmed me, held me, and, later, as we traveled up to Quebec, I found my journey one long feast of interest. He was never dull, and his cynicism had an admirable grace and cordiality. A born intriguer, he still was above intrigue, justifying it on the basis that life was all sport. In logic a leveler, praising the moles, as he called them, the champion of the peasant, the apologist for the bourgeois, who always, he said, had civic virtues, he nevertheless held that what was was best, that it could not be altered, and that it was all interesting. ’I never repent,’he said to me one day. ‘ I have done after my nature, in the sway and impulse of our time, and as the King has said, After us the deluge. What a pity it is we shall see neither the flood nor the ark ! And so, when all is done, we shall miss the most interesting thing of all: ourselves dead, and the gap and ruin we leave behind us. By that, from my standpoint,’ he would add, ‘ life is a failure as a spectacle.’

“ Talking in this fashion and in a hundred other ways, we came to Quebec. And, dearest girl, you know in general what happened. I met your honored father, whose life I had saved on the Ohio some years before, and he worked for my comfort in my bondage. You know how exchange after exchange was refused, and that for near three years I have been here, fretting my soul out, eager to be fighting in our cause, yet tied hand and foot, wasting time and losing heart, idle in an enemy’s country. As Doltaire said, war was declared, but not till he had made here in Quebec last efforts to get those letters. I do not complain so bitterly of these lost years, since they have brought me the best gift of my life, your love and friendship; but my enemies here, commanded from France, have bided their time, till an accident has given them a cue to dispose of me without openly breaking the accepted law of nations. They could not decently hang a hostage, for whom they had signed articles. But they have got their chance, as they think, to try me for a spy.

“ Here is the case. When I found that they were determined, and had ever determined to violate their articles, that they never intended to set me free, I felt absolved from my duty as an officer on parole, and I therefore sent to George Washington a plan of Fort Du Quesne and one of Quebec. I knew that I was risking my life by so doing, but that did not deter me. By my promise to Doltaire, I could not tell of the matter between us, and whatever he has done in other ways, he has preserved my life; for it would have been easy to have me dropped off by a stray bullet, or to have accidentally drowned me in the St. Charles. I believe this matter of the letters to be between myself and him and Bigot; and perhaps not even Bigot, though he must know that La Pompadour has some peculiar reason for interesting herself in a poor captain of provincials. You now can see another motive for the duel which was brought about between your poor brother and myself.

“As I told you, I sent, plans of the forts to Washington. These, with my letters, were given by him to General Braddock, and the sequel you know: they have fallen into the hands of my enemies, copies have gone to France, and I am to be tried for my life. Preserving faith with my enemy Doltaire, I cannot plead the real cause of my long detention ; I can only urge that they had not kept to their articles, and that I, therefore, was free from the obligations of parole. I am sure they have no intention of giving me the benefit of any doubt. My real hope lies in escape and the intervention of England, though she, alas ! has not concerned herself about me, as if indeed she resented the non-delivery of those letters to Doltaire, since they were addressed to one she looked on as a traitor, and held by one whom she had unjustly put under suspicion.

“ And so, dear Alixe, you see how the events of my childhood have played their part in the crises of my mature years. From that little fort on the banks of the river Kelvin where I played in childhood have come these strange twistings of my life, and I can date this dismal fortune of a dungeon from that day I ran with my grandfather’s stick to the riverside, defying my mother ; or, if it seems more likely, from the day The Man made his prophecy from the wall of my mud fort. ‘ Ye that build forts here shall lie in darksome prisons,’he said. That is to say, leaving out the significance of his prophecy, if he had not died in my little fort, I should not have known Sir John Godric, nor ever gone to Virginia, nor lain a prisoner here. But, comrade of my heart, I should not have known you ! And so, in spite of all, I thank God for whatever fortune may be. I would not change it now for any other man’s, since it is my glory and pride to have your love, though it may e at some bitter price to you.

“ In this long letter you have the heart of my story, — a simple one, as you may see, yet having strange accidents of its own. Whatever comes now, if you have this record, you will know what I was and am, and the private history of my life. All ? Yea, indeed, all, in true fact, though I had forgotten one thing which I shall tell you now. I did not think of it as I fashioned my story, for it bore not on my fate. The Governor of Virginia had a daughter, whose beauty had my eye, and I do confess that I had some thoughts of her for a wife ; but I had not paid her court, nor did I love her, though I might well have been proud to do so. She was not interwoven with my life, and with my leaving Virginia on the expedition that sent me here to languish the vague matter ended, neither having expressed more than what is common between friends. ... And so, I have told all, with unpracticed tongue, but with a wish to be understood, and to set forth a story of which the letter should be as true as the spirit. Friend beyond all price to me, some day this tale will reach your hands, and I ask you to house it in your heart, and, whatever comes, let it be for my remembrance. God be with you, and farewell! ”

Gilbert Parker.