
* A Project Gutenberg Canada Ebook *

This ebook is made available at no cost and with very few
restrictions. These restrictions apply only if (1) you make
a change in the ebook (other than alteration for different
display devices), or (2) you are making commercial use of
the ebook. If either of these conditions applies, please
check gutenberg.ca/links/licence.html before proceeding.

This work is in the Canadian public domain, but may be
under copyright in some countries. If you live outside Canada,
check your country's copyright laws. IF THE BOOK IS UNDER
COPYRIGHT IN YOUR COUNTRY, DO NOT DOWNLOAD
OR REDISTRIBUTE THIS FILE.

Title: Good Gestes. Stories of Beau Geste, his Brothers, and
   certain of their Comrades in the French Foreign Legion.
Author: Wren, Percival Christopher (1885-1941)
Date of first publication: 1929
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   Toronto: Longmans, Green, March 1930
   ["Cheaper Edition"]
Date first posted: 24 May 2015
Date last updated: 24 May 2015
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1250

This ebook was produced by Al Haines


PUBLISHER'S NOTE

Italics in the original printed edition are indicated _thus_.

As part of the conversion of the book to its new digital
format, we have made certain minor adjustments in its layout.






  GOOD GESTES

  Stories of Beau Geste, his Brothers,
  and certain of their Comrades in
  the French Foreign Legion


  BY

  PERCIVAL CHRISTOPHER WREN



  "The Brave are gone to rest,
  The Brothers of my combats, on the breast
  Of the red field they reaped; their work is done..."



  LONGMANS, GREEN AND CO.
  128-132 UNIVERSITY AVENUE, TORONTO




  _First Edition . . . February 1929_
  _Cheaper Edition_ (3/6) . . . _March 1930_




  CONTENTS

  I  What's in a name
  II  A Gentleman of Colour
  III  David and his Incredible Jonathan
  IV  The McSnorrt Reminiscent
  V  Mad Murphy's Miracle
  VI  Buried Treasure
  VII  If Wishes were Horses
  VIII  The Devil and Digby Geste
  IX  The Mule
  X  Low Finance
  XI  Presentiments
  XII  Dreams Come True




I

WHAT'S IN A NAME

I

The three brothers sat in a solemn row upon Beau Geste's bed by the
window in their barrack room, enjoying the blessed peace of a Sabbath
afternoon.

John Geste yawned cavernously, and the pot-shot made by his brother
Digby, with a small piece of soap, was entirely satisfactory--to Digby.

"The child seems bored," observed Beau Geste; "he must do more Arabic.
Yes," he continued, "and I think I must institute a course of
ethnological studies, too."

"Oh, splendid," agreed Digby, "I shall love that.  What is it?"

"What I mean," continued Beau, "is that it would be rather interesting
to see how many different nationalities we can discover in the Legion;
how many different trades, professions, and callings, and----"

"And all that," said John, having completed another yawn.

"How is Beau like Satan?" asked Digby.

"How's he _un_like him?" interrupted John, ere Digby answered his own
question with the statement:

"Because he'll find some mischief still for idle coves to do.  They'll
make him a sergeant, if he's not careful."

"Why mischief?" asked John.  "Ethnology isn't mischief, is it?"

"It would be, my lad, if it took the form of going about asking
personal questions of _les lgionnaires_.  They'd _do_ you a mischief,
too," was the reply.

"That's just the point," observed Beau.  "No questions to be asked at
all.  See who can get the finest collection of nationalities,
professions, home-towns and all that, without asking anybody
_anything_.  No vulgar curiosity....  All diplomacy, suggestion,
induction, deduction..."

"Then production," murmured Digby.

"Quite so, my dear Watson.  The one that gets the biggest bag, to give
the other two a present.  Splendid idea.  Keep your young minds active.
Train the faculty of observation."

"When do we compare notes?" asked John.

"When I think I've got the biggest list," replied Beau.

"And what if the same feller appears in more than one list?" inquired
John.

"Cancel him out, or toss for him, or find who discovered him first,
fathead."

"I'm afraid the idea's too late to save _you_, John," observed
Digby--"mind dead already."

One evening a month later, the three brothers, sitting in a row as was
their wont, with their elder and leader in the centre, adorned a broad,
low divan in Mustapha's caf.

"Well, pups, how's ethnology going?" inquired Beau, as he put his clay
coffee-cup on the floor beside him.

"Fine," said Digby.  "I'm a great man with a great mind.  A diplomatist
is lost in me."

"_Is_ he?" inquired Beau, in some concern.  "Let's get him out."

"No; you don't understand, Beau," observed John.  "He means he _is_ a
diplomatist.  He's right, too.  Nobody but a clever diplomatist could
hide the fact that he _is_ a diplomatist so well as Digby does."

"Anyhow, I bet I win," said Digby triumphantly.  "All authentic, too."

"Then you'll give us each a present," pointed out John.  "Shall I
choose a fiddle, or a free excursion-ticket, single, to--to--Brandon
Abbas?  Read out yours."

"No, we'll declare ourselves in order of merit," interposed Beau.
"I've got a grocer, Bingen; a shipping-clerk, Barcelona; an officer of
the Imperial Guard, St. Petersburg; a valet, Paris; a surgeon, Vienna;
a commercial traveller, Hamburg; a vendor of unpostable post-cards,
valued and respected citizen of Marseilles; a stevedore, Lisbon; a
street-corner fried-bean merchant, Sofia; a teacher of languages,
Warsaw; a fig-packer, Smyrna; a perfectly good, nice-mannered,
bloody-minded brigand, Bastilica----"

"There isn't any such place," interrupted Digby.  "Where is it?"

"Nothing to be ashamed of in honest ignorance, my lad.  It's right in
the middle of Corsica, fifty miles from Ajaccio--according to the
brigand," replied Beau.

"Isn't that where Napoleon Bonaparte was born?" inquired John.

"Bastilica?" replied Digby.  "Why, of course; I remember the place
quite well now."

"A restaurateur from Ancona; a rock-scorpion from Gibraltar; a Japanese
barber from Yokohama--he speaks English with an American accent, he
understands Russian, I know, and I'll bet you he could not only drill a
battalion but handle a brigade or a division."

"Oh, you mean that chap Yato," interrupted Digby.  "I've got him.  He's
a wonderful tattooer, too.  He's going to do portraits of you two on my
back, so that I can't see them."

"Will he, too, tattoo two, to..." murmured John sleepily.

"Cancel him out, then," said Beau.

"I've also got a Portuguese cove from Loanda.  That's in Angola,
Portuguese West Africa."

"Well, we know that, don't we?" complained Digby.

"No," answered Beau and continued: "A Swedish sailor from Gttenburg,
and two frightful asses from Brandon Abbas."

"Rotten list," commented Digby; "barely a score."

"Well, how many have _you_ got?" asked his brother.

"Oh, in round numbers, about a hundred."

"_Round_ numbers?  All round the truth, I suppose?"

"Well, listen and don't be jealous," answered Digby, producing a paper.
"I've got a Russian banker from Odessa; an Italian opera-singer; a
Dutch bargee; an Austrian count--or dis-count, perhaps; a Munich
brewer's drayman; a Spanish fisherman; a Goanese steward; a Danish
farm-boy; a beastly, bounderish, bumptious, Byzantine blackguard; a
French actor; a schoolmaster from Avignon; a gambling-hell keeper from
Punta Arenas--wherever that may be; a bank-clerk from Rome; a
lottery-ticket seller from Havana; a hybrid Callao _maquereau_; another
cosmopolitan gent from Sfax, who, on being asked his trade, always
says, '_Je faisais la mouche_'----"

"But no questions were to be allowed," interposed Beau.

"I didn't ask any, clever; I overheard, see? ... A Dutch Colonial
soldier, a Bowery tough; a Dresden----"

"Shepherdess," murmured John.

"Wrong again," said Digby--"street-scavenger; a Finnish----"

"Time we got to the finish," murmured John again.

"Bloater-paster, or salmon-smoker----"

"Funny stuff to smoke," commented Beau, "but probably better than this
French _caporal_ tobacco."

"A colonel of Don Cossacks."

"From Donnybrook?" inquired John.

"Yes, and Donegal--or perhaps Oxford," replied Beau.

"A bootblack from Athens; a poor _fellah_ from Egypt; a boatman from
Beirut; and two frightful asses from Brandon Abbas....  Oh, and a lot I
haven't written down.  Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, rich man, poor
man, beggarman, thief; painter, pander, pedlar, parasite, printer,
professor, prize-fighter, _procureur_, prefect, priest, pro-consul,
prince, prophet-in-his-own-country....  Oh, lots.  Get you all the
names and addresses by and by."

"What have you got, John?" inquired Beau, turning as with bored
distaste from the loquacity of his twin.

"I've got another Jones," replied John, alluding to Digby's _nom de
guerre_ of Thomas Jones.

"What _is_ a Jone, by the way?" inquired Digby.  "I ought to know, as I
am some."

"Dunno.  Anyhow, this is the only other Jones," replied John.  "He's an
Englishman--public-school, Oxford, and all that.  Indian Army, too,
poor beggar.  In a rotten state, living on his nerves.  Sensitive sort
of chap.  Shoot himself one of these days.  This is about the last
place in the world for a man like him."

"Sounds as though it _will_ be the last place in the world for him,"
observed Digby.  "Let's get hold of him and shed the light of our
countenances upon him, thus brightening his dark places.  Does he seem
to be a criminal, like Beau?"

"No, nor a moral wreck like you."

"Moral wreck!" commented Digby.  "Better than being an _im_moral wreck
anyhow."  And his look was accusatory.

"Neither criminal nor moral wreck," continued John.  "Simply a
gentleman, like me."

"Oh, a gentleman like you, is he?" remarked Beau.  "Then I don't think
we'll associate with him."

"Yes, we will.  I'm bringing him here to-morrow night, to meet you two.
He's simply longing to talk English to people of his own kind.  And
I'll tell you something else.  Unlike most people here, he wants to
talk about himself, too.  He's in a queer state of nerves--neurotic."

"Poor chap, we must see what we can do for him," agreed Beau; and Digby
nodded.


A lean haggard man, his sensitive young face a mask of misery, old and
lined, haunted and hopeless, arrived with John the following evening at
Mustapha's caf.  That he was in a terribly nervous condition was all
too evident--a reserved and reticent gentleman, devil-driven to be
garrulous, talking the harder the more he was ashamed of talking.  He
seemed literally dying to express himself, to make a clean breast of
something terrible, something that still stung and scorched and branded
him.

His story, told in a swift rush and a curious metallic voice, without
break or hesitation, greatly interested the sympathetic, silent
brothers.  It interested them yet more, next day, when they learned
that, for some reason not divulged, he had shot himself during the
night.

Five minutes after his introduction by John to Beau and Digby, he told
them that his meeting with them was a godsend, for there was something
he _must_ get off his mind.

And a pitiful thing it was, to the listeners, prepared as they were to
hear a dark story of vice, crime, ruin and downfall....  Pitiful,
pathetic, tragic and ridiculous, like a torrent in spate, the absurd
story came.

"Looking back and considering the affair again in all its bearings," he
said, "I am still of opinion that I did my painful duty and nothing
more; that I acted as a man of conscience should do, and that I have
nothing whatever wherewith to reproach myself.

"Only the fool or the moral coward says, 'Am I my brother's keeper?'
For what had my dear mother trained me, and my dear father in God
developed my sense of responsibility to my neighbour and myself, but
that I should act precisely as I did in that affair?

"I suppose it is the Devil himself who is the _fons et origo_ of those
foolish, unworthy and sinful doubts that do sometimes try to raise
their poisonous heads in my disordered mind when I look back upon the
little incident.

"However, I will tell the exact truth as to what I thought and said and
did; and you shall judge as to whether any high-minded, conscientious
and morally courageous person could have done otherwise than I did.

"I was brought up by the best mother a man ever had, a human saint, and
by a priest whose chief regret, I think, was that burning at the stake
has become unpopular.  No, he didn't want to burn anybody; he wanted to
be burnt--for his faith.  He sought a martyr's crown and found a
comfortable living, much honour and preferment.  Finding also that
honour is not without profit save in its own country, he determined to
go abroad and find profit to his soul among the heathen--and possibly
the martyr's crown beneath the solar topi--it would look odd on top of
one.

"And I went to India to join the Indian regiment into which I was
exchanging, by the same boat that took him to join the holy army of
martyrs, if he could contrive it.  It was a great joy to my mother that
I was to travel with the good man and not be left to stray alone into
the detrimental atmosphere of Gibraltar, Malta, Port Said, Aden, Bombay
or other such colourful, and therefore wicked, places.

"And on that accursed boat I saw my new colonel's young wife kiss
another man.  I saw him with his arms about her waist.  I saw him go
into her cabin, when the colonel lay snoring in a _chaise longue_ upon
the deck.

"When I heard them _plotting together to go off_, at Port Said, on
Christmas Day, my terrible struggle with my conscience was ended.  My
conscience had won, and I knew I must tell the colonel the horrible
truth, however agonizingly distasteful and obnoxious this hateful duty
might be.  Yes, I was a Young Man with a Conscience....  But let me
tell the facts in sequence as they occurred.

"My new colonel (of the regiment to which I was going), returning from
leave and his honeymoon trip, was a grey, stern man; a typical dour
Scot, very unapproachable, and the last man in the world with whom one
would attempt to jest or trifle.

"His bride was a beautiful young girl who might well have been his
daughter--as merry, frivolous and gay as Colonel Gordon-Watts was
sober, hard and dour.  Opposites attract--and it was plain that he
worshipped her.

"I admired her greatly, and she was very kind to me on the one or two
occasions on which I spoke to her.  Sometimes I felt I would rather be
promenading with her, sitting beside her deck-chair or playing
deck-quoits and bull-board with her than eternally walking and talking
with my good and kind mentor.

"But I was far too much his spiritual child, his acolyte and disciple,
to think of breaking away from his control.  You see he had educated me
from childhood until I went to Oxford, and he had settled there, with
those admirable Fathers irreverently known to undergraduate youth as
the Cowley Dads, and continued to exercise his powerful influence upon
my character.  I was with him daily and much of every day, and, as you
hear, even now that I was in the army--with a university commission, as
my mother would never hear of my going to Sandhurst--and _was_ going
abroad into the wide and wicked world, he was with me still.  Yes, I
was a Young Man with a Conscience.

"No, I did not make any attempt to desert my mentor and cabin-companion
in order to bask in the society of the colonel's wife; but while my ear
listened to my spiritual father and my tongue replied to him, my eye
undoubtedly followed her.

"Nothing happened until we reached Marseilles and the overland
passengers came on board.  When I went on the promenade deck that
evening, one of them already sat beside her, and I was very sorry to
see her accept a cigarette from him and smoke it.  He was, like
herself, young, and again like herself and most unlike the colonel,
merry, frivolous and gay.

"They had evidently made friends very quickly and they were always
together.  Certainly they made a splendidly matched couple, and
certainly she seemed far more merry and bright in his company than in
that of her husband.

"_How_ they laughed together!

"And the colonel seemed content.  He would sit in the writing-room
scribbling away, all the morning, at some military text-book or other
that he was compiling; sleep all the afternoon; scribble again in the
evening; walk violently round and round the deck, for exercise, before
dinner, and go to bed quite early.  I confess that I envied the
handsome, laughing youth and that I often longed to talk to someone
other than my spiritual father--someone like this merry, frivolous
girl, for example.

"And on the second day out from Marseilles I received a terrible shock.

"Coming suddenly round the corner from the music-saloon, I almost ran
into her deck-chair as she withdrew her hand from that of her new
companion with the words:

"'You are a darling, Bobby; you shall have a hug for that'--and, as I
dodged the foot-rest of her chair, her eye met mine, even as she spoke.
Did she look confused, uncomfortable, guilty?  Not she!  Her gaze was
utterly untroubled, and it was evidently nothing to _her_ that I must
have heard every word she said.

"Perfectly shameless!

"And as for _him_--he had the effrontery to murmur quite distinctly,
'Hold up, old hoss!' as I stumbled and blundered past.

"Of the three, it was certainly I who would have struck an observant
onlooker as the guilty one, as I flushed to the roots of my hair and
hurried away, not knowing where to look.

"_Think of it_!  Married a month, and the man had not been on the boat
three days!  I trembled from head to foot, and went straight to my
cabin, feeling shocked to the point of physical sickness.

"Should I tell Father Staunton?

"Ought not I to tell her husband?  Was not I an accessory after the
fact, almost an accomplice, practically compounding a felony, if I
stood by and said nothing?  Was I my brother's keeper?  I knew I was.
I knew it was my duty to save the Colonel from shame; to save this
woman from ruining her life; to save this young man 'Bobby' from
himself.

"But I knew I was not brave enough to do it.  And the devil tempted me
with whisperings of '_Most ungentlemanly of you to tell tales of a
lady!'  'Gross impertinence!'  'Colonel Gordon-Watts will refuse to
believe you, but not to kick you downstairs.'  'Mind your own business,
you young fool,_' and even: '_Make love to her yourself, since she's of
such an oncoming disposition_'--whereat I jumped with horror and told
myself I would do my painful, dreadful duty.

"That evening, while Father Staunton was undressing in the cabin, I
went on deck.  It was a glorious moonlight night.  As four bells rang
and the lascar look-out replied with his sing-song cry of '_Ham dekhta
hai_' to show that he was awake and watchful, I was moved with an idle
inclination to go right up into the bows and watch the phosphorescence
as the knife-like stem churned up the sleeping waters.

"I ran down the companion, crossed the well-deck, and climbed the iron
ladder to the fo'c'sle.

"_He_ and _she_ were there, leaning on the bulwarks--and his arm was
around her waist!

"Going up on deck early next morning, I saw them meet--_and kiss_!
During that day, as on previous days, the young man (his name was
Mornay, by the way) cultivated the society of other young women a good
deal, presumably as a blind.  But, as I sat reading in the lounge
before dinner, Mornay and Mrs. Gordon-Watts came and sat down close
behind me, and they made their arrangements for going off together, on
Christmas Day, at Port Said!

"They spoke with shameless openness and lack of decency; and I
distinctly heard Mornay say: 'Slip away while he's writing, then,' and,
a few minutes later: 'Bring _all_ the cash you can scrape together,
mind!  You'll want it at ... and I am nearly broke.  I can't keep----'
and her reply, with a heartless giggle: 'Suppose he comes after us!'

"I sprang up, and leaning over, said: 'Pardon--I am hearing much of
what you say, and I shall----'

"With brazen effrontery, Mornay interrupted with, 'Right-o, old thing!
Sorry if our artless prattle disturbed you,' while Mrs. Gordon-Watts
stared at me as though she thought me eccentric.

"I rushed to my cabin.

"How shall I tell of the agonies of indecision, cowardice and
self-contempt that I suffered, as I wrestled with my conscience once
more.  I _ought_ to stop this thing.  It was my bounden duty to warn
the Colonel.  Was I my brother's keeper?  And so on, _ad nauseam_.

"And a thing which somehow, and strangely, seemed to make it all worse,
if that were possible, was the fact that she was not the only woman
that he pursued.  He was a perfect Don Juan and made up to every pretty
girl and woman on board, married or single.

"'An arrant flirt,' thought I, 'a lady-killer; a heartless,
conscienceless scoundrel.'  And yet I could not deny that he was
popular with all on board.  He was in the greatest demand, always and
everywhere--in fact, 'the life and soul of the ship,' as Mrs.
Gordon-Watts truly said.

"And while I sat on my berth, and suffered, Father Staunton entered and
I laid the matter before him.  I weakly suggested that he, a priest,
was the fitter person to intervene.

"'No, my son,' said he, 'I go to no man with a tale about a tale....
And I shall leave it to your own conscience.  Do what you think right,
but be no self-deceiver.  Be very sure of your motive before you act or
decide not to act.'

"And I read this to mean, 'Do not stand by and see this happen because
you are a coward while you pretend it is because you are not a
busybody....  Do not shirk your duty because you have told yourself
that this is not your business and that you have no duty in the matter
at all!'

"I had no sleep that Christmas Eve.  I tossed from side to side, a prey
to doubt, fear, self-contempt and indecision.  I was stretched upon the
rack of my Conscience.

"But in the morning, the glorious Christmas morning, I arose, calm and
decided, and dressed as one dresses who goes to execution.  Conscience
had triumphed and I was going to do the right thing at any cost to
myself--and the right thing in this case was, believe me, a loathsomely
distasteful thing for me to do.  I would go through with it,
however--and I would do it openly and fairly, sparing myself nothing.
I would tell Colonel Gordon-Watts, in the presence of his wife and her
lover.

"There would be no backbiting, no 'tale about a tale,' no
hole-and-corner sneaking about _that_.

"As the passengers trooped up from breakfast, I followed the Colonel,
with whom were his wife and Mornay, on to the deck; and with beating
heart and dry mouth, I went up to him and said:

"'May I have a word with you, sir, on a matter of the most urgent and
vital importance--and may Mrs. Gordon-Watts and Mr. Mornay be present?'

"The Colonel stared, looking more like a cold volcano than ever.

"'What the dev----' he began, and I could feel my knees turning to tape
and my heart to water, as Mornay interrupted with:

"'If it's to form a syndicate for a bet on the day's-run sweepstake, on
the strength of a tip from the engine-room, let us congeal ourselves
and hist.'

"Mrs. Gordon-Watts giggled.  If Mornay and she guessed at my business
with the Colonel, they acted cleverly, I thought.  There was no trace
of guilty confusion.  No; they did not _dream_ of what was coming.

"'Well?  Out with it,' growled the Colonel.

"He had vile manners, as I had already discovered in my brief and rare
encounters with him on board.

"'It would be better for all concerned, if we were alone--we four, I
mean,' said I.

"'Let's go up on the bridge and ask the captain to clear out for a
while,' suggested Mornay.  'He won't mind.'

"The lady laughed again.

"'I am very much in earnest, sir,' continued I to the Colonel, ignoring
Mornay.

"He saw from my manner, and probably from my appearance, that I
certainly was very much in earnest.

"'Come in here,' he said, indicating the empty smoking-room.  All the
passengers were crowding forward on the starboard side of the deck, to
watch Port Said rising out of the sea.

"'Sir,' said I, 'it is my unspeakably painful duty to tell you, before
this man, Mornay, that I have seen him _embrace and kiss your wife_,
have heard him address her in terms of intimacy and endearment, and
have heard him _arranging to go off with her_--and with what money she
could secure--at Port Said.  I have said it and done my duty.  My
conscience is clear....'

"The Colonel's eyes blazed.  His wife and Mornay stared at me
open-mouthed.  Thus we hung for seconds that seemed like years, without
sound or movement--till suddenly Mornay threw himself down upon the
couch behind him and buried his face in a cushion; the Colonel raised a
hand--not to strike, but to cover his poor twitching mouth; and Mrs.
Gordon-Watts burst into wild hysterical screams of distraught laughter.

"And _I_ had made this ruin!

"But I had obeyed my Conscience....

"And _then_--and _then_--the Husband turned, first to the Wife, and
then to the Other Man, and said:

"'Is this thing true?  If so, you are not to waste more than ten pounds
in the shops, Lilian.  And if you, Bobby, have been kissing your _own_
sister for a change, it's a change in the right direction!'"



II

"I say," said Digby as he entered the Barrack Room, a few days later,
and strode across to where Michael and John, sitting on the latter's
bed, industriously waxed and polished belts, straps and pouches.  "Did
you see the draft that came in this afternoon from Colomb Bechar or
somewhere?"

"No," replied Michael.  "Why?"

"Well, they've got about the ugliest lad I've ever seen, among them....
_Awful_ face."

"Worse than John's?" asked Michael.

"Well, you can't very well compare them," replied Digby.  "John's
ugliness is what you might call natural.  He was born like it.  This
other fellow's is artificial.  Been made like it."

"Got an artificial face, has he?" inquired John.

"Not exactly that either," replied Digby, pushing John off his bed, and
seating himself by Michael.  "It's the ugliness that's artificial.
It's as though I didn't like your face--which I don't, of course--and
set to work with cold steel and red-hot iron to improve it, or at any
rate to change it."

"Wouldn't _any_ change be an improvement?" asked Michael, looking up
from the pouch that he was polishing.

"Well, I gather it wasn't so in this man's case," replied Digby.  "His
_escouade_ seemed quite proud of his face, and one of them was telling
me about it.  He's an Englishman.  It seems he got a poisoned foot and
couldn't get his boot on.  He fell behind, as they were doing a forced
march to relieve a threatened post, and couldn't stop for anything or
anybody.  They hadn't even any mule or camel _cacolets_ for the sick
and wounded.  He kept going, with the utmost pluck and endurance,
sometimes hopping, sometimes using his reversed rifle as a crutch, and
at last going on all fours ... When he completely collapsed and
couldn't even roll, the tribesmen who had been watching the Company and
stalking this straggler, came down like a wolf on the fold and gathered
him in--not without loss to themselves as they rushed him from all
points of the compass.

"Well, it seems they were so annoyed with him, for shooting frequent
and free, that they had a bit of fun with him, then and there, before
taking him up to the _kasbah_ or caves, or whatever it was, in order to
let the ladies torture him properly.

"Apparently they slit his cheeks perpendicularly and threaded twigs
through the lattice-work, so to speak, and did something similar with
his forehead.  An argument then arose as to whether the girls would
mind if he were handed over to them without ears, nose, lips and
eyelids.  Some murmured '_Place aux dames_,' while others said, 'There
will be plenty of him left for them.'

"Like the sensible fellers they are, they compounded and compromised
and split the difference and said they'd just have his ears for luck,
and for something to send in to the Commandant of the nearest Fort, on
his birthday, or for Christmas or something.

"Well, one nasty man had just grabbed this chap's right ear, and had
just begun to cut with a rather blunt knife, when round the corner came
a policeman, and the boys had to run for it.  In other words, along
came a half-troop of Spahis who were following the Company.

"I gather that the Spahis were divided in their minds as to whether it
would be kinder to shoot him, or to save him up, when the _vile corpus_
or vile body sat up and said that if anybody shot him, he'd punch him
on the nose.  He said this in English, a language understanded of the
_sous-lieutenant_ of the Spahis, so they pulled most of the brushwood
out of the lattice-work which was his face, tied his ear on with
string, mopped him up a bit, and put him up behind a trooper."

"Poor devil," murmured John.  "He must be a stout lad."

"Yes, let's go and call on him," suggested Michael.  "He might like to
have a jibber with fellow-countrymen."

"We will," agreed Digby.  "Better look him up to-morrow, as he may be
among those of the draft who are being sent to Arzew to recuperate."

"Where's that?" inquired John.

"You're an ignorant lad," replied Digby.  "It's a health resort, on the
coast, about one hundred miles west of Oran.  Didn't you even know that
much?  I learnt it this afternoon."


The brothers found _le lgionnaire_ Robinson to be a pleasant English
gentleman with a most unpleasant face, hideously scarred, and rather
terrible to behold.  It was obvious that he was still most painfully
self-conscious.

As the four chatted, Robinson sat with his hand across his face, as
does a weak-eyed person in a strong light.  Although it was easy to see
that the poor fellow was very uncomfortable among strangers, the tact,
charm, sympathy and _savoir faire_ of the three Gestes won upon him,
and put him at his ease.  Before long he was laughing and telling them
the story of his ghastly experience.

"I suppose I'm a _lgionnaire_ for life," he smiled wryly and
whimsically, "now that my face is my misfortune ... This home of the
Soldiers of Misfortune is the best place for it ... the only place.
Can't go about scaring women and children ... Might get a job at a sort
of Barnum's Show, I suppose.

"Rather hard luck," he added.  "I had only four months more to
serve...."

"Rough luck," murmured Michael, "but look here, you know ... I think
you make too much of it....  What I mean to say is ... it'll get a
great deal better in course of time ... scars do, you know, and these
are very recent....  And then these great surgeons can do most
marvellous things."

"Why, yes," agreed John.  "It's astonishing what they can do in the way
of grafting new flesh, and that sort of thing.  I knew of a man whose
nose was most hideously smashed ... flat with his face ...  bone all
gone--and they built him up a perfectly good nose."

"Sort of thing he took off at night with his wig and false teeth?"
inquired Robinson grimly.  "I shouldn't care to wear a mask."

"Nothing of the sort," objected John.  "This fellow's nose was not
detachable.  It was built up under its own skin, so to speak.  I
believe they inject molten paraffin wax, and mould it to the required
shape as it cools--something of that sort."

"Yes," added Digby.  "I distinctly remember reading of a great Viennese
surgeon who practically rebuilt the shattered face of a man whose gun
burst as he was firing it.  According to the account they even made him
a new jawbone, and grafted on to it skin which they took from his leg.
There was a portrait of him, and he looked perfectly normal, quite
good-looking.

"Why not take your discharge, and go to the best surgeon in the world?
Costly job, I suppose, but if a loan ... we should be..."

"Oh, I've plenty of money _now_, thanks," replied Robinson.  "Reminds
one of the Spanish proverb, '_God gives nuts to him who has no teeth_.'
I hadn't a bean in the world.  Partly why I came to the Legion....  But
the day I came out of hospital--and had a good look at my face--I got a
letter from home.  Plenty of money _now_."

"Well, that's all right then," observed Michael, "and you can spend
some of it to good purpose."

"My dear chap, it's hopeless.  You know it is.  It's most kind of you
to be consoling and encouraging, and all that, but the damage is done,
and it's irreparable.  If the marvellous surgeon had been on the spot,
I've no doubt he could have done something and made, at any rate, a
tidier job of it than Nature and my comrades' dirty paws did.  It's far
too late now, and I'll spend the rest of my young life where nothing
matters--thanks all the same."

"Well, anyhow," replied Michael Geste, "you see if I'm not right.
Things will improve enormously in time.  The scars will lose all colour
and cease to be livid.  They will become mere seams and lines ...
hardly noticeable."

"That would be a pity in a way, too," smiled Robinson.  "My _escouade_
would be disappointed.  They would miss my face.  Perhaps some sniper
won't--if I can get on active service again."



 2

"Where's Beau?" inquired Digby one afternoon, a couple of months later,
as he joined John at the trough in the _lavabo_ where they washed their
white uniforms.

"Dunno," replied John, "but he'll be in for evening _soupe_ all right.
Why?"

"A job, my little lad! ... A _geste_ ... a deed ... a do....  You know
that dear fellow, Klingen.  He was telling his gang an extraordinary
yarn while we were peeling potatoes this morning....  Reminded me of
that lass who chased the Crusader home."

"What lass was that?" inquired John.

"D'you mean to say you don't know _that_, you uneducated worm ... you
worm that dieth not.  No, that was a sharp-headed worm, wasn't it?
Nothing sharp-headed about you, John Geste."

"We were talking about a girl," interrupted John coldly.  "Who was she?"

"How the devil should I know?" replied Digby.  "It's you who ought to
know useful things of this sort, so that you can be helpful to Beau and
me."

"You don't mean Mrs.  Becket by any chance, do you?"

"That's it, my lad," said Digby, smiting his brother with his wet
tunic.  "Why couldn't you have said that at once, without all this
jibber.  Thomas  Becket went to the Crusades and there picked up with
a Saracen lassie."

"But I thought he was a turbulent priest, and a perfectly good
Archbishop of Canterbury," observed John.  "I think it was T.  Becket
Senior.  Old Mr. Gilbert."

"No, no," replied Digby.  "It was Tom Cantuar all right, and all this
happened when he was young and merry and bright, before he had found
grace...."

"_Was_ her name Grace?" asked John.  "I thought it was Zuleika or
Zenobia or Aggie."

"Will you shut up and listen, and improve your mind!" admonished Digby.
"He took up with this young woman, and they were walking out ...
keeping company ... _you_ know ... when T.  Becket's time expired, or
else he was due for leave and furlough, and in the hurry of packing his
kit and getting his papers signed and proving to the Quartermaster that
he was a liar..."

"_He_ was--or the Quartermaster was?" asked John.

"... he quite forgot, or else mislaid, Grace or Zuleika or Zenobia or
Aggie--and in any case he couldn't have taken her aboard the transport
as she wasn't married to him 'on the strength.'  Well, there it was.
T.  Becket safe in England and poor Grace walking up and down the Pier
or the beach at Acre or Joppa or Jaffa or Haifa weeping and wailing...."

"Whaling?" queried John.  "From a pier or a beach?"

"... and Grace's Pa making kind inquiries for T.  Becket with a thick
stick."

"How _do_ you inquire with a stick?" asked John.

"I'll show you in a minute," promised Digby, and continued:

"... When Grace found that Thomas had done a bunk--and she having
nearly filled the bottom drawer and all--two of everything and all
hand-stitched--she up and had an idea.  Drawing her savings from the
Post Office, she left Pa and Ma to scratch for themselves; she went
down to the shipping office and just said 'Single, London,' and went
straight aboard a perfectly good fifteen-ton lugger or yawl or scow or
junk or barge or battleship and 'proceeded' to London, which she knew
to be Thomas's home-town, as she had seen it on his washing.

"Safely arrived, she took a room in a perfectly respectable
boarding-house in Bloomsbury, patronized entirely by clergymen's
daughters, had an egg to her tea, and then went out to look for
Thomas....

"Now the artful dog, Thomas, had never given her his proper name and
address, and she only knew him as Thomas, Tommy and Tom, and there were
quite a lot of gents so named in London Town.  However, she worked
clean through the London Directory and the Bars and Night-clubs of the
Shaftesbury Avenue district, and in the end, probably the West End, she
met her own True Thomas, who promptly said he was just having a last
drink before setting out to look for her, having been engaged hitherto
in getting a home together.  Whereupon they married and were happy ever
after....  She was housekeeper at the Palace when he settled in at
Canterbury as Archbishop, because you know how people talk and all
that, when celibate clergymen..."

"But my poor dear excellent ass," interrupted John, "what's all this
got to do with the unspeakable Klingen and the deed we have to do?"

"Nothing, probably," replied Digby, "and then again, you never know.
As I was saying when you interrupted, he was telling his gang an
extraordinary yarn while we were peeling potatoes this morning.

"It appears that, last night, as he was strolling down the Rue de
Tlemen, a beauteous maiden stopped him and asked him if he was
English.  I gathered that he behaved precisely as Klingen would behave
in the circumstances, and that she cleared off with her chin in the
air, followed by Klingen with his mind in the gutter--until she went
into the _Htel de l'Europe_ and thither he could not follow her.  Then
up spake a lad whose name I don't know, and said he'd had a similar
experience.  A pretty girl had stopped him near the hotel, and, with
blushing apologies, asked him if he were English.  Apparently this chap
behaved like an ordinary decent person--said he was sorry but he wasn't
English.  The girl then explained that she wanted to find an English
_lgionnaire_.  Her idea seemed to be that her best plan was to find
_any_ Englishman, as he would be more likely to know _the_ Englishman."

"Of course, the chap she wants will have changed his name, and her only
chance--if the man has been transferred from Sidi--is to meet somebody
who can identify him from her description," said John.

"Clever lad," approved Digby, "you've got it.  Here's a girl looking
for her Thomas, and hasn't got the vaguest idea as to what he now calls
himself.  She can't even go about like Grace or Zuleika asking for him
by his Christian name, and, even if he's in Sidi, it's like looking for
a needle in a haystack; and if he's in Morocco or the Sahara or the
Sudan or Madagascar or Tonkin, she'd never find him at all.  He _may_
be here, of course...."

"And that's where we come in," said John, wringing out the shirt that
he had washed.  "By Jove," he added, suddenly straightening himself up,
"it couldn't be Isobel!"

"Of course not, you fat ass.  That's what I thought the moment Klingen
spoke.  But it was only yesterday you had a letter from her.  And if
she came here, she'd have no need to stop strangers in the street and
ask if they spoke English.  She'd only have to send a card round from
the hotel to the Barracks addressed to _Lgionnaire_ John Smith, No.
18896, saying that she was at the Hotel."

"Of course," agreed John sadly.  "I spoke before I thought."

"People who never think, inevitably do that," observed Digby loftily.

"Now stop both thinking and talking and listen," he continued.

La Cigale, who was standing there, peeling away as though he'd been a
hotel scullion all his life, instead of a military attach and ornament
of Courts, suddenly said:

"'Why!  That must be the lady with whom I had so charming and
delightful an adventure last night.'"

"You know how the poor old dear talks.  He went on:

"'I was sitting in the Gardens, not feeling very happy, when a lady
came and sat down on the same seat.  She was young, beautiful, and a
gentlewoman.  She paid me the compliment...'

"And here the poor old dear bowed most gracefully towards me--

"'... of asking me if I were English.  I replied in French that I was
not, but that I could speak the language quite well, and we had quite a
long talk.  I promised to mention to all the Englishmen whom I knew,
that there was an English lady looking for a compatriot.  But the whole
matter had gone completely out of my mind until Klingen spoke just now.
It must be the same lady....  This absent-mindedness is terrible....'

"And the old chap went off into apologies and regrets that he'd
forgotten to tell us."

"Hullo, here's Beau," interrupted John.  "Beau," he added, "get some
mutton-fat, or dripping or something, and make your hair extra
beautiful.  We're going calling on a lady this evening, at the _Htel
de l'Europe_."

Beau's eyes opened a little wider as he looked from John to Digby.

"Claudia here?" he asked.

"No," replied John.  "Nor Isobel."

"Oh no," added Digby.  "It's Grace or Zuleika or Zenobia or Aggie or
somebody," and he proceeded to tell Beau that there was an English girl
who had the courage to walk the streets of an evening and stop passing
soldiers, to inquire if they were English or knew any Englishmen in the
Legion.

"We must go and put ourselves at her disposal," said Michael Geste.



 3

Helen Malenton, sitting at "tea" in her room, and honestly endeavouring
to detect any remotely tea-like flavour in the luke-warm liquid that
trickled reluctantly from a grudging coffee-pot, was losing heart and
hope, if not faith and charity.  From the day that Barry had
disappeared, leaving only a letter of passionate renunciation of her,
and even more passionate denunciation of himself, she had kept a stout
heart, high hope and profound faith.

Being a firm believer in the great truth that Heaven helps those that
help themselves, she had done her utmost to merit the help of Heaven,
but hope had been deferred and undoubtedly her heart had grown
sick--with apprehension, disappointment, and the feeling that the
expected help had not been forthcoming.

She rose and went to the window that looked across a dirty street to a
dusty garden, and, turning from the familiar and unsavoury prospect,
began once more to pace the more familiar and less savoury
room--hideously ugly as only the sitting-room of a provincial hotel can
be.

"I _won't_ give up," she said....

"Faith as a grain of mustard seed ... I _know_ he's alive, because he
could not die without my being aware of it....  My heart would die
too....  Only believe and ... if you want anything hard enough it comes
to pass.  Effort is never wasted."

Seating herself on an unbelievable sofa of stamped velvet, she stared
unseeingly at the incredible carpet, her tense hands clenched on either
side of her drawn face.

"Oh God," she whispered aloud.  "_Do_ help me.  Life isn't a welter of
blind chance....  Oh, how long? ... If there were a ray of hope....  A
sign...."

She sprang from her seat as the door opened and a dirty nondescript
_garon_ of no particular nationality, and arrayed chiefly in a green
baize apron, entered bearing an envelope in his grimy hand--an envelope
addressed "To the English lady staying at the _Htel de l'Europe_."

Murmuring that this was apparently _pour mademoiselle_, the youth
explained that three soldiers were waiting below, for an answer.

Tearing the envelope open with trembling fingers, Helen Malenton read:

"Three English _lgionnaires_ would like to inquire whether they can be
of any help to you; and, if so, will be delighted to put their services
at your disposal."

Foolish and irrational hope sprang up in her heart.

An answer to prayer?  A gleam of light in her darkest hour, the darkest
hour before the dawn?

"Where are they, these soldiers?" she asked eagerly.

"Below in the _fumour_, madame."

"I will come down," said Helen quietly, and endeavoured to conceal the
excitement that surged up within her, and caused her limbs to tremble.

Three handsome youths, obviously Englishmen, rose and bowed as she
entered the stale and dingy lounge.

"Good evening.  Will you allow our excellent intentions to excuse our
intrusion?" said one of them.  "I am--er--William Brown and these are
my brothers Thomas Jones and John Smith."

Helen Malenton gravely shook hands with her visitors as Digby remarked:

"Same family, but different names.  Curious, but quite simple--like us."

"Yes," agreed John.  "William is curious and Thomas is simple."

"I think I understand," replied the girl.  "My name is Helen Malenton,
and I'm most grateful to you for coming.  I most thankfully accept your
offer of help.  I have just discovered that a friend of mine--my
fianc, in fact--is in the Legion, and I've come to look for him.  He
disappeared suddenly.  Nothing wrong; he is absolutely incapable of
doing anything base or mean."

Her voice trembled.

"Look at _me_, Miss Malenton," smiled Digby.  "You have but to glance
at my countenance to be assured that I could do nothing wrong, and am
absolutely incapable of anything base or mean.  Yet I disappeared
suddenly, and am in the Legion.  And, in a lesser degree, this applies
to my brothers--who also disappeared suddenly."

The girl smiled, and with regained self-control, continued:

"I am sure you all understand."

"Absolutely," murmured Michael.  "We are in a position to do so, and
may I add we quite understand that a man who is your fianc must be an
honourable gentleman."

"Oh, he's one of the noblest and bravest of men who ever lived," said
the girl impulsively.  "He hasn't a fault or a failing, except that he
is headstrong and rash, and yet very sensitive really.  You know how
such a person can be beautifully good-tempered and yet--well--at times
_hot_-tempered."

"Oh, rather," agreed Digby.  "They are the best sort.  Pure gold from
the furnace--and with the warmth of the furnace still in the heart of
them--noble, brave and generous.  I'm like that myself," and smiled
infectiously.

Helen Malenton laughed for the first time in many months.

"Oh, we'll find him all right," he added.  "What's he like?  Is he like
me in face as well as character?"

"No," smiled Helen.  "He's a very handsome man..."

Michael and John grinned appreciatively, and Digby looked sad, modest
and embarrassed.

"... but as dark as you are fair, I was going to say.  Tall,
broad-shouldered and spare.  Extremely handsome--almost too much so,
for a man--large eyes, silky black hair with a lovely wave in it,
aquiline nose, small moustache, rather small mouth, a cleft chin.  He
had a complexion like a girl's.  I used to chaff him about it, and tell
him it wasn't right.  He would laugh, and say it was due to his having
been brought up solely by his mother, for his father died when he was a
baby."

An awful thought struck Michael Geste.  _Jones_!  Of course it must be
the poor chap who called himself Jones!  Poor devil! ... And oh, this
poor, poor girl!  The unhappy, overwrought, devil-driven Jones, too
sensitive, highly-strung and introspective even for ordinary life--much
more so for life in the Legion--the very last place in the world for a
man of his temperament.

Had they done their best for him?  What more could they have done?
They'd been most kind and friendly of course, and they had only got to
know him on the day he committed suicide.  It was Digby who had
discovered him and brought him along.  Had he said anything about a
girl, in telling them his tragi-comic piteous story?

And he had shot himself.

The poor girl was just too late....  Ghastly ... Oh, this was terrible.

He glanced at his brothers, and realized that the same thought had
entered their minds.  Digby was eyeing him apprehensively and he
generally knew what his twin was thinking.  John was looking very grave
and thoughtful.

"You haven't told us his name," he said, for the sake of saying
something while he considered the best way of breaking the terrible
news to the girl, should his fears prove justified.

"Chartres," was the reply.  "Sir Barry Chartres; but I don't suppose he
would use his own name."

"I know the name perfectly well," remarked Beau, and added, "No, he
wouldn't use it in the Legion.  You don't know what he calls himself
now, of course."

"No," replied the girl.

"I wonder if he called himself Jones," said John, eyeing Michael.

"Quite likely," replied the girl.  "Do you know an Englishman of that
_nom de guerre_?"

"We _did_," admitted Michael.

"Did?" queried Helen Malenton quickly.  "Is he...?"

"Was Sir Barry Chartres ever in the British Army?  Did he ever go to
India?"

"Yes, yes, he did.  He transferred from his County Regiment to the
Indian Army, in the hope of seeing some active service."

The girl rose to her feet and faced them with shining eyes and parted
lips.

"What is your friend like?  You said '_did_.'  Does that mean he has
gone away from here?  Where, where...?  Oh, it must be Barry!  There
wouldn't be _two_ Englishmen here, who had both been in the Indian
Army.  Oh, _please_ tell me quickly where he has gone?"

Seldom had the three brothers felt more miserably uncomfortable.

John and Digby looked to Beau for the next move, feeling that the
situation could not be in better hands, and, while prepared to help him
in every way, thankful that he was leader and spokesman.

What could he do?  This was going to be really painful.

"Look here, Miss Malenton," said Beau Geste.  "Suppose you leave
everything to us.  We are complete strangers to you, I know, but you
can trust us absolutely...."

"Rather," chimed in Digby and John.

"... and we will do our best for you; we should love to.  What I
suggest is that you go back to England at once and we'll carry on.  Do!
I'll write to you immediately, when there is any definite news.  It
must be wretched for you here, and we three can do all sorts of things
that are impossible for you.  Go home to-morrow, and leave it to us."

"I don't know how to thank you," replied Helen Malenton.  "But I
couldn't, I simply couldn't.  I _had_ to come here, the moment I
discovered that Barry had joined the Legion, and I must stay here until
I am absolutely convinced that he is not in Sidi-bel-Abbs.  And I
shall only leave this place to go to some other in which he may
possibly be."

"Suppose, for the sake of argument, he were dead," said Michael gravely.

"Oh, he isn't, he _couldn't_ be," the girl protested.

"I want you to answer my question," replied Michael.  "Suppose it."

The girl smiled through gathering tears.

"Why then I could--and should--follow him, of course," she answered.
"I don't want to talk wildly, and be melodramatic, but I am going to
find him, either in this world or the next."

A silence fell upon the four.  Digby wiped the palms of his hands with
his handkerchief.

Suppose it had been Isobel looking for _him_.

"Please don't," murmured John, with the slight nervous cough which his
brothers knew to be an expression of deep embarrassment at deep feeling.

Suppose it had been Isobel looking for him.

"Well, then," said Michael, "if you won't go home and won't leave here
till you have a clue leading elsewhere, just remain quietly here, and
let us work for you.  We'll hunt out every English _lgionnaire_ in
Sidi, and do our utmost to find out what has become of all those who
have been here during the last five years.  It'll be quite simple, for
there are very few Englishmen in the Legion.  We shall be able to
eliminate most of them from the list very easily."

"Yes, but where _has_ this friend of yours gone, please?" interrupted
the girl.  "You don't tell me.  It is almost certainly Barry.  I'll
follow up this clue just as soon as I'm sure that Barry himself is not
here--and that should be easy, now that you three are going to help me.
I thank you a thousand times."

"Not at all.  Pray don't speak of it," replied Michael.  "It is both a
duty and a great pleasure.  My only fear is lest we fail or--or--have
to bring you bad news.  We'll go now, and start work at once."

And the brothers rose to take their departure.

"Where _did_ your friend _go_, please?" repeated the girl as she
extended her hand to Michael.

"That's what we're going to find out," was the reply.



 4

"A brave and charming gentlewoman," said Beau as they marched down the
street from the _Htel de l'Europe_.

"Yes," agreed Digby.  "If only the late Mr. 'Jones' had been as brave,
and had stuck it out a little longer!  How are we going to tell her he
blew his brains out just before she came?"

"We aren't," replied Michael.

"You mean we're going to say he died fighting bravely beneath the
Legion's flag?" asked John.

"I'm not sure we're going to tell her he's dead at all," was the
enigmatic reply.

"Enlighten us, Uncle," said Digby.

"I'm not at all certain that poor old Jones is the man.  I've got an
idea."

"So have I," said John.

"The Man with the Face?" asked Michael.

"Clever lad," he approved.

"By Jove!" ejaculated Digby.  "Of course!  _Of_ course!  Brainy birds!
I never thought of that.  He fits exactly, and of the two it's far more
likely that _her_ man would be the one who didn't commit suicide.  I
don't believe it was poor old Jones at all.  Oh brains, brains!  I
somehow feel certain it is the Man with the Face."

"So do I," agreed John.  "Her description of the long-lost lover suits
him even better than the late Jones.  I got the impression of a big
chap from her description, and Jones wasn't enormous."

"No," observed Michael, "but he wasn't by any means a small man, and I
wouldn't build much on that particular point.  I imagine that any
average-sized man is a fine huge hero to the girl who loves him."

"Yes, I suppose even we are," agreed Digby, his thoughts at Brandon
Abbas.

"Yes," said Michael and John simultaneously, their thoughts in the same
place.

"Still it really is an idea and a clue--and a hope," said Digby, "and
we'll follow it up for all it's worth.  I vote we now palter with the
truth, and say that the ex-Indian Army man, to whom we referred, is at
Arzew, and that we are on his trail."

"It isn't paltering with the truth so much as switching it over," said
Michael.  "A line of inquiry that was to lead us to the Legion Cemetery
in Sidi-bel-Abbs, now leads us to the Convalescent Camp at Arzew."

"I say," broke in John.  "There isn't very much time to lose, is there?
Didn't the Man with the Face say his time was up, and that he was going
to re-enlist?  Pretty rotten for Miss Malenton if he did so, just
before we told her we'd found him!"

"Yes, and that raises another snag," said Michael loftily.  "A point
upon which I have been wisely and profoundly pondering while you and
your brother jibber and jabber and gabble."

"A snag isn't a point, may I observe?" commented Digby coldly.  "A
point is that which has no parts nor magnitude."

"Like your brain, my lad," answered Michael.  "You call this
unfortunate gentleman 'the Man with the Face.'  Well, does it or does
it not occur to what we must call your mind, that if he is the man, he
is certainly not going to bring his poor carven face and lay it before
his best girl?"

"By Jove!" said Digby.  "I never thought of that."

"What a ghastly position!" murmured John.

"But surely," he added, "the girl wouldn't turn him down because he's
hideously disfigured.  Not if she really loves him."

Would Isobel turn _him_ down if his face were so slashed and scarred
that he was unrecognizable?  She would not.

"But it's not of the _girl_ that I'm thinking at all.  It's the man, my
good little asses.  I believe she'd stick to him if he'd lost both
eyes, both ears, both lips, and both nose.  _He_'ll raise the trouble,
not she."

"You're right, Beau," said Digby.  "He will.  I've got the impression
that he is the sort of person who'd do just that.  I believe he'd
sooner meet anybody in the world than the woman he loved."

"I can quite understand it too," agreed Beau.  "He'd feel that she'd be
repressing shudders the whole time, and fighting a desire to scream.
He'd be afraid that, purely out of loyalty and decency, she'd swear she
not only still loved him, but couldn't _live_ without him."

"While, all the time, life was a purgatory to her--a hideous
nightmare," added John.

"Depends on the woman, of course," said Digby.  "There are women who'd
honestly and truly love their man all the more because he was a bit
chipped and cracked.  Want to make it up to him, and mother him."

"Yes," agreed John, "there are.  And then again there are equally fine
women who simply could not bear it--literally could not stand the sight
of a face like that, without being physically sick."

"And that's what poor old Carven Face will think, I'm afraid," said
Michael.  "He'll write and tell her he's not the only pebble on the
beach and beg her to acquire a nice round smooth pebble that has not
been carved--by Arabs.  We'll do our best, anyhow, and we shall have to
be careful and clever."

"John, _you_'ll have to be careful," stated Digby.



 5

_Le lgionnaire_ Robinson had returned from Arzew, his intention of
re-enlisting confirmed by an offer of promotion to the rank of Corporal
if he did so.  He realized that he would probably regret the step when
it was too late, but after impartially studying his terrible face, with
the help of a good mirror, he decided that the best place for such a
work of art was a desert outpost at the ultimate Back of Beyond.

"A pretty picture," he smiled grimly, as he regarded his reflection.
"A picture which should certainly be hung," and he smiled again.

But only _le lgionnaire_ Robinson knew that the facial contortion was
a smile.


Seated alone in a dark corner of the canteen, on the night of his
return to Sidi-bel-Abbs, his hand, as usual, across his face as though
to shade his eyes, he saw an Englishman enter the room and approach
him.  Pulling his _kpi_ well down over his face, he turned away and
appeared to fall asleep.

"Discouraging," murmured Beau to himself as he turned to the
zinc-topped bar, and procured a bottle of wine and a couple of glasses.

Seating himself beside Robinson, Beau Geste poured out two glasses of
wine, coughed slightly, somewhat in the manner of John, and remarked:

"As you say, Robinson, this is an unwarrantable intrusion."

"I haven't said anything," growled Robinson.

"No, not aloud," agreed Michael.  "Very nice of you, but I am butting
in nevertheless, and I apologize--and my reason is my excuse.  I've got
a most important message for you."

"Oh?" grunted Robinson, evincing no interest whatever.

"From a lady," added Michael.

"Yes?" growled Robinson, with the complete indifference of one who
received messages from ladies every few minutes.

"From _Miss Helen Malenton_," enunciated Michael, slowly and distinctly.

Robinson's hand, extended to raise his glass, knocked it off the table.

"Ah?" he murmured, in the tone of one who was more than a little bored
by Miss Malenton's attentions.

Watching the man's face as closely as was possible, Michael decided
that it had shown no faintest sign of any feeling whatsoever; no
slightest flicker of emotion; no shadow of change of expression, as he
spoke the girl's name.  But, as he told himself, he could not see the
eyes properly, and the rest of the face was hardly calculated to
register emotion of any sort.  In fact, it was not a face at all, but a
mask, a mask of tortured flesh, probably incapable of showing what its
unfortunate owner felt, even when he wished it to do so.

Yes, decided Michael, _le lgionnaire_ Robinson was well entrenched
behind the double defence of the mask he wished to wear and the mask he
_had_ to wear.  Only his hands betrayed him, as so often they betray
the man who has perfect facial control.

This was going to be a difficult job, and Robinson was going to behave
exactly as they had feared.

"She is here," he said quietly.  "Here in Sidi-bel-Abbs."

"Yes?" was the discouraging reply, in a voice as cool and quiet as
Michael's own.

"She wants to see you, Robinson," continued Michael.

"To _see_ me?" asked Robinson.  "Five _sous_ a peep, or something like
that?  Have you gone into the impresario business, or what?"

The man was certainly bitter.

"Don't _you_ want to see _her_?" said Michael patiently.

"Not the faintest desire, thanks," was the uncompromising answer.

Michael sighed, and picking up Robinson's glass, he refilled it.

"Let's drink to her health," he suggested.

"With pleasure," growled Robinson.  He raised his glass, muttered
something unintelligible, and drained it.

"She's an amazingly brave, staunch, loyal woman," observed Michael.

"I'm sure she is," agreed the other.

"And she's in a pretty bad way, too," added Michael somewhat sharply.
And--

"Look here, Robinson," more sharply still, "at the risk of your
considering me an impudent meddler, I really must say this--When a girl
has suffered on a man's account as Miss Malenton has done on yours--and
when moreover she has travelled to Sidi-bel-Abbs to look for him--I do
think it's up to him to see her."

"Yes," agreed Robinson politely.

"Well, don't you think it's the very least he can do."

"Oh, quite," agreed Robinson again.

"Then you will see her?" said Michael promptly.

"No, Mr. What-is-your-name, I will not--and we'll now close this
somewhat boring conversation," yawned _le lgionnaire_ Robinson, as he
arose and departed thence.



 6

"Ah, this is a job that wants brains, of course," observed Digby at the
conclusion of Michael's account of his discouraging interview with _le
lgionnaire_ Robinson.  "Leave it to _me_; do as I tell you, and all
will be well.

"D'you mind if I visit Miss Malenton unhampered and unhindered--I mean,
unaccompanied and unsupported, by your two silly faces?" he added.

"Quite hopeless, my dear chap," said John, "even if Miss Malenton were
not absolutely wrapped up in her lost lover.  And, in any case, she
would prefer a visit from the nicest of us."

"We must try and keep him out of the sun, Beau," urged Digby, surveying
his younger brother compassionately; "and while he keeps out of the sun
I'm going into the shadows--of the _Htel de l'Europe_ to propound a
scheme to Miss Malenton."

"And why this sudden desire for a tte--tte?" inquired Beau.  "If you
feel you have a Mission and a Message and that we are neither worthy
nor competent..."

"Well, it's only partly that," smiled Digby.  "But I feel you'd be much
more competent to play your little parts in my plan, if you knew
nothing about it."

"Quite probably, I should say," observed Michael.  "What are our parts?"

"Merely to lend your countenances and your money to my scheme.  It's a
dinner-party.  We are going to dine and wine Mr. Robinson.  A dinner to
mark the occasion of his coming promotion and re-enlistment--a most
hilarious celebration and all that."

"Where?" inquired John.

"At the _Htel de l'Europe_," was the reply.

"He'd never go there," objected Michael.  "He literally wouldn't show
his face in a crowded caf like that."

"We shall have a private room," said Digby.  "He'll come all right.
He's very fond of me--naturally."

"And if he does, what's the idea?  Make him drunk and get his word of
honour that he will at least consent to an interview with Miss Malenton
before he re-enlists?"

"Wrong again," was the answer.  "Now ask no more questions, but be
prepared to dine and wallow in the wassail on Sunday evening with
Robinson at the _Htel de l'Europe_.  This is Friday, isn't it?  I'm
going to see Robinson to-night and Miss Malenton to-morrow, and
thereafter you shall behold the wondrous works of your Uncle Digby."

As one man, his brothers emitted a loud derisive grunt.


The charming Digby charmed, and the morose and bitter Robinson
succumbed, on learning that the dinner was to be held in a private
room, and that absolutely nobody but the three Englishmen was to be
invited to it.

"It's extraordinarily nice of you fellows," he growled, "and I can't
refuse."



 7

The dinner went extremely well, for the Gestes were what they were, and
Robinson strove to be what he once had been, a gay and debonair
gentleman.  The warmth of their kindly friendship unfroze the once
genial current of his soul.

No mention whatever was made of Miss Helen Malenton, and when, at the
wine-and-walnut stage of the feast, she entered the room, neither
Michael nor John was greatly surprised.

The four men rose to their feet, and Robinson stared, his mangled face
utterly expressionless.

Helen Malenton, her eyes shining, her countenance transfigured with
emotion ineffable and uncontrolled, gazed at him for a moment, uttered
a little gasping cry, rushed to him and flung her arms about his neck.

"Oh _Barry, Barry_, my darling!" she sobbed.

Seizing her arms in his hands, Robinson removed them from about his
neck and gently but firmly pushed her from him.

"I don't know you," he said.

"Oh my own _darling_, my _dearest_!" cried the girl.  "Your friend told
me that your face had been wounded....  I was prepared for it....  My
sweetheart, it is _nothing_ to me."

"I don't know you," repeated Robinson, his outstretched hand between
them.

"Barry my _love_, my _darling_, don't be so foolish!  If such a thing
be possible, I love you all the more! ... How can you possibly think I
should shrink from you?  Why, my darling sweetheart, I used to think
you were far _too_ handsome for a man....  You were _pretty_ almost.  I
swear to God that I like you better like this, even though I couldn't
love you better."

The man's hand fell to his side in a gesture of resignation and
acceptance, and the girl's arms were again clasped about his neck.

"I am _not_ Barry," he groaned, and as, with the laugh of a mother
humouring her child she drew his head down until their lips met, his
arms went about her and crushed her to him.

Except for themselves, the room was empty.



 8

"Once again, good-bye, and God for ever bless you," said _le
lgionnaire_ Robinson, wringing the hands of the brothers, as the four
stood at the barrack-gate.

"You'll keep your promise and visit us on the island that we are going
to buy--one of the Islands of the Blest, of which we shall be the sole
inhabitants, and where no one but her will see my face....  God!  To
think that to-day I should have re-enlisted and gone back into hell
instead of going off into Paradise with this noble and wonderful woman.
How can I ever _begin_ to thank you?"

"No need," replied Beau Geste.  "It's been the most tremendous
pleasure.  We shall always be happy to think that we brought you and
Miss Malenton together again."

"You didn't bring us together _again_," smiled Robinson.

Surprised, the Geste brothers stared uncomprehendingly.

"I never set eyes on her in my life until last night," he said, and as
he turned away added, "_But she won't believe it!_"




II

A GENTLEMAN OF COLOUR

 1

_Le lgionnaire_ Yato was one of the quietest, most retiring and
self-effacing men in the Company, and one of the most modest.  It
seemed to be his highest ambition--an ambition which he almost
attained--to escape notice, to blush unseen, and to hide his light
beneath a bushel.

And yet, to those who had the seeing eye, he was an extremely
interesting person, and for many reasons.  He greatly intrigued the
Geste brothers, and in spite of his meek, self-effacing humility, they
took note of him from the day he arrived, and watched him with interest.

At first sight, and to the casual eye, he was a poor specimen--small,
narrow-shouldered, weedy, with yellowish face, a wiry scrub of short
hair, and a silly sort of little straggling moustache, the loss of one
hair of which would have made an obvious difference.

The mere look of him caused Sergeant-major Lejaune to feel unwell, and
he made no secret of the fact.  Indeed, he promised to stuff the little
man into a slop-pail and to be ill upon him.

Never had the Geste boys, who were watching the arrival of this batch
of recruits, seen so hopelessly dull, stupid and apathetic a face in
their lives, as that of this recruit, while Sergeant-major Lejaune
regarded it; never had they seen one more acutely intelligent,
expressive, spirited and observant as Sergeant-major Lejaune passed on.

"See that?" chuckled Digby to his brothers.

"Yes," replied Beau.  "If I were Lejaune I think I'd let that gentleman
alone.  Wonder what brought him here."

"He's come 'for to admire and for to see,' I should think," said John,
"and come a long way too."  And as the line of recruits turned to their
left and marched off, he added, "His shoulders have been drilled too,
and I'll bet you any amount he's worn a sword and spurs."

Other interesting facts transpired later.  The mild little man could
cut your hair and shave you beautifully, and he could speak your
language if you were English, French, Russian or German.  He could also
sketch rather marvellously, and do pictures of surpassing merit in
water-colour and in oil.  He preferred to do these drawings and
pictures out in the open air--the more open the better--and he had done
some beauties of the country round Quetta, for example, and the Khyber
Pass, showing all the pretty forts and things.

His manners were delightful, and he gave offence to no man, least of
all to those set in authority over him.

To their surprise, the Geste boys--who, during his early recruit days
went out of their way to help this lonely little stranger in a strange
land--discovered that he knew England fairly well, particularly
Portsmouth, Plymouth, Weymouth, Rosyth, Aldershot and Chatham.

For the most part, _le lgionnaire_ Yato's inoffensiveness, humility,
excellent manners, and blameless conduct, kept him out of almost all
trouble, official or private--but not entirely.  Although a man may
camouflage himself with a protective colouring of drab dullness and
uniformity, which does indeed protect him by hiding him from general
notice, it may not always suffice to hide him from particular notice.
His very quietness and mild meekness may be his undoing through
attracting the eye of those who need a butt for their diversion, and
even more urgently need long-suffering meekness and mildness in that
butt.

Two such were Messieurs Brandt and Haff, men who, themselves the butt
of their superiors for their stupidity, slovenliness, and general
worthlessness, must find someone to be their butt in turn.  Almost a
necessity of their existence was someone upon whom they could visit the
contumely heaped upon themselves.  Subconsciously they felt that, for
their self-respect's sake, they must stand upon something lower than
themselves, or be themselves the lowest things of all.

And this recruit, Yato, seemed so suitable to their purpose, so dull
and stupid, so unable to protect himself, so harmless, helpless and
hopeless, so proper a target for the shafts of their wit.

So they put thorn-brush in his bed, and unpleasant matter in his _kpi_
and on his pillow; stole his kit; put a dead mouse in his coffee;
arranged a booby-trap for his benefit; fouled his white uniform after
he had washed and ironed it; gave him false information, messages and
orders, to his discomfiture and undoing; hid his brushes just before
kit inspection; stole his soap; cut his boot-laces and generally
demonstrated their own wit, humour and jocularity as well as his
stupidity, harmlessness and general inferiority to themselves.

One day, Beau Geste and his brothers entered their barrack-room and
discovered the cringing Yato ruefully eyeing _les lgionnaires_ Brandt,
Haff, Klingen and Schwartz--four huge and powerful men, who were
proposing to toss him in a blanket, having first denuded him of all
clothing.  The bright idea had been that of Brandt.  He had proposed
it; Haff had seconded it; and the two, realizing with their wonted
brilliance that a blanket has four corners, had impressed the services
of the delighted and all-too-willing Schwartz and Klingen.

"Where shall we do it?" roared Schwartz, a great bearded ruffian,
strong as a bull, rough as a bear, and sensitive as a wart-hog.

"You won't do it at all," said Beau Geste, advancing to where the four
stood about Yato's disordered bed, from which they had dragged a
blanket.

"I do not like to be touched and handled," said Yato quietly, in the
silence that fell upon the surprised bullies.  "Please leave me alone."

"They are going to leave you alone," said Beau Geste.

"Yes!  Watch us!" shouted Brandt, and sprang at the cringing little Jap
as the mighty Schwartz turned upon Michael Geste, his great hands
clenched, his eyes blazing, and his teeth bared.  But as he raised his
fist to strike, he swung about as something, or someone, fell against
him from behind.

It was Brandt.

Using his right arm as though it were an axe, of which the side of the
hand from little finger to wrist, was the edge, Yato had struck Brandt
an extraordinary cutting chopping blow on the neck, below and behind
the ear.

As Brandt fell against Schwartz and to the ground, apparently dead, the
Jap seized Haff by the collar of his tunic, where it fastened at the
throat, and jerked his head violently downward, at the same time
himself springing violently upward, so that the top of his bullet-head
struck Haff between the eyes with tremendous force.

The huge Schwartz changing his line of attack, as he turned about,
sprang upon Yato, as might a lion upon a gazelle.  The gazelle threw
itself at the lion's feet--but not in supplication.  Before the
astonished Gestes could come to the rescue, they saw Yato fling his
arms about Schwartz's ankles, causing the upper part of his body to
fall forward.  And as it did so, Yato astonishingly arose, hugging
Schwartz's ankles to his breast.

The result of this lightning movement was that the big man pitched upon
his head so heavily that nothing but its thickness saved him from
concussion of the brain, and it seemed impossible that his neck should
not be broken.  And, almost as the body of Schwartz reached the ground,
Yato sprang at Klingen, who was in the act of drawing a knife.

Seizing the wrist of the hand that held this ugly weapon, the Japanese
wheeled so that he stood beside Klingen, shoulder to shoulder, and
facing in the same direction.  As he did so, he thrust his left arm
beneath Klingen's right, and across his chest, at the same time pulling
Klingen's straightened right arm violently downward.  There was a
distinctly audible crack as the arm broke above the elbow.

Where four burly bullies had gathered about a cringing little man,
three lay insensible and one knelt whimpering with pain.

"I do not like to be touched and handled," smiled Yato.

"I don't think you will be, to any great extent," smiled Digby Geste in
return.



 2

But a man may be touched without being handled, and it was the
dominating desire of Klingen's life to "touch" Yato.

It became essential to his continued existence that he should avenge
his broken arm, his humiliating defeat and utter overthrow.

For Klingen was a conceited man, devoid of pride, but filled with
self-esteem.

He was handsome and he knew it.  But "handsome is as handsome does,"
and Klingen had done most evilly.  It was, in fact, by reason of his
last and most treacherous love-affair that he was hiding in the Legion.

He was big and strong and bold, and he had been made to grovel groaning
at the feet of a man one-half his size.  He hated pain, and he had been
made to suffer agony unspeakable.

And so he was obsessed with thoughts of vengeance, and lived for the
day when the Japanese should make full payment for the insult and the
injury he had put upon the bold and brave, the hardy and handsome
Klingen.

Meanwhile, a certain poor satisfaction could be obtained by lashing the
unspeakable Oriental verbally; for, curiously enough, the Japanese did
not resent such abuse--apparently.  So when Klingen came out of
hospital he poured forth upon his quiet shrinking enemy all the choice
epithets, insults, and injurious foulness that he had perpetrated,
polished and perfected during the miserable leisure of his enforced
retirement.

He assured Yato that he was a yellow monkey, a loathsome "native," a
coloured man, if indeed he were a man at all.  Klingen explained fully
and carefully that he had always drawn the colour line, and had drawn
it straight and strong; also that it was, to him, the very worst aspect
of life in the Legion that one was forced to herd with coloured men,
natives, that foul scum (or sediment) of humanity which is barely
human.  He explained that while he hated niggers, abhorred Arabs and
detested Chinese, words utterly failed him to express the loathing
horror with which he regarded Japs.  Brown was bad, black was worse,
but what could be said of yellow?  That vile bilious colour was
disgusting in _anything_--but in human beings it was...!

One could be but dumbly sick, and whenever his revolted eye fell upon
_le lgionnaire_ Yato, his revolting stomach almost had its way, and in
crude pantomime Klingen would express his feelings.

And Yato would smile.

Furthermore, the good Klingen was at infinite pains to indicate the
private and personal hideousness of Yato as distinct from his national
bestiality.  He would invite all present to contemplate the little
man's unspeakable eyes, indescribable moustache, unmentionable nose,
unbelievable hair, and unutterable ugliness.

And Yato would smile.

But it was noticed that Klingen never touched the Japanese, nor sought
physical retaliation for his broken arm.  Nor did Messieurs Haff,
Brandt and Schwartz.  In fact, these three appeared to entertain
feelings rather of reluctant admiration and sporting acquiescence, than
of hatred and vengeance, and when Klingen proposed various schemes for
Yato's undoing, they would have none of them.  They were quite content
to regard him as a freak of nature and a human marvel.

Of him they had had quite enough, and it was their firm intention to
leave him severely alone.

Not so Klingen.  If Klingen were to live, Yato must die; or, better
still--far, far better still--suffer some dire, ineffable humiliation,
life-long and worse than death.

      *      *      *      *      *

Seated in a row, on a bench in the Jardin Publique, Beau Geste in the
middle, the three brothers contemplated the Vast Forever without
finding life one grand sweet song.

Life was hard, comfortless, small and monotonous; but quite bearable so
long as it yielded a lazy hour when they could sit thus, smoking their
pipes in silent communion, or in idle and disjointed conversation about
Brandon Abbas.  Frequently Michael would speculate upon Claudia's
doings; Digby and John upon those of Isobel.

"Here comes old Yato," murmured Digby.  "I'm going to hit him, one
day," he added.

"What for?" inquired John.

"Fun," replied Digby.

"Fun for whom--Yato?" inquired Michael.

"Yes," replied Digby.  "I want to see what happens to me."

"You won't see," asserted Michael.  "You'll only feel."

"Well, you two shall watch and tell me exactly what happens," said
Digby.  "Then I can do it to you two."

"Good evening, gentlemen," said Yato, with a courteous salute.  "Excuse
that I approach you."

The brothers rose as one, saluted the tiny man, and invited him to be
seated with them.

"Excuse that I intrude with my insignificant presence, gentlemen, but I
would humbly venture to do you the honour, and pay you the compliment,
of asking a favour of you.  You are _samurai_.  If one of you gave
assent with no more than a nod of his head, it would be a binding
contract....  Will you do something for me?"

"Yes," replied Beau Geste.

"You do not stop to make conditions, nor to hear what the request may
be.  You do not fear that it may be something you would not like to do."

"No," replied Beau Geste.

"Ah," smiled Yato, "as I thought.  Well, I'm going a long walk one day
soon, and I may want something done for me by a friend, after I have
gone.  I do not _know_ that I shall, but it is quite possible...."

"We shall be delighted," said Beau Geste, and his brothers murmured
assent.

Yato bowed deeply.

"Honourable sirs," he said.

"Better not tell us anything about your--er--long walk," said Beau
Geste.  "We shouldn't give you away, of course, but we're not good
liars I'm afraid."

"Oh," smiled Yato, "tell them anything and everything that you know,
should you be questioned.  The honourable authorities will be entirely
welcome to me--if they can catch me."

And he rose to go.

"I will leave a note under your pillow or in your _musette_," he
continued, addressing Beau Geste.  "Good-bye, gentle and honourable
sirs.  May I have the distinction of shaking the hands?"

"Queer little cove and great little gentleman," observed Digby when
Yato had departed.

"Yes," agreed Michael.  "A very good friend and a very dangerous enemy,
I should say.  I suppose he's in the Japanese Secret Service."

"I don't think I will hit him, after all," mused Digby.



 3

Colonel the Baron Hoshiri of the Japanese General Staff, and of the
French Foreign Legion (in the name of Yato), made his way along the Rue
de Daya with, as he would have said, a song in his heart.  There was no
smile upon his grim lips, nor expression of joy in his eyes nor upon
his face.  They were, in fact, utterly expressionless.

But he was very, very happy, for he was returning to his heaven upon
earth, at the feet of Fuji Yama--the land of the cherry blossom, the
chrysanthemum, the geisha, and the Rising Sun.  He was leaving this
land of barbarians devoid of manners, arts, graces and beauty.

Also, he had found a little friend, and she gave the lilt to the song
that was in his heart.

A Flower from Japan.

Soiled and trodden and cast aside by these barbarian brutes, but still
a Flower from Japan.

A pitiful little story--heart-breaking--but the little flower, picked
up from the mud, dipped in pure cleansing dew, and set in a vase of
fair water, was reviving.

He would take it back to Japan and it would bloom again and live, a
thing of beauty and of joy.

Yes, a pitiful little tale.

Her parents had taken her to the _yoshiwara_ to earn her dowry.  There
she had met her future husband, and thence she had been taken--rescued
rather it seemed to her--by this man who so earnestly begged her to
become his wife.  He seemed a nice kind man, and her heart did not sink
very much when he told her that they were going to travel to the
wonderful West--for he was a merchant, and his business lay in
Marseilles.

This was quite true, and in Marseilles, where his business lay, he sold
her--in the way of business.  Mr. Ah Foo (born in Saigon of a Chinese
woman and a French Marine) did very well out of his little bride
Sanyora--as he did out of all his other little brides, for he was what
one might call a regular marrying man, and had entered the bonds of
matrimony scores of times, and each of his wives had entered a bondage
unescapable.

From Marseilles, Sanyora had been sold to a gentleman who travelled for
his house, in Algiers, and had been taken to that house.  Thence she
had been appointed, without her knowledge or consent, to a vacancy
(created by death--and a knife) in Oran.  From there she had been sold
into an even fouler bondage in Sidi-bel-Abbs.

Could she do nothing for herself?  Yes--fight like a tiger-cat until
drugged, and scream appeals for help--in Japanese, the only language
she knew.

And, in that language, Colonel Hoshiri had heard her cry to God for
death, as he passed below the open shutters of a house in a slum of the
Spanish quarter.  He had entered, asked for the Japanese girl, made his
way to her room, addressed her in Japanese, and told her he only wished
to be a friend and deliverer.

And now Sanyora had her own pretty room in a private house in a
respectable quarter, and the Colonel had a haven of rest and peace--a
refuge and quiet place in which he could take his ease and hear his own
language from beautiful lips.  Between them, they had made it a tiny
corner of Japan, and, day by day, Sanyora grew more and more to be the
dainty, charming and delightful geisha, wholly attractive mistress of
the arts that delight and soothe and charm the eye and ear--and heart.

      *      *      *      *      *

As usual, _le lgionnaire_ Yato was watched and followed by his bitter
and relentless enemy, Klingen.  A stab in the back, as he passed
through some dark alley, would be simple enough, but it would be _too_
simple.  To a devil like Yato, it would have to be a death-stroke, and
he might die without knowing who had killed him.  That would be a very
poor sort of vengeance.

What Klingen wanted was to hurt him, and hurt him, and _hurt_ him ...
humiliate him to the dust ... disgrace and degrade and shame him ...
torture him to death ... but a long, slow, lingering death....

One night Yato might go to _le village Ngre_.  Anything could happen
there.  There was no foul and fearful villainy that one could not buy,
and a very little money went a very long way in _le village Ngre_.
One could certainly have a man waylaid, knocked on the head, gagged and
bound and tied down on a native bedstead in a dark room in a native
house.  One could hire the room and have the key.  One could visit
one's victim nightly, and taunt him throughout the night.  One could
let him starve to death, or keep him alive for weeks.

The things one could do!  What about that lovely trick of inverting a
brass bowl on the man's bare stomach....  a rat inside the bowl ...
some red-hot charcoal on top of the bowl....

How long does it take the rat to eat his way into, and through, the
man?  Might it not be too quick a death?  No, that was the whole point
of it--a good sound slow torture.

Klingen licked his lips and followed the distant figure of Yato with
his eyes.

Going to the same house again, was he?  A pity he did not go to _le
village Ngre_.  What could be the attraction here?  A woman, of course.

Klingen pondered the thought.  There might be something in that ...
especially if he were fond of her.  An idea--of dazzling brilliance.
Jealousy!  No vengeance like it--for a start.  Get his woman from him.
Was there a girl alive who would give a second glance at that hideous
little yellow monkey when the fine big handsome swaggering
swashbuckling Klingen was about?  What an exquisite moment when the
girl (seated on Klingen's knee, her head on Klingen's shoulder, her
arms round Klingen's neck) turned languidly to Yato as Yato entered
Yato's own room, and said to him in accents of extremest scorn, "Get to
hell out of this, you dirty little yellow monkey.  The sight and the
smell of you make me feel sick in my stomach."

That would be a great moment.  And these women could be bought.

      *      *      *      *      *

Ah, yes ... the little yellow devil was turning into the same house
again.  It _must_ be a woman.

Klingen reconnoitred once again.  The usual type of house with a common
stairway leading up from a gloomy little basement hall to a rookery of
rooms, apartments and flats occupied by hard-working poor people of the
better sort.

Klingen hesitated, and for the first time entered the house and looked
round the dingy entrance-hall, stone-floored, stucco-walled, gloomily
lit by a smoky oil-lamp hanging against the wall, and by the rays that
shone through iron-barred window-spaces from a street lamp.

Should he climb the bare, wooden stair that led to the floors above?
Why not?  Anyone might enter the wrong house by mistake when searching
for a friend.  Still, it was a pity Schwartz, Haff and Brandt could not
be persuaded to come along and have some fun at the expense of the
yellow monkey.

Footsteps....  Someone coming down the stairs....  A little man in
seedy European clothing....  An idea...

"Excuse me, Monsieur," said Klingen, as the man reached the bottom of
the stairs.  "Can you tell me which is my friend's room?  A
_lgionnaire_--a little fellow--Japanese."

The man shrugged his shoulders and made a gesture with his hands which
showed that he was a Spaniard; also that he did not understand a word
of what was being said to him.

Klingen mounted to the first floor, a bare landing, around three sides
of which were closed, numbered doors.  Should he tap at each in turn,
and inquire for some non-existent person?  And what should he do if one
of them were opened by Yato?  Suppose the yellow tiger-cat attacked him
again?  His mended arm tingled at the thought.  What was he doing here
at all?  This longing for vengeance was driving him mad....

Klingen turned back, descended to the street, and took up his stand in
a doorway from which he could keep watch upon the porch of the house in
which was his enemy.

Another idea! ... What about waiting until Yato left the house?  He
could then go in and knock at every door and ask:

"Is my friend _le lgionnaire_ Yato here--a little Japanese?"  If one
of the doors were opened by some woman who replied, "No, he has just
gone," he would know that he had found what he sought, and would get to
work forthwith.  He would soon show her the difference between a Yato
and a Klingen.  And if Klingen knew anything of women, and he flattered
himself that he most certainly did, there was a bad time coming for the
yellow devil....  He could almost hear the very accents in which she
should say:

"Get out of my sight, you filthy yellow cur.  I've got a _man_ now!"

Yes, and Klingen would have his knife ready too, and this time he'd
throw it, if Yato made trouble.  And he also flattered himself that he
knew something of knife-throwing.

      *      *      *      *      *

Ha!  There he was....  Blister and burn him!

The retreating form of Yato turned the corner of the street, and
Klingen darted across into the house.  Running lightly up the stairs he
knocked at the first door.  No answer.  He knocked again, and laid his
ear against the wood.

Silence.

He knocked at the next.  A fat, slatternly woman, candle in hand,
opened the door and eyed him hardily.

"Well?" she inquired, running her eye contemptuously over his uniform.

"Monsieur Blanc?" inquired Klingen.

The woman slammed the door in his face.

The third and fourth rooms were apparently empty.

A child opened the door of the fifth, and seeing a _lgionnaire_, shut
it instantly.  Hearing a man's deep growling voice within, Klingen
passed on.

To Klingen's inquiry, at the sixth room, as to whether Monsieur Blanc
lived here, the woman who occupied it replied that he did, but was at
the moment in the wine-shop round the corner!

"Then may he sit there till he rots," observed Klingen, and climbed the
second flight of stairs, and, arriving at a landing similar to the one
below, repeated his strategy and tactics.

The first door was opened by a tiny dainty Japanese girl, and Klingen
thrust his way into the room, closed the door behind him, kicked it,
and removed the key.

He had found what he wanted.

The girl stood staring, between terror and surprise.  This man was in a
similar uniform to that which her lover wore.  He must be his friend,
otherwise how would he have known she was here?  But her beloved had
only just gone.  Had something happened to him, and why had this man
thrust in so roughly, uninvited.  But they were rough and rude, these
Western barbarians.  Why had he come?  Did he think this place was like
one of those dreadful houses in Marseilles, Algiers and Oran?  And she
shuddered at the thought.

Oh, if she could only understand what he was saying and make herself
understood by him!  He seemed to be speaking of someone named Yato.
Was it conceivable that he might understand a word of Japanese?

"I am the servant of the Colonel Hoshiri.  What do you want?" she said
in her own tongue.

And, for reply, Klingen snatched her up in his arms and kissed her
violently.

Well, this was a fine _affaire_! ... This marched! ... She might, or
might not, be Yato's girl, but most certainly she was.  A Japanese
would hardly be visiting a house in a Sidi-bel-Abbs side-street in
which there was a Japanese woman, unless he were visiting her.  Japs
were not so common in the African hinterland as that....  But anyhow,
and whoever she was, this was still a fine _affaire_, for here was
Klingen the irresistible, locked up in a room with as pretty a little
piece as he had ever clapped eyes on.  And a very nice room, too, if a
little bare.  Bed, cushions, hangings, flowers in vase--yes, all very
nice indeed.

And now for the little woman.  A pity they could not understand each
other's language, but the language of love is universal.  He could soon
make himself understood all right.


When _le lgionnaire_ Klingen let himself out of the room an hour or so
later, he left a sobbing girl lying upon the bed weeping as though her
heart would break; moaning as though it were already broken.

But Klingen, as he walked back to barracks, smiled greasily as he
licked his lips, and encountering Yato in the barrack-room, laughed
aloud.

Yato was sitting on his bed engaged in _astiquage_--the polishing of
his belts and straps.

Having whispered his story, punctuated with loud guffaws, to a little
knot of his friends who evidently enjoyed the joke hugely, Klingen went
over and stood in front of the Japanese, his hands on his hips, and,
rocking himself to and fro, from heels to toes, leered exultingly.
Without looking up, Yato continued waxing and polishing a
cartridge-pouch.

Suddenly he stopped--remained perfectly still, and stared at the floor
between himself and Klingen.

Beau Geste drawing near, and watching carefully as he polished his
bayonet, thought that Yato sniffed silently, as though trying to detect
and capture an odour.  Yes, decided Beau, Yato could smell something,
and that something puzzled him.  Rising to his feet, his hands behind
him, and moving slowly, the Japanese approached Klingen, his head
thrust forward, his nose obviously questing.

"What the hell!" growled Klingen, as Yato, his face not very much above
the big man's sash, deliberately smelt at him.

Yato returned to his cot without remark.

But it seemed as though a shadow crossed his face.  It was almost as
though he changed colour.



 4

_Le lgionnaire_ Klingen, smart in his walking-out kit, a red _kpi_,
dark-blue tunic with green red-fringed epaulettes, red breeches and
white spats, tightened his belt a little, pulled his bayonet frog
further back, and swaggered from the barrack-room.

It was "holiday" (pay-day) and he intended to expend on wine the entire
sum of 2d. which he had received.  Thereafter, being full of good wine
and good cheer, it was his intention to see how the little Japanese
girl was getting on, and to cheer her loneliness with an hour of his
merry society.  He would watch the yellow monkey go in, and wait till
he came out, and if the girl had locked her door, he would tap and tap
and knock and knock without saying anything until she did open it.

What a fighting little spit-fire she was.  But that was nine-tenths
make-believe, and the other tenth was ignorance of French.


From his seat on a barrel, in the corner of a dark wine-shop which
commanded a view of the street in which the girl's house stood, Klingen
saw Yato approaching.  Pulling down the vizor of his _kpi_, and
bending his head forward, so that his face was concealed, he waited
until the Japanese had passed, and then abandoned himself to the
pleasures of drinking, anticipation, and thoughts of revenge.

He was absolutely certain that the girl was Yato's, and, as he rolled
his wine upon his tongue, he rolled upon the debauched palate of his
mind the flavour of the lovely vengeance that combined the enormous
double gratification of deep enjoyment to himself and deep injury to
Yato.  He honestly agreed with Klingen that Klingen was a great man,
and never greater than in this manifestation of his skill--that made
his own pleasure his enemy's agony at a time when his enemy's agony was
his own greatest pleasure.

On the whole, it had turned out to be quite a good thing that Schwartz,
Brandt and Haff had declined to take any further hand in baiting Yato.
Any vengeance, obtained with their help, could only have been crude and
obvious, and have contained but the single satisfaction of injuring
Yato.

But this was subtle, private, worthy of Klingen.

"Yes, my friend," he mused, sucking the wine-drops from his moustache.
"I hurt you by delighting myself, and you add immeasurably to that
delight by being hurt."

And he laughed aloud.

A couple of thieves and their women, a fat person clothed from head to
foot in brown corduroy, and an obese dealer in old clothes who wore a
tarboosh (or fez), a frock-coat, a collarless blue shirt, football
shorts, and a pair of curly-toed slippers, all turned to stare at the
big soldier who laughed loudly at nothing.

"Mad," said a thief, and shrugged his shoulders.

"Drunk," growled the other.

"Mad _and_ drunk," said a lady.

"_Que voulez-vous?  C'est la Lgion!_" observed her sister in joy, and
drank to the health of _le lgionnaire_ Klingen, in methylated spirit.
As his tenth _caporal_ cigarette began to singe his moustache, and the
last glass of his third bottle began to exhibit sediment, Klingen again
pulled his cap over his eyes, and dropped his chin upon his chest.  A
small figure in the uniform of the Legion was passing on the other side
of the road.

Two minutes later, Klingen was knocking at the door of the room in
which dwelt the Japanese girl.  To his first knock no answer was
vouchsafed; to the second, a thin, high, childish voice replied
unintelligibly.  It might have been in invitation or prohibition.

Klingen turned the handle and, to his surprise, found that the door was
not fastened.  Entering the room, he saw a little figure on the
remembered bed, its back toward him, its head and shoulders covered by
a silken shawl.  Turning, he locked the door, and slipped the key into
his pocket.

The figure on the bed moved slightly and did not turn to him.

The little hussy!  What was the game?  Perhaps-I-will-perhaps-I-won't?
Or was she pretending she hadn't heard him come in?  Going to make a
scene, perhaps, in the hope of extorting payment.  Well, she'd be a
clever girl if she got money out of Klingen!  The other way about, more
likely.

With quickened breathing, gleaming eye, and smiling lips, Klingen took
a couple of steps in the direction of the bed, and from it, casting off
shawl and covering, sprang Yato, lightly clad, his face devilish in its
ferocity.

Klingen's right hand went to his bayonet and Yato's right hand, open,
shot upward, so that the bottom of the palm struck Klingen beneath the
chin.  As it did so, Yato heaved mightily upward, as though hurling a
sack of potatoes which was balanced on his hand.  It was as if the
Japanese lifted Klingen by the face, and flung him backward off his
feet.  But even as his enemy was in the act of falling, Yato flung his
arm about him, and turning him sideways, fell heavily with him--Klingen
being face downward.  Instantly Yato, whose knee was in the small of
Klingen's back, his right hand on his neck, seized Klingen's right
wrist, and, dragging the arm upward and backward with a swift movement,
dislocated his shoulder, and, as the prostrate man yelled in agony,
Yato, with a similar movement of dexterous and powerful leverage,
dislocated the other.

As Klingen again roared with pain, Yato hissed like a cat, and, with a
grip of steel, dug his thumb and fingers into his victim's neck, with a
grip that changed a howl to a broken whimper.

Five minutes later, Klingen's wrists were bound behind him with steel
wire, his ankles were fastened together with a strap, and he was bound
down upon the bed with a many-knotted rope, in such a manner that he
could not raise his knees, nor his head, nor change his position by so
much as an inch.

A large handkerchief or rag completely filled his mouth, and a piece of
steel wire, passing round his face from beneath his chin to the top of
his head, prevented him from ejecting it.  In fact, the so-recently
active and joyous _lgionnaire_ Klingen could now move nothing but his
eyes, could only see and hear--and suffer.

What was this yellow devil going to do with him?  Mutilate him as the
Arabs mutilate _les lgionnaires_ when they fall into their hands?  And
Klingen shuddered, as he thought of the photographs that hang in every
Legion barrack-room for the discouragement of deserters ... photographs
of the remains of things that have been men.

Was Yato going to carve and fillet him?  Blind him?  Cut his tongue
out?  Torture him with a red-hot iron?  Cripple him for life?  Destroy
his hands, and so his livelihood?  Or merely leave him there to die a
dreadful lingering death of thirst and starvation?

He thought of what he himself had hoped and intended to do, if he could
have had Yato waylaid in _le village Ngre_.

And he could not utter a word of supplication or remonstrance, nor make
offer and promise of impossible reparation and bribe.

What was the cruel, wicked devil doing now?  Heating an iron,
sharpening a knife, boiling some water?  These cursed Japs were artists
at fiendish torture, and had a devilish, ingenuity beyond the
conception of simple, honest Westerners with their kindly hearts and
generous natures.

What was he doing?  _O God_, what _was_ he doing?  Something
unthinkable ... something unimaginable.

But, strangely enough, Yato was merely engaged in the exercise of one
of his many peaceful and lawful pursuits.  Seated comfortably beside
_le lgionnaire_ Klingen, to whom he addressed no remark of any sort,
he was making a selection from a number of small objects neatly packed
in a sandal-wood box.  A faint, but pleasing odour came from this; also
a small oblong cake of some black substance, in the powerful delicate
fingers of the Japanese.  Taking a tiny saucer from the box, he poured
into it a little water from the flower-vase, and in this placed the end
of the black cake, that it might soak while he dispassionately studied
the contorted face of his enemy.  Anon, taking the cake in his fingers,
he sketched broad lines of the deepest black upon Klingen's forehead
and cheeks.  Klingen, expecting either burn or slash, winced and
shuddered as the substance touched his face.  Settling down to his
work, unhurried, methodical, and calm, Yato rubbed and dipped, rubbed
and dipped, until the face of Klingen was as black as soot--even to the
eyelids, lips, ears, and throat.

Having completed this portion of his task to his satisfaction, Yato
again considered the contents of the box, and selected another small
stick.  With this he most carefully continued his work, a keen and
conscientious craftsman.

And then, changing his tools, Yato, with patient artistry, laboured
long and well, to render indelible his striking effects.  With a
long-handled brush, whose bristles were needles of steel, he tapped and
tapped and tapped at forehead, cheeks and chin, until the blood began
to ooze.  With separate and single needles, he worked faithfully and
well, in the places where the broader tools would fail of full
effect....

And at last he rose, an artist satisfied, fulfilled, and gazed upon the
face of his enemy.



 5

_Le lgionnaire_ Yato was not seen again in the barracks of the Legion.
But, three days later, Beau Geste received a letter which reminded him
of his promise to help his humble Japanese comrade.  All the latter had
to ask was that his honourable friend would proceed, forthwith,
accompanied by his two honourable brothers, to a described house, and
there, having asked a certain man for the key, go to room No. 7, and
give freedom and assistance to an unfortunate man confined therein.
Should they fail to do this, the poor fellow would starve to death....

Michael, Digby and John did as they were asked.

"_Good God_!  Yato!" ejaculated Michael, as they gazed upon Klingen.

"The wicked devil!" murmured John.

"What they call a 'gentleman of colour,'" observed Digby,--for, until
the worms devoured it, the whole face of Klingen would be a deep
blue-black, save for the nose of glowing red.




III

DAVID AND HIS INCREDIBLE JONATHAN

 1

"Ready, pup?" inquired Michael Geste, turning to where his brother John
was endeavouring satisfactorily to arrange his hair by means of a brush
originally intended for quite other purposes, and a mirror so small
that the work had, as Digby observed, to be done by sections--if not by
numbers.

As the three brothers looked each other over, in turn, with a view to
avoiding unpleasantness at the gates, where a crapulous and arbitrary
Sergeant of the Guard would turn them back if it were possible to find
the slightest fault with their appearance, La Cigale approached them.

La Cigale, the Grasshopper, a nobleman of ancient family and once an
officer of the Belgian Corps of Guides, was a kind and gentle madman,
whose mental affliction had hitherto in no way interfered with his
soldiering.  At times he was quite mad, and at others appeared quite
sane.

Returning to the dept at Sidi-bel-Abbs, from a long tour of foreign
service, he had re-enlisted for the third time, a veteran soldier _de
carrire_.  With the Geste boys he was a favourite, as well as a source
of wonder, admiration and respect.  Michael said he was not only a
noble, but one of Nature's noblemen, as well as one of God's own
gentlemen; Digby said he reminded him of himself; and John, that he was
about the most lovable and pathetic thing in human form.

And he had been for fifteen years a private soldier of the Legion!


"Are you gentlemen going anywhere in particular?" asked La Cigale with
his pleasant, friendly smile.

"No," replied Michael, "just going to walk abroad, and give the public
a treat."

"You were going alone, of course, a single and indivisible trinity."

"We were," admitted Michael, "but we should be delighted if you would
care to join us."

"Charmed," murmured Digby and John.

"Thank you so very much," replied La Cigale.  "I'm sure that you mean
what you say, and that your politeness is not hollow....  Had you not
invited me, I was going to summon up courage to ask if I might come
with you to-night....  I am frightened."

The brothers glanced at the old soldier's _Croix de Guerre, Mdaille
Militaire_, and other medals, with incredulous smiles.

"And of what is the doyen of the First Battalion of the First Regiment
of the Legion afraid?" asked Michael.

"Of loneliness," was the reply, "and of myself.  It is terrible to be
utterly lonely in the midst of such a crowded life as this, and it is
even more terrible to be afraid of oneself--afraid of what one may do.
I am haunted by the dread of doing something awful, horrible,
disgraceful, and knowing nothing about it until it is too late.  And I
get these attacks--I can't describe them.  I have one coming on now.
Every nerve in the body tingles and burns, from the brain to the
finger-tips and toes.  Every cell in the body shrieks and screams, and
I must do something, _do_ something--something drastic, and do it
instantly.  But what that something is, I do not know.  It is agony
unspeakable.  I would sooner have a dozen wounds."

"Come for a walk and a talk," interrupted Michael Geste, as La Cigale
paused.  It was obvious that the less he thought about himself the
better.

"Let's go and find a quiet spot in the Gardens, and perhaps you'll give
us the pleasure and benefit of hearing of some of your campaigning
experiences?  We should like to follow in your footsteps, you know."

"Rather," agreed Digby, "and get as many decorations among the three of
us."

"Regard us as your sons, sir, and take us in hand," murmured John.

The quartette set forth, saluted the Sergeant of the Guard, and found
themselves safely in the lane that separates the Legion's Barracks from
those of the Spahis.

Having induced La Cigale to share a light and not wholly inelegant meal
at the _Caf de l'Europe_, Michael Geste proposed that they should
adjourn and listen to the Legion's band as it played in the public
Gardens.

"For myself--I dare not," replied La Cigale.  "At times music has a
terrible effect upon me.  If they were to play a selection from a
certain opera that was world-famous when I was a young man, I should go
mad.  I should completely lose control of..."

"Then let's go and sit on a seat in the moonlight, and you shall talk
to us.  We should enjoy that far more," said Michael quickly.  "Come
along."

"Not in the moonlight," objected La Cigale, "if you don't mind.  Some
nice dark place in deep shadow.  I think moonlight is terrible--such
memories."

      *      *      *      *      *

"I can't tell you how delightful it is to me, to know you," said La
Cigale, as they seated themselves on a bench in a dark corner of the
Gardens.  "Gentlemen and Englishmen.  I've always been fond of the
English.  There was an astonishingly delightful Englishman here, who
was a friend of mine for years.  Killed trying to escape, with two
compatriots--one of them a charming fellow--and a very attractive
American.

"Then there was poor young Edwards--yes, he called himself Edwards, I
remember."

"And what became of him?" asked Michael, as La Cigale fell into
reminiscent silence.

"To young Edwards?  Oh, it was a terrible tragedy.  I will tell you."



 2

"David Edwards, as he called himself, joined the Legion some years ago,
and was one of the most puzzling of the many people whose presence in
the Legion is a puzzle to all who know them.

"He was one of the nicest fellows I've ever known, and it was
impossible to suppose that he had left his country for his country's
good, or had chosen the Legion as a refuge.  It was quite obvious that
it was not poverty nor vice, crime, debt, disgrace nor anything of that
land, that had been the cause of his coming here.  Nor did he strike
one as being of the born soldier type--one of those men who are cut out
for a military career, and are fitted for no other.  And he wasn't one
of the wildly adventurous sort, mad-cap and hare-brained.  It was my
good fortune to be put in charge of him when he arrived, that I might
show him the ropes, and instruct him as to _astiquage_, _paquetage_ and
so forth.

"We had much in common, including one or two acquaintances, for I knew
the part of England from which he came, and he knew Brussels, where his
father, evidently in the Diplomatic Service, had been stationed.

"He was extremely kind and friendly to me, but his _real_ friend, pal,
and _copain_ was, extraordinarily enough, an astounding rascal of the
name of Jean Molle.

"It was indeed a case of the attraction of opposites, for this man
Molle was all that Edwards was not--the one a gutter-bred rough, the
other a public-school man of family and refinement.

"It was really interesting to watch these two, and try to discover what
it was in each that interested the other.  One would have supposed that
Edwards would only have seen in Molle a coarse ignorant ruffian, devoid
alike of manners and morals, and that Molle would have seen in Edwards
a white-handed, finnicking fine gentleman, full of irritating
affectations and superiorities.

"Molle, who had been a Paris market-porter at his best, and a foot-pad
_apache_ at his worst, was a huge powerful person of most violent
temper, and an uncontrollable addiction to drink.  But he was droll, I
must admit--really very funny when half-sober or half-drunk, and a born
mimic, clown, and buffoon.  I should think that he must have been
attached to a circus in some such capacity, or perhaps was born in one,
and he made David Edwards laugh--laugh until the tears ran down his
face, and he had to beg Molle to stop impersonating a _cur_, a
_cocotte_, a Colonel, an old market-woman, a Sergeant-Major, or
whatever it might be.

"Yes, Molle was very good for Edwards from that point of view, for he
kept the Englishman laughing--and laughter is the salt of life, both as
savour and a preservative.  And, of course, Edwards did not understand
the vileness of one half of Molle's remarks, spoken in his almost
incomprehensible and wholly untranslatable argot of the slums and
_halles_ of Paris.

"And Edwards was good for Molle in every possible way, and gave the
creature ideas such as he had never before dreamed of, standards and
ideals hitherto unglimpsed by this sewer-rat.

"Surely a more ill-assorted pair never foregathered, even in the
Foreign Legion.  I think Edwards grew quite fond of Molle, as the
benefactor often does grow fond of the beneficiary, and undoubtedly
Molle really loved David Edwards.  He would have thrashed anyone who
said a word against him, and killed anyone who injured him.

"They quarrelled, of course--as friends must do--generally on the
subject of Molle's drunkenness and debauchery.  He was one of those
_canaille_ who simply must, from time to time, give way to the demands
of their gross appetites, slink into some horrible hole, and drink
themselves insensible.

"Edwards was really wonderful when his friend eluded him and got drunk.
He would go from wine-shop to wine-shop in the Spanish quarter, search
the houses that are in bounds for troops, ransack _le village Ngre_
itself, and when successful, be rewarded by a torrent of oaths and a
drunken blow.  Time after time he was punished with _salle de police_
for coming in late, supporting his drunken friend, whom, for hours, he
had been trying to get back to Barracks.

"Never did he desert the drunken brute, even though it meant being out
the whole night and returning too late for parade, but not too soon for
severe punishment.

"I myself, when on guard, have seen them at the gate in the small hours
of the morning--Edwards, who was a teetotaller, by the way, bleeding
about the face, and with torn and muddied uniform, supporting and
endeavouring to control the singing, shouting, raving Molle, and
striving to prevent him from assaulting the Sergeant and resisting the
Guard.

"After these disgusting, disgraceful affairs, Molle would be tearfully
repentant, grovelling in apology, and loud in self-accusation and
promises of reform, and for a time he would behave well, would walk out
with Edwards and return quiet, clean, sober and punctual for roll-call.

"Nevertheless he was always extremely dangerous after one of these
orgies, for his terrible temper would be in a highly explosive
condition--a thing not to be wondered at, in view of the fact that he
had consumed gallons of assorted alcohol, and been knocked on the head
when fighting like a wild beast to prevent being thrown into the _salle
de police_.

"I never ceased to admire the moral and physical courage with which
Edwards would come between Molle and his desires when the evil fit was
on him, and tackle him when he was in the surly and quarrelsome stages
of drunkenness.  Undoubtedly, Edwards saved Molle from three times as
much imprisonment as he got, and Molle was the cause of practically
every punishment awarded to Edwards.

"Can you understand such a friendship between two such men--between a
cultured man of breeding and a dissolute brute like Molle?  But there
it was.  And the only explanation I can offer, is that Edwards imagined
himself more or less responsible for this creature who had attached
himself to him as a stray and homeless mongrel dog will attach himself
to a man, and who loved him as such a dog will do.

"Some men will risk their lives to save a dog, and thereafter be very
fond of it, and I suppose it was in some such spirit that Edwards
risked his life in _le village Ngre_, and his peace, prospects and
reputation in the Legion--and became fond of the dog Molle.

"And then one night the tragedy occurred, strangely, suddenly and
unexpectedly, as tragedy does occur.

"Molle had been drinking.  After evening _soupe_ he had evaded Edwards,
slipped out by himself, and gone to drink in a low wine-shop.
Unfortunately he had not the money to buy enough liquor to make himself
drunk, but merely sufficient to see him through the successive stages
of hilarity and despondency into that of a quarrelsome moroseness.

"Making his way back to Barracks when his money was gone, and carrying,
with the air of a dour teetotaller, enough assorted liquor to
intoxicate half a dozen, he strode past the Guard Room across the
Parade Ground, and up to his Barrack Room.  Here he sat himself down in
morose and sulky silence, and sullenly cleaned and polished his kit.

"As he sat, gloomy, heavy and repellent, a dangerous and ugly customer
to tackle, Edwards came into the room.  He was wearing walking-out kit
and overcoat.

"'Oh, there you are,' he cried, on catching sight of Molle.  'I've been
looking for you everywhere.'

"'Am I a dog that I should be hunted?  And by a thing like you?'
growled Molle, glaring angrily at Edwards.

"'Yes,' replied Edwards pleasantly.  'A dirty dog,' and strode across
to where Molle sat.

"'Oh!  I am a dirty dog, am I?' muttered Molle quietly, without looking
up.

"'Regular mongrel,' agreed Edwards, 'but full of clever tricks....  Sit
up and beg....  Up, Fido!  Beg, Fido!'

"Molle rose to his feet obedient--and spat in Edwards' face.

"I told you he was a creature of pleasant habits!  And I told you
Edwards was brave.

"Although Molle was about twice his size, and four times as strong, he
let drive instantly with all his strength and landed Molle as fine a
smack in the eye as ever I saw a man receive.

"Molle struck back, hitting Edwards with such force that both he and
Edwards fell to the ground.

"At that moment there was a cry of '_Fixe!_' and everyone sprang to
attention, as our Major came into the room.  Molle, full of liquor
though he was, scrambled to his feet, and stood like a statue at the
foot of his bed, steady as a rock.

"Edwards lay where he was--on his face--gasping and coughing.

"'_What's this, then?_' snapped the Major, a man who was always in a
terrific hurry.  He occasionally made these sudden inspection raids,
and indiscriminately dealt out severe punishments to all and sundry.

"Edwards gasped, groaned, and partly raised himself on his right elbow.

"'I am drunk,' he said clearly, and collapsed.

"'Drunk and fighting in the Barrack Room,' shouted the Major.
'Assaulting your comrades.  No one else here is drunk.  A drunken,
quarrelsome disturber of discipline....'

"And more of the same sort of thing, ending up with an order that the
drunkard should be removed immediately and thrown into prison.

"'He is not drunk, _Monsieur le Majeur_,' interrupted Molle, stepping
forward and saluting.  'It is I.'

"'Four days' cells for daring to address me, for contradiction and
attempted interruption of the course of justice,' roared the incensed
officer, as soon as he recovered from his shocked surprise at Molle's
temerity.

"I would have spoken up for Edwards myself, but for the absolute
certainty that I should also incur a sentence of imprisonment without
the slightest possibility of doing him any good.  Quite the contrary,
in all probability.

"Edwards, really looking the part of quarrelsome drunkard who had been
badly knocked about, was carried off and dumped in a cell, while Molle
was led away to the _salle de police_.

"That night I was on guard, and as it happened, it was I who first
entered Edwards' cell in the morning, to take him the loaf of bread and
drop of water that would be his food for the day.  He was lying face
downward on the dirty floor, his left arm bent beneath him, and his
right extended, the hand touching the wall of the cell.  Just above it,
I could see, in the dim light, smears and smudges, such as might have
been made by a child playing with a house-painter's brush on which
still remained a very little half-dried red paint.

"Just so might a little girl, named Susan, have tried to write her name
upon the wall--for the first smeared hieroglyphic was a crude but
unmistakable _S_, followed by what was almost certainly the letter _U_.

"A finger, dipped in blood, had made the rough double curve that was an
S, had twice made a stroke beside it, and, when a little more of the
slow and painful medium was available, had joined the bases of the
strokes with a curve.

"I saw this much, at a glance, as I knelt to do what I could for John
Edwards.  He was quite dead, and had obviously died from loss of blood,
after having stabbed himself, or having been stabbed, in the left
breast.

"Yes, my friend was dead; I could not be mistaken as to that--I who
have seen so many die.

"I looked again at the wall.  '_SU_' he had painfully scrawled while
still comparatively strong.  I think he had then fainted, or perhaps
had waited....

"So much of the blood had been absorbed by his clothing, and the pad he
had made with his neck-cloth.

"Oh yes, he had done his best, poor boy, but had probably grown too
weak to do any more for himself than to staunch the flow of blood.

"Yes, as I read the signs, he had fainted, had revived, and realized
that he was dying; had painfully scrawled the first two letters, and
had then collapsed--probably through fresh hmorrhage caused by the
effort.

"For there was a space after the _U_, and then a straight stroke,
followed by a curved one.  Near the top of this was a single
finger-print.  Evidently, with failing sight and ebbing strength, he
had tried to make this curve into the letter _C_, and, ere the heavy
hand fell from the wall, he had smeared the beginning of another stroke.

"'_SUICI_' had been accomplished, and he had then either rested from
these last labours of his brief life, or had again been overcome by
that dreadful sinking faintness that attacks us as the life-stream ebbs
from wounds.

"Once again he had recovered.  This time he had made a mighty effort,
and had been but too well provided with the dreadful medium in which he
worked.

"Below the other letters, and a foot to the right of them, shakily but
clearly were written the final D and E.

"_Suicide!_

"_Why_?  And with what weapon.  And where was it?

"He was not wearing his bayonet, of course.  Had he a dagger or
clasp-knife which he had returned to its place of concealment, after
inflicting upon himself a death-wound?  And if so, why?

"And then again, why spend his last minutes of terrible agony--as he
lay upon the very brink of the grave, and imminent dissolution was upon
him, in such work?  Why, I asked myself, should he have been at such
pains--such unthinkable pains--to smear this dreadful writing on the
wall, in his own life-blood?

"When a _lgionnaire_ commits suicide, he commits suicide, and there's
an end of it.  He doesn't trouble to write about it.  It is obvious.
If he should have anything to record about his death, he would write it
before killing himself, wouldn't he?

"Reverently I assured myself of the fact that he had no concealed knife
or dagger, and then that there was, in the cell, absolutely nothing of
any sort or kind with which he could have inflicted this wound upon
himself.  A man cannot give himself a neat and clean stab, three
quarters of an inch long, a quarter of an inch wide, and deep enough to
kill him, without a knife, or something that can be used as a knife
blade.

"Men have hanged themselves with their braces, strangled themselves
with their boot-laces, opened veins and arteries with a nail, and
battered their heads against their cell walls.  There is always a way
for a determined man to put an end to himself, but he can't fatally
stab himself--without at least a piece of glass, or of hard and pointed
wood.

"Could David Edwards have had an enemy who had entered his cell and
murdered him during the night?

"Absurd nonsense!  How could such a man get into the cell, unless it
were the Sergeant of the Guard himself?  And, if a prisoner were
murdered in this way, would he write '_Suicide_' upon the wall as he
died?

"It has taken me some time to tell you all this, but I don't suppose it
took a second for these thoughts to flash through my mind.

"And then I decided that when a man, at such terrible cost, proclaims
the fact that he has committed suicide, he has almost certainly not
committed suicide at all, and of course I was confirmed in this belief
by my absolute certainty that there was nothing in the cell with which
he could have stabbed himself.

"Although I knew that it was perfectly useless to do so, I opened the
door of the cell, and examined the floor of the narrow passage outside.
As you may not be aware, those beastly cells have no window, grating,
nor aperture communicating with the open air.  There is nothing but the
grating above the door that opens into the passage.  It was just
conceivably possible that Edwards had stabbed himself with a knife, and
had then contrived to throw it between the bars of the grating, so that
it fell in the passage without.

"Apart from the fact that this would be an extremely difficult thing to
do, and that the sentry would hear the knife fall, why should a suicide
do such a thing, particularly when he intended to take the trouble to
proclaim the fact that it was suicide?

"Surely it would be obvious enough that he had taken his own life, if
the knife were found lying beside him, or gripped in his hand, or
sticking in his chest.  On what conceivable grounds should a man, after
inflicting a mortal wound upon himself, proclaim the fact of suicide
and carefully conceal the means whereby it was effected?

"Life has presented me with some sore puzzles, my friends, but I think
this was the most insoluble problem with which I had been confronted.

"Well, there it was, in all its stark simplicity of fact.  Edwards was
dead, with a stab near the heart; there was no knife or other weapon in
the place, and he had written the word '_Suicide_' in his own blood.

"And there it was in all its bewildering complexity, its incredibility,
its sinister insoluble impossibility.  And there I left it.


"I reported to the Sergeant of the Guard that the prisoner in No. 1 had
committed suicide.

"The body was carried to the hospital for autopsy, and thence to the
mortuary, in the kind of coffin they give the _lgionnaire_.

"Next day, David Edwards was buried in the Cemetery of the Legion, and
doubtless one can still find his grave--for it became rather famous,
and probably the _lgionnaire_-pensioner in charge of the Cemetery
looks after it.  In the past he must have made quite a few _sous_ by
exhibiting it.

"No, it was not the mystery attaching to the death of Edwards that made
his grave a nine days' wonder.  No one takes much notice of the suicide
of a _lgionnaire_, however interestingly he may contrive his death.

"It was what happened, a week after he had been buried."



 3

"'When Molle came out of prison, his first thought was of his friend,
and he hurried in search of him.  I was in the Barrack Room when he
entered, looking all the worse for his term of _cellule_ punishment.

"He stared in astonishment at seeing another man sitting on Edwards'
cot and obviously occupying his place.

"_Here, you--where's Edwards?_' he said, approaching the new-comer, a
big Alsatian named Gronau.

"'Dead and buried,' growled the fellow, with an ugly laugh.

"Molle planted himself in front of Gronau, his big hands tense, flexed,
about to clutch....

"'_Where's Edwards?_ I asked you,' he said.

"I got up with some idea of getting Molle away, but Gronau answered
again.

"'_Dead_, I tell you! ... Dead and buried.  Dead and damned.'

"And Molle sprang upon him, literally like a wild beast.

"It took half a dozen of us to get him off Gronau before he had choked
the life out of him.

"The Alsatian, although a big powerful fellow, was like a child in the
hands of Molle.

"We got him down and held him down, and for a time it was more like
holding a horse than a man.

"Then suddenly he fell quiet, as though all his strength had gone out
of him And it had.

"His attack on Gronau was his last activity--his last effort, if you
understand me.

"He had grasped the fact that David Edwards was dead, and it broke him,
mentally and physically.  Yes, that is what he was, a broken
man--heart-broken and broken in spirit.

"For a few days he moved about, doing things automatically.  He
reminded me of those stories, that one has heard and read, of the dog
that loses its master and straightway loses all interest in life,
refuses food and pines and droops.  Sometimes such a dog will go and
lie upon its master's grave and refuse to be moved.

"Such a dog was Molle.

"He never spoke: he never smiled; scarcely did he raise his eyes from
the ground.  He did not sleep; he did not eat, and, marvellously, he
did not drink.

"What would one have expected such a creature to do?  Obviously to
drink himself to death.

"Granted that he were sufficiently human and humane to have been
capable of such a love, one would have supposed its effect would have
been a plunge into the depths of debauchery, a drowning of sorrow in
drink.  Surely, nine times out of ten, a man of this type would seek
the only anodyne he knows, his accustomed way of escape from reality.

"But no! this astonishing Jonathan took the loss of his David
differently, and the debauch became the ascetic, instead of submerging
his troubled, soul beneath a sea of alcohol.

"I tried to get _en rapport_ with him.

"He did not so much repulse me as fail to realize me.  I made no
impression upon him, and nothing that I said appeared to reach his
mind.  I think that was wholly unreceptive, as though it had frozen
into a solid block of fact--one dreadful fact--_My friend is dead_.

"One day I said to him, 'Look here, Molle.  If you don't eat you'll
die.  Even _your_ strength can't last much longer.  Come out with me
to-night.  We'll have supper together in some nice quiet place.'

"'_Eh_?' he replied.

"And when I had repeated what I had said, he again murmured,
'_Eh_?'--and that was as far as I could get with him.

"I completely failed to make him realize that I, more than any man,
could understand how he suffered.  I, who had lost every one and
everything; I, whose mind, like his, had suddenly died.

"With a word of sympathy on my lips, and genuine sorrow in my heart, I
turned and left him.

"But I spoke to him once again, and got an answer.

"For my evening walk, I strolled to the cemetery to visit the grave of
David Edwards, just to lay a flower and say a word of farewell to a
dead comrade.

"A foolish thing, of course, and one I often wonder at--this connecting
of the freed and soaring spirit with the poor corrupting clay, and its
last resting-place.

"But poor humanity must have its concrete symbols....

"And there was Jean Molle before me lying prone upon the grave.

"I went to raise him up.  His left hand was buried quite deeply into
the ground, and in his right hand was the knife with which he had
stabbed himself.

"As I turned him over, to see if anything could yet be done to save
him, I saw that the hand that had been buried clutched an earth-stained
letter.

"'What has happened?' I asked, bewildered.

"Molle opened his eyes.

"'I cannot get it down to him,' he moaned....  'Oh, David, my friend,
my friend! ... I did not mean to do it....  Can you hear me, David, and
will you believe me? ... I did not even know that _a knife was in my
hand_, when you came to me that last night in the barrack-room, and I
struck you, David....'

"I tried to stanch the blood that flowed from his bared breast.

"'_Get him the letter_,' he whispered, '_I cannot reach to..._' and
died.


"I buried the letter....  Doubtless Edwards received it...."




IV

THE McSNORRT REMINISCENT

 1

"I say, citizens," quoth Digby Geste, as his brothers entered the
barrack-room, "Ludwig'll..."

"Ludwiggle?" enquired Michael, "who's he?"

Digby sighed.  "As I was about to say, Ludwig'll..."

"You _did_ say Ludwiggle," pointed out John.

Digby ignored his younger brother.

Addressing Michael he said firmly, "Ludwig'll..."

"He's got this Ludwiggle on the brain," observed Michael.  "What's his
surname--Hornswoggle?"

"Yes, obviously; what else could it be?" accommodated Digby in a
soothing voice, and continued, "Well, Ludwig Hornswoggle'll clean our
kit to-night.  In fact he's very keen on getting the job, and keener
still on the three-pence he'll earn by it.  Thinking of marrying, I
believe, and wants to get a few sticks of furniture for the home."

"Good for Ludwiggle," agreed Michael.  "We'll go to Mustapha's and
improve the shining hour, and our shining Arabic."

_Le lgionnaire_ Ludwig Mller alias Hornswoggle, having received
payment in advance, and a promise that it would be recovered if the
work were not satisfactorily done, settled down to the evening's
labours, as the boys, having brushed each other's coats, took their
caps.

"Good-bye, Ludwiggle," observed Michael, as they left the barrack-room.
"You speak English, don't you?"

"Yes, yes, I speak it much," replied Mller.  "I haf been waiter in
London."

"'_Thig or glear?_'" murmured Digby.

"Well then," replied Michael, "you will achieve a just and accurate
perception of what I would fain indicate when I say that you have had
payment _a priori_, and if we are unable to approve the result of your
industry and application, both intensive and extensive, you'll get some
_a posteriori_ too."

"Yes, and _a forteriori_ also, Ludwiggle.  Now excogitate the esoteric
implications of those few ill-chosen words."

Ludwig Mller grinned and waggled his hands.



 2

"Good heavens, listen," said Michael, suddenly seizing the arms of his
brothers, between whom he was walking, as they passed a low caf in the
Spanish quarter.

"Rough-house," observed Digby, as a man came flying backward through
the doorway.

"That is what the instructed call being thrown out on your ear,"
observed John.

"I thought I heard English," said Michael.

"Scotch," said Digby, "or did I smell it?"

"Only the soda," corrected John....  "By Jove, it _is_ English," he
added, as a bull voice roared above the din.

"Is there a man among ye has the Gaelic? ...  Is there a man among ye
can speak English even? ... Is there a man among ye at all?  Ye gang o'
lasceevious auld de'ils, decked oot like weemin, in spite o' yer hairy
long whuskers, full beards and full skirts, ye deceitful besoms.
Whuskers and petticoats wi' the vices o' both and the virtues o'
neither.  _I_'ll sorrt ye."

And there were sounds of alarums and excursions within.

The door opened, and a _lgionnaire_ came out laughing--a Frenchman
called Blanc, once a Captain in his country's Mercantile Marine.

"Ho, ho, _ce bon_ McSnorrt," he chuckled.

"Hullo, there's a compatriot of yours in there," he added, on catching
sight of the brothers.  "Perhaps you could get him back to Barracks.  I
can't.  He's not coming out of there till some one speaks to him in
Gaelic, has danced the sword-dance or sung a _Chanson Ecosse_ about
Scots who have bled at the same time and place as Monsieur Guillaume
Wallace."

Blanc laughed again.

"He's taken a dislike to Arabs, Jews and Spaniards to-night, because
they can't talk Gaelic, and he'll kill a few in there unless they kill
him first....  Well, I've done my best with the old fool."

A few questions elicited the information that _ce bon_ McSnorrt was a
Scot with a perfectly unpronounceable name--really more a sneeze than a
name, explained Blanc,--something between McIlwraith and Colquohoun,
who had, long ago, been re-named "McSnorrt" by an English _lgionnaire_
calling himself Jean Boule.  He had taken his discharge three times,
and each time had re-enlisted destitute, after a period of peace,
retrenchment, and reform, during which he had, according to his own
account, been Chief Engineer on great liners.

Apparently he was the pride and joy of his officers in the day of
battle, and their despair, disgrace and utter curse, in the piping
times of peace.  On more than one occasion, nothing but his decorations
and glorious fighting record could have saved him from the Zephyrs or a
firing-party.  According to Blanc, he had been very bad in the days of
his friend Jean Boule, and ten times worse since the removal, by the
hand of death, of that gentleman's restraining influence.


Followed by his brothers, Beau Geste pushed open the door and entered
the wine-shop.

Brandishing an empty bottle, a red man--red of hair, beard, nose and
eye--enormous and powerfully built, was threatening an audience of
grave and wondering Arabs and grinning, sneering, or scowling
Spaniards, Jews, and nondescripts, while he bitterly and passionately
harangued them on the shortcomings, impropriety, and general
unsuitability of native dress; on their inability to sing the songs
that he approved, and their complete ignorance of Gaelic.

Inasmuch as his address concluded with the firm assurance that no man
should leave the building until he had cast off his unseemly garb,
danced a sword-dance, sung "Annie Laurie," and spoken Gaelic, there
appeared to be every probability of serious trouble.

Even as the boys entered, a big, powerful, and truculent-looking
Spaniard set down his glass with a loud bang on the zinc bar, lit a
cigarette, spat in the direction of the self-constituted censor of
local morals, manners and customs, and strode toward the door.

As the McSnorrt gripped him by the arm, he whipped out a knife.  Quick
as he was, the drunken Scot was quicker.  Seizing the up-raised hand,
the McSnorrt forced the man's arm downward and backward, and then, with
a mighty heave and lift, swung round and flung him, like a sack of
straw, against the swing-doors--and the subsequent proceedings
interested him no more.

There was a general movement and ugly murmurings, as knives were drawn
and empty bottles seized, preparatory to a concerted rush.

"Speak Gaelic, ye ignorant and contumeelious spawn of Gehenna, ye
dommed dirrty, degraded, derelict descendants o' the Duke of Hell,"
roared the McSnorrt, in reply to cries of "Stab him," "Get behind him,"
or "Throw a knife in his ear," and general exhortations of all to
sundry that they should do drastic things with promptitude and despatch.

"Hi, comrade, hae ye the Gaelic yersel'?" shouted Michael, as he thrust
through the encircling company of murderous blackguards, choice
specimens of a cosmopolitan and criminal underworld.

"Not a worrd, laddie, an' I was never further norrth, ye'll ken, than
my ain fair city o' Glesgie.  Not a worrd, an' I doot if ever I hearrd
one....  But the soond of yon lovely tongue wad be sweeter in ma ears
than that o' the bonnie pibroch itself....  Oh, to hear the skirrl o'
the bonnie, bonnie bag-pipes playing 'Lochaber no more,' or the
'Flowers of the Forest' in this meeserable land o' dule and drought.
No, I hae na the Gaelic, but I'm goin' to hearr it the nicht.  An' no
man leaves this den o' thieves until I do, yersel's included."

"Then listen," replied Michael, "listen, my little one, and you shall
hear," and in fluent Arabic he continued, "You are a filthy drunken
disgrace to the most decent, self-respecting, thrifty and sober people
in the world.  You are a noisy ruffian, debauched, beastly and
detestable, a shame and a reproach to the white race, and to the
Foreign Legion."

Michael paused for breath.

"How did you like that?" he inquired.  "Pretty good Gaelic, eh?"

"Graand, man!  Gie's your hand.  Och, the bonnie, bonnie Gaelic.  It
minds me o' when I was a wee laddie, and paddled i' the burrn....  Or
the Clyde at Greenock, anyhow."

And the McSnorrt swallowed hard.

"Oh, cheer up, wee Macgreegor," begged Digby.  "Listen."

And at the top of his voice he tunefully declared that Maxwellton's
braes were bonnie.

Scarcely had he uttered the name of Miss Laurie, and the gift of her
promise true, than the McSnorrt burst into tears, and was led weeping
away--away back to Barracks, to the strains of "Loch Lomond," and the
promptings of a somewhat vituperative-seeming Gaelic.



 3

Every fifth day is "pay-day," the great day when a soldier of the
Legion has five sous to spend, and can spend it with untrammelled
recklessness.

It was a Fifth Day at eventide, and the McSnorrt, established as usual
in the Canteen, was rapidly recovering from the drear and dreadful
drought of the four previous days, when chill penury failed to repress
his noble rage.

Warmed by wine, the McSnorrt was expanding, mellowing and waxing
genial, shedding moroseness like a garment, and finding joy, relief,
and satisfaction in self-expression.  Speech bubbled up within this
usually inarticulate man, and he spake with tongues; also he remembered
his love of the Gaelic, as he caught sight of the three boys who had
come to his rescue in the wine-shop last pay-day.

With a roar and a shout and a wave of one mighty paw, while the other
banged a bottle heavily upon the table, he attracted the attention of
the Geste brothers and bade them come, and in return for their Gaelic,
hear words of wisdom and delight from a great and good man who had
drunk exactly 3,000 gallons of whisky before the three of them had been
born.

Nothing loth, the brothers gathered round the veteran reprobate, a man
with a vivid imagination, an inexhaustible fund of strange experience,
and, on the rare occasions when not possessed of a dumb devil, a
copious flow of potent speech.

Ere long, the party was joined by Maris and Cordier, friends of the
brothers, and practised users of the English tongue.

Michael, Digby and John, finishing a brief argument as to whether one
Robinson, the Carven-Faced Man, should be written down a liar, and if
not, should be esteemed something of a knave, were anon aware that the
McSnorrt, ancient mariner that he was, had fixed them with a glittering
eye and was unfolding a round, if not unvarnished, tale of which they
had missed the beginning.

"Aye ... aye, this Mr. Bute-Arrol was a well-kenned and highly
respected man.  Last of a great shipping firm he was, and an ornament
to Glasgow as he walked aboot it, a fine big upstanding man with the
sea in his eyes, and the sun-bronze on his face.

"More like a ship's captain than a shipping-owner, he was, and well he
might be, for he had sailed the seven seas, and travelled far and wide.
Aye, and Mr. Bute-Arrol, partner in the Bell, Brown, Scott and
Bute-Arrol's 'Loch' Line, was a man of parrts and education....
Hobbies he had....  Nane of yer fule hobbies o' collectin' stamps, or
moths, or trouser-buttons, or doin' fret-work or photography, but
scienteefic and literary, ye ken.

"And, I say, scienteefic.  There was botany and orchids, that cost him
a fortune, from South America to New Guinea, and trees and shrubs in
his grounds such as ye'd have to go to Kew Gardens to see the like of.

"And then there was zoology and all sorts of weird beasties, snakes and
lizards and fishes, chameleons and similar molluscs, and
brachycephalous orrnithorhincusses; marvellous-coloured bugs, beetles,
salamanders, iguanas and all such-like lepidoptera and hagiologies.
He'd got conservatories and an aviary and an insect-house and a
reptile-house, all kept as warm as the tropics, while Christians went
blue-nosed with the Glasgow east wind and whisky.

"Aye, he was a man of interests, this Mr. Bute-Arrol, and three of his
greatest were early gold coins, scarce First Editions of bukes, and
rare poisons....  Yon disreppitable and unneighbourly family of
Borrgias....  That lassie they ca'ed Madame Brinvilliers, famous
poisoners of history--he'd quite a library of them, and the men that
hunted him his orchids, humming-birds, butterflies and such _bichus_,
had to bring him poisoned arrows o' the heathen, and the little darts
they puff through the long blow-pipes.  _Sumpitans_, I think they ca'
them.  And he'd be extra douce wi' any hunter or agent or captain who'd
send him, or bring him, specimens o' yon _wourali_ stuff fra' South
America, or _dhatura_ fra' the East, _stropanthus_ from Africa, and
dozens of other such unwholesome food-stuffs from China to Peru--things
ye'd never hear of unless ye went there, and then likely not--and all
unknown to the British Pharmacopoeia.

"Aye, he was a grraand man, and I'm tellin' ye he had grraand hobbies,
and great ideas.

"Aye, and something else he had, and that was a great enemy, a
successful rival in love, which was bad, and a successful rival in
business which was waur.  McRattery his name was, and if ye'd say
Bute-Arrol was the finest figure o' a man, a citizen, a gentleman, a
pillar o' law, order and property, and ornament o' the Kirk in all
Glasgow, ye might perhaps add, 'Unless it's yon Mr. McRattery.'

"A pair they were, but not a pair that would ever run in harness, ye
ken, nor side by side, nor in the same direction.

"Rivals and enemies, from their school-days at Fettes, to the prime o'
manhood.  What the one had, the other must have more of; what the one
did, the other must outdo; what the one was, the other must be in
higher degree.  Aye, what the one wanted, the other must get first.

"And McRattery put the crown on his life's work o' rivalry, thwarting
and competition, by cutting in and getting Mary MacDonald just when
Bute-Arrol decided that it was time he had a son to follow him, and had
marked bonnie Mary down for the high honour and advancement of becoming
Mrs. Bute-Arrol.

"Big men they were both, wise and patient and clever, learned and able
and dour, ill men to cross, wilful and set in their ways, and neither
to haud nor to bind when once started on a course.  And perhaps, after
all, McRattery was the bigger man, for not only had he beaten
Bute-Arrol in love and war, but he had fought fair, and _sans rancune_,
as these French havering bletherers say.

"Fight he would, while there was breath in his body, but he bore no
malice, and would always fight fair; and ye couldna say the same o'
Bute-Arrol.

"_He'd_ fight fair wi' the steepulation that a's fair in love and war.
An' he _did_ bear malice.  He was a good hater, and he wasna the man to
stultify himself wi' impotent hatred, either.  An' McRattery marryin'
Mary MacDonald was a turnin'-point in Bute-Arrol's career.  Aye, the
down-turnin' point, for he grew more and more dour, and then soured and
warped.

"And then two things happened which turned bad to worse, and that was
very bad indeed.

"The first of these was the death of Mrs. McRattery, that had been his
beloved Mary MacDonald; and the second was McRattery beating him over a
huge Admiralty contract.

"What made Mary's death more terrible to him, was his firm belief that
her life could have been saved.  He had a mind like Aberdeen granite,
and hard as granite was his belief, his certainty, that if Mary had
been Mrs. Bute-Arrol instead of Mrs. McRattery, she'd have lived to
four-score.

"'Yon meeserable money-grubbing McRattery simply _let_ her die--or else
she died wilfully, bein' sick sorry and tired at the sight of her
husband's ugly face, and the sound of his croakin' voice.  Why; had the
creature been a man, he would have defied and fought Death himself--and
kept her alive, despite the Devil and all the Imps of Hell.  No, she
shouldn't have died if she'd been Mary Bute-Arrol, and she wouldn't
have wanted to, forbye.'

"That was the way he talked.  But when McRattery undercut him with a
big contract for the Navy, he didn't talk at all.

"He never said another word against McRattery.

"On the contrary, if anybody at the Club criticized the man, Bute-Arrol
wouldna' let it pass, if it were unfair.  And, whiles, he would take an
opportunity o' publicly speaking worrds o' praise concernin' McRattery;
and though he made no overtures nor approaches to his rival, it got
aboot that auld Wullie Bute-Arrol's bark was waur than his bite, and
that he had naethin' against Eckie McRattery in spite of a'.

"Weel, ye ken hoo things get roond, and in time McRattery got to hear
that Bute-Arrol wouldna hear a worrd against him.  And one day, when he
said, daffing-like, at his own table, that yon Bute-Arrol was a thrawn
diel and an ill cur to turn from his bone, a crony said:

"'Nay, dinna misca' the man, Eckie, for I heard him only yesterday at
the Club uphaudin' and defendin' ye like a brither, and sayin' ye were
a man that had earrned and desairved every penny o' your fortune, and
every step o' your success ...' and the like.

"An' McRattery, being the man he was, made to out-do Bute-Arrol in
generosity, as he had out-done him in business and in love.

"Aye, aye, it's a queer worrld," mused the McSnorrt, gazing pensively
into his empty glass and slowly shaking his huge red head.

It was noticeable--that in talking to the Geste brothers--he talked
less and less like a Clydeside docker from Glasgow, and more like the
educated man he was.

"Aye, a queer worrld," he continued, when his glass was replenished,
"an' one o' its queer sights was seen when William Bute-Arrol sat down
at a banquet as one of the guests of Alexander Buchanan McRattery--the
guest of honour on his host's right hand.

"I can tell ye aboot that banquet at first hand, for I've talked many a
time an' oft wi' a man who was there, Sir Andrew Anderson he was, and a
great and wealthy marine engineer before he retired.  He died at the
age of 90, when I was a lad, and many a good turn he did me, had I but
had the sense to ha' taken advantage o' them.

"According to his account, it was a richt merry and successfu' dinner,
and ye'd have thought that McRattery and Bute-Arrol had been lifelong
friends instead o' rivals and enemies.

"For McRattery fairly laid himself out to charm and captivate
Bute-Arrol, and Bute-Arrol fairly laid himself out to be pleased and
pleasant.

"That dinner-table was a battlefield o' magnanimity.  Each o' the two
big men strivin' to outdo the other in generosity and great-hearted
forgiveness and forgetting o' what there was to forgive and forget.

"They drank each other's health and each made a little speech full o'
kindness and compliment to the other, and when they had come to the
coffee and liqueurs and big cigar stage, and men leant back in their
chairs and unbuttoned their minds socially and right sociably, there
was no pair o' cronies that chatted more easily and freely than the
generous-hearted Eckie McRattery and his one-time rival and enemy
Wullie Bute-Arrol.

"And McRattery must needs strike a match and light Bute-Arrol's
cigarette for him, and Bute-Arrol must clip a cigar for McRattery--more
like loving brothers than life-long rivals and enemies ye'd believe.

"And as it happened, auld Andrew Anderson was watchin' and wonderin',
as McRattery, with his cigar in one hand and a match in the other,
laughed long and loud at some sly quip or jest, or mayhap sculduddery,
o' Bute-Arrol's.

"And that hearty merry laugh was the last sound poor McRattery made in
this worrld, for still shakin' wi' laughter, he put his cigar to his
lips, lit it, took one long satisfyin' draught, slowly poured it out
fra his smilin' lips, and then gave a start, and, with a terrible
expression on his face, gazed around him and died.

"Died there in his chair wi'oot a worrd.  His head just fell on to his
shoulder, and he sank heavily against his neighbour--William Bute-Arrol.

"O' coorse they all sprang to their feet and dashed water in his face,
opened the windows, fanned him, tried to make him drink brandy and did
sic-like things, until the doctor came and said he was dead.  For dead
he was--cut off in the prime of his health and strength, and no
healthier heartier stronger man had walked the streets of Glesgae that
day.

"An inquest there was, and the two best doctors in the city confessed
themselves puzzled and defeated.

"Deceased had a heart as sound as a bell, they said, and not an organ
that wasna perfect.

"Naturally, the immediate supposition was that he'd eaten somethin'
that had disagreed with him.  But how should he have eaten or drunk
something that had disagreed with him to the point o' killin' him, when
not anither man at the table had felt the slightest qualm o' pain,
ill-health or discomfort?

"The contents of the stomach bein' analysed, showed absolutely no trace
o' anything deeleterious, and the cause o' death was a fair mystery.
Apart from the offeecial and scienteefic investigation, the guests
themsel's worked it out that he had not tasted a thing from soup to
coffee that others had not shared.

"And when some auld fule spoke of suicide, he had but to be asked why
Alexander Buchanan McRattery, in boisterous spirits, rude health, and
at the height of his success and fortune, should commit suicide, and at
such a time and place.  And moreover, what of the analyst's report on
the absolutely normal and innocuous contents o' the stomach?

"No, it was a mystery, unfathomable and complete.

"It was a nine-days' wonder, too, and the town talked of nothing else,
but this awfu' tragedy that cast real gloom over the dead man's wide
circle o' freends and acquaintances.

"And none more sorrowfu' and sympathetic than his new friend and old
enemy, William Bute-Arrol.

"Aye, an' it was practical sympathy too, for, in order, perhaps, to
show how deeply he had been affected by McRattery's death at his very
side, nay in his arms, at the very banquet given to celebrate and
demonstrate their reconciliation, Bute-Arrol had adopted McRattery's
orphan child.

"What were the worrkin's of his mind when he thought o' doin' sic a
thing?  Who shall presume to fathom the dark mysterious depths of the
human mind?  Aye, and ye might ask the question anither way, or rather
ask a different question a'thgither.  Who shall dare presume to fathom
and unnerstand the worrkings o' Providence?  God moves in a meesterious
way His wonders to perforrm.

"Weel, whatever was the man's motive--whether it were a gesture to
catch the public eye; whether it were a salve to his conscience; or
whether he had some dark design upon the child, and thoughts o'
carryin' vengeance against his father even beyond the grave--no-one
will ever know.

"But see the result, ponder the ways of the A'mighty, and turrn fra
your wickedness...."

The McSnorrt paused and drank deeply.

"Especially drink," he added, wiping his bearded lips with the back of
a vast and hairy hand.

"See what happened," he continued.

"Now Alexander Buchanan McRattery's son Uchtred, aged aboot five or six
years when Bute-Arrol adopted him--wi' the willing and even thankful
agreement o' the executor, a child-hatin' plausible scoundrel, who
later defaulted and went to prison--was a healthy and active young limb
o' Satan, wi' an enquirin' mind and busy fingers.

"Folk who liked childer said he was an enterprisin' and original
laddie; and those who didn't like childer said he was a mischievous and
meddlesome young deil.

"But every one thoct it was graand to see the way he and dour
Bute-Arrol got on togither, walkin' hand in hand aboot the grounds o'
the big hoose, or the boy slippin' awa' doon fra the nursery to get a
bit fruit or sweetie or jeely-piece, at dessert.

"Whiles he'd sit curled up in a chair and watch Bute-Arrol with solemn
big eyes, and Bute-Arrol'd sit sippin' his porrt and thinkin' his deep
thoughts as he stared at the child.

"An' mind ye, the child was fond of him, there's no denyin', and was
the only one in that hoose from the butler to the sixth gardener's
under-gardener that wasna afeard o' the man.

"No one ever saw Bute-Arrol caress the child, any more than they saw
the opposite or heard an unkind worrd; but it was clear enough that the
little lad was happy, and had taken no scunner at his dour unsmilin'
guardian.

"When the late McRattery's executor absconded to South America and
finished what the ruinous strike in the ship-yard had begun, folk
wondered if the boy was goin' to become Bute-Arrol's heir--and some of
Bute-Arrol's relations had disturrbin' thoughts.

"There was other folk--but ye ken what folk are--professed the opeenion
that Bute-Arrol deleeberately turrned a very blind eye on the doin's o'
the said executor, and had more than a finger in the McRattery strike.

"But what I started to tell ye was this--the boy lived happy and
contented with his governess in Bute-Arrol's hoose, and had the free
run of it, an' of the grounds too.  And while it was a false and
maleecious slander to say he was wantonly mischievous, there's nae
denyin' he could poke and pry and investigate with the best--an' what
normal healthy boy will not?

"An' one day he found something.

"It was in a most attractive and wunnerful box in a big room that
opened oot o' his guardian's bedroom--a sort o' combined dressin'-room
and study that Bute-Arrol used more than any o' his fine graand rooms
doonstairs.  There was a huge great desk in it, and this big old
bureau, and a fine safe, and twa-three wardrobes and some big deep
arm-chairs, and Bute-Arrol would smoke his ceegar there in his
dressing-gown late at night, an' he'd read an' write there more than in
his great library.

"Weel, prowlin' round this room, as he loved to do, fingerin' this an'
that, the boy spied this fine box.

"Chinese it was, ebony and ivory and mother-o'-pearl, with bands o'
brass, brass corners and a brass lock,--and to crown a', a key in the
lock.  Ye'll imagine it wasna long before the laddie had that box open,
and sniffed its lovely scent o' sandal-wood, and pried into every
compartment and drawer, amusin' himself, absorbed and happy, for an
hoor that went like a meenit.

"He did no harm, and he kept nothing for himself, and the one thing he
took oot, he only took that he might do something with it for his
guardian--just the little childish ploy that a wee laddie would think
of.  He guessed that the box had come oot o' the safe or the bureau,
had been left out by mistake, and would disappear again when his
guardian came home and entered the room.

"That night the boy slippit doon and watched over the bannisters o' the
stairs until the right moment, and then, in his wee dressin'-gown and
bedroom slippers, marched into the big dinin'-room where Bute-Arrol sat
all by his lane, the butler havin' set his wine in front o' him and
gone for the coffee.

"'Hullo, Uncle,' called the little lad.  'Can I have some grapes?'

"Bute-Arrol, unsmilin', nodded at the child.

"'Help yersel',' he growled, and the boy marched round the table, and
then to the big sideboard, spyin' oot the land.

"As the butler came in, carryin' a big silver tray on which were coffee
and a box o' ceegars, Bute-Arrol took a ceegar, laid it on the cloth
beside his plate, and helped himself to coffee--which he took with hot
milk, cream and sugar.  While he did so, the wee laddie came behind his
chair, and picked up the ceegar.

"'Can I have some coffee, Uncle?' he asked.

"'Ye canna,' Bute-Arrol replied, 'but ye can hae a sup o' milk.'

"'Pooh!  Wha wants milk?' replied the child.  'I'll hae a glass o'
wine.'

"'Ye willna,' said Bute-Arrol, and picked up the ceegar that the boy
had laid down again, beside his plate.

"The butler put match-box and ash-tray on the table, as usual, and went
out.

"Bute-Arrol put the ceegar to his lips, lit it, and took a puff or two.

"He then leant back in his chair, and, wi' an awful look o' fright an'
terror on his face, stared at the laughing wee laddie who held out a
gold ceegar-piercer in his hand--a thing like a wee pencil-case that ye
press at the top, and a sharp hollow steel piercer pushes out of it and
into the ceegar.

"'I did the ceegar for ye, Uncle,' laughed the child gleefully.

"Bute-Arrol groaned.

"'_The judgment of God_,' he whispered, and died--poisoned with the
instrument he had used to poison the boy's father."


The McSnorrt paused dramatically, and his hearers, who had ceased to
smoke and to drink, sat silent.

"How d'you know all this?" asked Beau Geste at last.

"Ma real name's Uchtred Buchanan McRattery," replied the McSnorrt.




V

MAD MURPHY'S MIRACLE

 1

Lord Montaigle, like King Bruce of Scotland, sat himself down in a
lonely mood to think--the more lonely because he was in the crowded
ball-room of the world-famous Majestic Hotel in the hub of the
metropolis which is the hub of the universe.

What was he doing there at his time of life, he asked himself.  Rotten
new-fangled rubbish--this modern dancing and dance-music....  Jazz! ...
Damned row....

Well, at his hostess's earnest request, he had looked in, and now he'd
jolly well look out again....  Run along to his club and finish the day
in peace and quiet and comfort with a book, and a cigar, and a
drink--and so to bed.

Hullo, here was dear old Pop, more widely known as Sir Popham Ronceval.
Lady Anstruther had dragged _him_ here, too, eh!

As the music stopped, Sir Popham Ronceval seated himself in the
arm-chair beside that of his old friend, among the palms, near the band.

"Hear oneself speak, now that row's stopped," he observed.  "What are
you doing here, Monty?"

"Same as you, Pop--going away....  Coming?"

"Only just arrived.  Let's stick out another dance, and then I'm with
you."

Lord Montaigle suppressed a yawn.

"Sad about Tommy Vane," observed his friend, almost casually, though a
look of concern shadowed his handsome eyes.

"What about him?" asked Lord Montaigle, his rubicund and cheery
countenance unresponsive as yet, to the other's concern.

"Died this morning..."

"_No_?  Did he? ... Well, nothing very sad about that--not for him,
anyhow.  Nor for Long John.  Best day's work Tommy Vane ever did, I
should say," pondered Lord Montaigle.

"Oh, I dunno....  I was rather fond of old Tommy," said Sir Popham
Ronceval--"when he wasn't mad, that is."

"When he wasn't!" objected his friend.  "But he _was_....  Born mad,
lived mad, died mad--like his father before him--and his grandfather,
too, and his great-grandfather, by all accounts."

"His father shot himself, didn't he?" mused Sir Popham.

"Yes, and _his_ father was killed by the man he attacked.  Attacked the
feller in his own smoking-room, and he knocked Vane out with a bronze
figure, or ornament, or something, that stood handy.  And Tommy's
great-grandfather was hanged--on a silken rope--for unjustifiable
homicide."

"Poor old Tommy," repeated the baronet.

"What did he die of?" asked Montaigle.

"Razor-blade," was the short reply.  "Just that."

Lord Montaigle nodded his head slowly, and made no further comment than:

"There's a son somewhere, isn't there?"

"_A_ son," agreed the other, with meaning emphasis, and added: "Not
Tommy's."

Montaigle smiled.

"Long John, eh? ... The wild Irishman....  Aren't we a pair of
scandal-mongering old devils?

"Look here, Claud, I wouldn't talk like this to any other living soul.
I'm Long John's _executor_, and I don't mind telling you for a fact
what everybody else knows for a guess..."

"Guessed it myself," admitted Montaigle.  "I saw the boy once at Speech
Day--Long John to the very life! ... Tall, red-haired, blue-eyed,
freckled, regular red Celt."

"Yes, I suppose Long John will come home now....  Now there's no fear
of his murdering Tommy Vane."

"I doubt it.  Why should he?  He's got a splendid place in East Africa,
and it isn't as though Lady Vane were alive," replied Ronceval.

"Died when the boy was born, didn't she?" asked Montaigle.

"Yes....  Long John nearly went out of his mind....  I tell you I had
all I could do to get him away.  He was all for shooting Tommy Vane
first, and himself afterwards.  Rotten position for _me_.  I was the
friend of both of them.  Promised Long John I'd keep an eye on the
boy....  Her boy....  _His_ boy."

"What became of him?" inquired Lord Montaigle.

"Wish I could tell you....  He was going up to Oxford for his first
term, and never got there.  Simply vanished into thin air.  Tommy Vane
didn't give a damn.  But I was frightfully worried....  I wish to God I
knew what happened to him....  I would..."

A burst of music from the band cut short the gossip....



 2

Beau Geste strode into the barrack-room at Ain Dula, between Douargala
and El Rasa, in search of his brothers Digby and John.  In his
well-fitting, dark blue tunic, with its red facings, green-topped,
red-fringed epaulettes, his smart white-covered _kpi_,
brilliantly-polished buttons, belt and bayonet, well-ironed white
trousers, and highly-polished boots, he was as smart a figure of a
soldier as any in his regiment, famous in the 19th Army Corps for its
smartness.

Digby was lying upon his bed, clad in a white shirt and trousers, and
engrossed in the study of Arabic, while John sat on the opposite cot
writing a letter to Isobel.

Both looked up as Beau Geste approached.

"Ho, pups," quoth he.  "Rise up, and stand to attention.  Thumbs in a
line with the seams of the pyjamas, the weight of the body resting on
the chin strap.....  And listen....  My orders to you are '_Keep an eye
on "Mad Murphy_," as they call him.  The poor chap's up against it
badly.  I've just had a dose of him.  I left him on the bench there by
the _entre de la redoute_.'"

"Poor beggar gets madder every day," observed Digby.  "He'll be as mad
as John soon."

"Well, two of a kind never agree," observed John, "so you go and play
with him, Dig ... and keep him out of _le village Ngre_....  I'm
writing to Isobel."

"Righto!" agreed Digby, and, rising from his bed, began to dress.

"He's got as far as talking to himself aloud," continued Beau, "and,
unlike most mad people, he knows he's mad, or very nearly so.  His
great terror, among a thousand terrors, is that he'll go quite finally
insane, and kill somebody--probably his best friend.  He's just begged
me to drive my bayonet through his throat if he ever so much as raises
his fist or snarls at me."

"And you want _me_ to go and play with him," observed Digby.  "Both of
you lend me your rifles--I've only got one."

"What we want is a scrap," observed John.  "Poor old Mad Murphy and all
the other loonies would soon work their _cafard_ off on the Touareg, if
they came for us."

"Yes, scrapping is the prescribed cure for _cafard_," agreed Beau.  "A
bayonet charge must be a wonderful soother....  Meantime Mad Murphy is
to be kept from using his bayonet on himself or anyone else...."

"We _are_ our brother's keeper.  We _are_, we _are_, we _are_," chanted
Digby, as he buckled on his belt, and straightened his tunic.



 3

Mad Murphy was sitting alone on the bench outside the entrance to the
fort, his blazing red head supported upon his clenched fists, his
blazing blue eyes glaring at the ground in front of him.  His mouth was
set in a grim line, and a heavy frown marred his haggard, handsome face.

Digby Geste seated himself on the bench without speaking, leant forward
with his elbows on his knees, took his head between his clenched fists,
frowned heavily, set his mouth grimly, and stared ferociously at the
ground in front of him.

By and by Mad Murphy sat up and stared at his neighbour.

"Go and moult somewhere else," he growled....  "I'm dangerous....  I'm
going mad."

"So am I," replied Digby.  "I'm dangerous, too.  Please don't let me
bite you....  Mad as a hatter."

Mad Murphy stared at him, suspicion mingling with anger in his glare.

"Wonder why hatters _are_ mad," continued Digby.

"Go mad making hats for fools like you, perhaps," suggested Murphy.

"Why, of course," agreed Digby.  "Who's _your_ hatter? ... Madame la
Rpublique at the moment, of course....  She must be _quite_ mad, or
she'd make you and me Generals at once....  Then there's March hares.
Why are _they_ mad?  March too much, I suppose, like us.  I think I'll
be a won't-march hare in future, then Lejaune'll get mad.  Yes, I can
honestly say it was marching made me mad....  Lots of times."

Silence.

"La Cigale is a grasshopper, I'm a hare; what are you going to be?  A
hatter?  Depends on what drove you mad, of course.  What was it, if one
might ask?"

"Are you being funny?" growled Mad Murphy.

"I should think so," replied Digby.  "I feel very funny.  Mad, you
know.  Like a hare.  By Jove, though, I'm not so sure that I _will_ be
a hare.  La Cigale is a grasshopper, and that makes him hop about on
all fours, as you know.  It would be a frightful thing if I became a
March hare, and simply couldn't stop marching.  That would make Lejaune
just as mad as if I wouldn't march at all.  It's a problem."

Murphy eyed him with less of suspicion and something of concern.

"Any madness in your family?" he asked.

"No," replied Digby.  "None apparent, I believe.  I'm the first--'hare
apparent,' so to speak."

"You are lucky, then," said Murphy.  "If you take a grip on yourself,
there's some hope for you.  My trouble is that I come of diseased,
rotten, tainted, filthy, mad stock....  Father a mad beast who tortured
my mother....  Isn't any man mad who ill-treats or hurts a woman in any
way?"

"Obviously a criminal lunatic," agreed Digby.

"I've a good mind to go and shoot him before I shoot myself," continued
Mad Murphy.  "I would, if my mother were alive.  She died in giving
birth to me.  I'm a pretty thing for her to have given her life for,
good God!"

"She'd probably think so," observed Digby, and there was now no
simulated insanity in his voice.

"Think so?" said Murphy.  "She's dead, I tell you."

"Nobody's dead," said Digby.

"No," agreed Murphy, "not _really_ dead..." and fell into a moody
silence, which Digby broke with the remark:

"But, of course, your father may have had a whang on the head, or some
illness.  I believe some forms of meningitis leave you a bit balmy on
the crumpet, and batty in the belfry."

"Illness be damned!" spat Murphy; "he is a _madman_, I tell you.  A
criminal lunatic....  _And_, my lad, so was my grandfather--mad and
evil.  Best thing he ever did was when he shot himself....  And if
that's not enough for you, may I mention that my great-grandfather was
a homicidal maniac, and was killed by his best friend, whom he
murderously assaulted?"

Digby's face grew yet more thoughtful.  This was a pretty tale indeed.

"And if you'd like a little more family history, _his_ father, after a
quiet sojourn in Newgate Gaol, was hanged on Tyburn Tree--and for a
very dirty crime.  Not even a decent highwayman job.  How's that for a
family record?  And you want to know what drove me mad, do you?
Nothing!  I was born mad ... mad for generations....  '_Unto the third
and fourth generation of them that hate Me_.' ... Haven't I some cause
to hate Him?"

Silence.

"Look here, Murphy.  You're evidently not up to date.  Don't you know
that this heredity business is an absolutely exploded fallacy?  Nothing
in it at all.  A child isn't tuberculous because its parents are, but
because it grows up in the same conditions that made them
tuberculous....  We inherit family likenesses, traits, tastes, and
habits sometimes, and _only_ sometimes, but we don't inherit microbes,
and mental and physical diseases....

"You yourself admit that nothing has driven you mad, and, so far as I
can see, you are just a poor weak, feeble ass who is simply inducing
the very thing he fears....  _Fears_--that's it.  You aren't so much an
ass as a coward....  A cowardly ass, shall we say."

"Begod, you'd better not," growled Murphy rising to his feet.

"Oh, sit down, man," said Digby.  "It's too hot to fight.  Besides, an
ass, if that's what you're going to be, couldn't fight a hare.  It
would be all round him.  Though, to tell the truth, I think you're more
like a broody hen than an ass, really.  Yes, you sit here all huddled
up, and frightfully concerned with yourself, exactly like a broody hen
in a dust-hole, counting her itchings before they are scratched.  Yes,
a broody hen.  We'll be the Hare and Hen.  Good name for a
public-house!  Let's leave the Legion and open one....

"Isn't there a fable about them?  The hare taught us--not to sleep on
our posts.  Not that one _could_ sleep on a post, if you come to think
of it."

Murphy sat down again, a very puzzled man.

"Talk sense," he requested.

"I can't," replied Digby.  "I'm _mad_."

"You were talking sense enough just now--about heredity," objected
Murphy.

"Oh, yes, that was sense all right," admitted Digby.  "There is no such
thing as hereditary taint."

"And will you then tell me, you damned fool," shouted Murphy, "why I'm
the sixth in direct line of homicidal maniacs, of beastly, bloodthirsty
madmen; evil, malignant, murderous lunatics?  Heredity!  Isn't six
generations enough for you?  It _may_ be sixty, for all I know."

"I don't care if it's six hundred," interrupted Digby.  "All I know is
I wouldn't make the six hundred and first.  That's just
weak-mindedness, not madness....  Just giving way to an _ide fixe_,
and deliberately carrying on a family tradition--like that of going
into the Army or Navy.  Now, _I'm_ a proper madman--off my own bat--not
a miserable copy-cat like you want to be.  If your people have been
madmen, why not start something original, and be a sane person?  My
people have all been sane for six generations--or sixty--or six hundred
perhaps, but _I'm_ going to be mad.  Would you mind addressing me as
Monsieur M. Hare, in future?"

"I say, old chap, do you _really_ think you're going dotty?" asked
Murphy, with anxious concern.

"Well, it's like this," replied Digby.  "I've been watching you a lot
lately, you know, ever since your detachment joined ours at Douargala,
and I fluctuate with _you_.  When you give way to this madness, I do,
and when you pull yourself together, I buck up like anything.  I wish
you'd help me.  Can't you drop this heredity idea?"

"Look here, Jones," said Murphy, laying his hand upon Digby's knee,
"you're sane enough--if you don't give way.  You must pull yourself
together, and keep a tight hold on things.  Now, listen--you're all
right--tell me ... what would _you_ have done in a case like this?
Just when I left school, I realized I was in love with the most
glorious, wonderful girl in the whole world.  The best, and loveliest,
and dearest, and sweetest woman that ever lived..."

"Her name's Isobel," observed Digby.

"No, _Mary_--Mary Ronceval, daughter of Sir Popham Ronceval, my
guardian....  I was up in town getting some kit ... on my way to Oxford
... and went to a dance at their house....  And do you know what
devilish thing I did?  Could you imagine it; guess it; dream it?  I
lost my head in the moonlit garden, and told her that she was all the
world--and all heaven--to me, and that I had loved her for years....
And I kissed her, and heard her say that she had always loved me...!

"How's that, for the last of a line of malignant maniacs--foul,
homicidal madmen? ... Oh, God, _Mary_!  _Mary_!" ...

And Mad Murphy bowed his head, and covered his face.

Digby Geste swallowed....  Had it been he and Isobel!...

"And so you bolted to the Legion!" he said, and, rising, laid his hand
on Murphy's shaking shoulder.

"Keep sane, for her sake, old chap," continued Digby.  "You _can_, you
_can_!  Of course you can; and go back to her when you've conquered....
I and my brothers will help you, and you can help me to..."

"_Sixth_ of the line," groaned Murphy.  "_Sixth_ to my certain
knowledge....  Homicidal maniacs..."



 4

Lieutenant Debussy was _au fond_ a kindly person, though a strict
disciplinarian, and very popular with his men, especially when on
active service.  They then saw far more of him than they did in
barracks.

As he stepped, that evening, from his lighted room, mud-walled,
mud-floored, and furnished with nothing but a table, a chair, a bag,
and a radio set, he saw three of his _lgionnaires_--three brothers,
Englishmen, of whom he approved.

"_Ah, mes enfants_," said he, as they sprang to attention.  "I've just
been listening to something which would interest you--a band playing in
one of your London hotels....  Would you like to hear it for a few
minutes?  I shall be gone for about half an hour.  Have it for ten
minutes each....  All most irregular, improper, and contrary to
discipline, so don't get caught."

And, with a laugh, the gay and debonair young man descended the steps
into the courtyard of this outpost that he commanded.

"_Quick_!  Fetch Mad Murphy," whispered Beau Geste, as their hands
dropped from the salute.  "Do him a world of good.  'His need is
greater than ours.'"

"Rather," agreed John.  "Let him have the whole half-hour.  We three
can 'keep _cave_.' ..."



 5

But Mad Murphy did not have his full half-hour.

For a few minutes he listened with a tortured smile on his face, as his
foot unconsciously beat time to the music.

The music stopped, and with its stopping the chatter and applause of
the crowd on the _Majestic's_ dance-floor came through the headphones
with a distinctness which to the listening exile painfully bridged the
gulf between London and the desert around him.

"Rotten position for _me_," said a voice above the murmur of the
ballroom.  "I was the friend of both of them.  Promised Long John I'd
keep an eye on the boy....  Her boy ... _His_ boy."

"What became of him?"

"Wish I could tell you....  He was going up to Oxford for his first
term, and never got there.  Simply vanished into thin air.  Tommy Vane
didn't----"

And then he started up.

The smile left his face, and a look of astounded wonder and
bewilderment took its place.  Soon his face wore the expression of a
man gazing at the foreman of a jury, whose "_Guilty_" or "_Not Guilty_,
my Lord," means life or death to him.  He paled beneath his tan,
gasped, and suddenly cried:

"God in Heaven! ... Long John ... _Sir John Fitzgerald_ ... the great
sportsman and big-game shot.  _My father!_ ... _Mary!_ ..."

He swayed, staggered, sagged at the knees, and, to the consternation of
the watching Digby Geste, burst into tears.




VI

BURIED TREASURE

 1

"Por old Cigale's pretty bad these days," said John Geste to his
brothers Michael and Digby as he stepped into a tent of the standing
camp some ninety kilometres south of Douargala.

"Yes," replied Digby, as he rose to help his brother remove and stow
his kit in the tiny space which was allotted to each of the twelve men
who lived in the little tent that could uncomfortably accommodate eight.

"Moon getting to the full," observed Michael.  "We shall have to keep
an eye on the poor old chap.  What's his latest?"

"Seeing ghosts," replied John.  "He's just been telling me all about it
in the Guard Tent.  When he was on sentry last night, he saw somebody
approaching him.  Such a very remarkable and extraordinary somebody
that, instead of challenging, he rubbed his eyes and stared again.  He
told me all this in the most rational and convincing manner.  It was
really almost impossible to do anything but believe.  He said:

"'When I looked again I hardly knew what to do.  There undoubtedly was
a man coming towards me out of the desert, from the direction of the
ruins.  Nothing strange in that, you may say, but the man was a soldier
in uniform.  And the uniform was not of this regiment, nor of this
army, nor of this country--nor of this century--no, nor of this
thousand years.  His helmet was of shining metal, with ear-pieces and
neck-shield, but no visor--rather like a pompier's helmet, but with a
horsehair crest and plume, and he had a gleaming cuirass of the same
metal.  In fact, I thought, for a moment, that he was a trooper of the
Dragoon Guards until I saw that he carried a spear, at the slope,
across his right shoulder, and for side-arms had a short sword--broad,
but not much longer than a dagger.  Under his cuirass he wore a sort of
tunic that came down to his knees, and over this hung a fringe of broad
strips of metal on leather.  He wore metal greaves on his shins and
sandals on his feet.

"'In fact, he was a Roman soldier marching on patrol or doing sentry-go
on his beat.  For one foolish moment I thought of enemy tricks and
stratagems and also of practical jokes, but then I realized that not
only could I see him as plainly as I see you now, but that I could see
_through_ him.  No, he was not nebulous and misty like a cloud of
steam; his outline was perfectly clear-cut, but, as he approached me,
he came between me and one of the pillars of the ruins, and though I
could see him perfectly clearly and distinctly, I could also see the
pillar.

"'I was in something of a quandary.  As you know, I try to do my duty
to the very best of my poor ability, and aim at being the perfect
private soldier.  But there is nothing laid down in regulations on the
subject of the conduct of a sentry when approached by a ghost.

"'In the Regulations it says, "_Anyone_ approaching," and at once the
question arises as to whether a ghost is anyone.  You see, it is the
ghost _of_ someone, and therefore cannot _be_ someone, can it?...'

"Thus spake the good Cigale," continued John, "and I assured him that
personally I should not turn out the Guard nor rouse the camp to repel
ghosts."

"No," agreed Digby.  "I don't think I should, either.  Sure to be a
catch in it somewhere.  The moment the Sergeant of the Guard came, the
dirty dog would disappear--the ghost, I mean--and then you'd be for it.

"On the other hand," he continued, "if you didn't challenge him, he
might go straight into the General's tent and give the old dear the
fright of his life--and then you'd be for it again."

"Very rightly," agreed Michael.  "What good would the General be at
running a scrap next day, if he'd had a Roman soldier tickling him in
the tummy with the butt-end of a spear all night?"

"True," mused John.  "It's a problem.  There ought to be a section in
the Regulations.  They certainly provide for most other things."

"And supposing it were the ghost of a most lovely _houri_ approaching
the General's tent?" asked Digby.  "Should it be left to the sentry's
indiscretion?  And suppose the General came out and caught him turning
her away--or turning unto her the other cheek also----"

"It's weird, though," Michael broke in upon these musings.  "You can be
absolutely certain that La Cigale thought he saw a Roman soldier, and
if you think you see a thing, you _do_ see it."

"What's that?" inquired Digby incredulously.  "If I think I see a
pimple on the end of your nose, I _do_ see one?"

"Yes, you do, if you really think it.  There is an image of it on the
retina of your eye--and what is that but seeing?"

"He did more than see him, too," put in John.  "He had a long
conversation with him.  They compared notes as to their respective
regiments--the Third Legion, and the French Foreign Legion."

"By Jove, that's interesting!" observed Beau Geste.  "I should have
liked to hear them."

"I wonder if you'd have heard the ghost?" said Digby.  "Of course, if
you _thought_ you heard him, you _would_ have heard him, eh?

"I say," he added.  "I just thought I heard you ask me to have a
cigarette.  Therefore I _did_ hear it."

"Yes," agreed Michael.  "And you thought you saw me give you one.
Therefore I did give you one.  Smoke it."

The tent-flap was pulled aside, and La Cigale entered.

"Come along, old chap!  Splendid!  We were just talking about you and
your interesting experience with the Roman legionary," Beau continued.

"Yes, yes," replied Cigale.  "A charming fellow.  We had a most
interesting conversation.  His dept was here, and he'd served
everywhere from Egypt to Britain, had sun-stroke twice in Africa, and
frost-bite twice when stationed on The Wall, as he called it--Hadrian's
Wall, that would be, between England and Scotland.

"He actually spoke of the Belg, and must have been stationed quite
near my home at one time.  A most intelligent chap, and with that
education which comes from travel and experience.  A little rocky on
Roman history, I found, but who would expect a private soldier to be an
authority on history--even that of his own country?"



 2

La Cigale fell silent and mused awhile, breaking thereafter into
mutterings, disjointed and fragmentary.

"Most interesting fellow.  Rome in Africa, five centuries; France in
Africa, one century; the sun the unconquerable enemy of both.  Rome did
not assimilate although she conquered.  Will France assimilate, or be
herself assimilated?"

And turning to Michael Geste, said:

"He was stationed at Csarea once.  They called it 'The Athens of the
West.'  We talked of Masinissa, the Berber King of Csarea and all
Numidia.  You will remember he fought against Rome, and then against
Carthage in alliance with Rome.  He was the grandfather of the great
Jugurtha.

"We chatted also of his son Juba, who fought for Pompey in the civil
war and committed suicide after Csar defeated him at Thapsus.

"_Most_ interesting fellow.  He told me that Antony's wife Octavia
adopted Juba's little son and brought him up with Antony's own little
daughter by Cleopatra--young Silene Cleopatra he called her.  Quite a
charming little romance he made of it, for the two kiddies grew up
together at the Roman Court and fell in love with each other--married
and lived happy ever after.  They went back to Csarea and he ruled in
the house of his fathers.  Rather nice to think about when one
considers those cruel times----"



 3

"Oh, for God's sake, shut your jabbering row," growled The Treasure,
from where he was lying on his blanket.  "Enough to make a dog sick to
listen to you."

"Then suppose the dog goes and is sick outside, and doesn't listen,"
suggested Digby.

"Yes, a charming little story," agreed Michael.  "What else did your
visitor talk about?"

"Oh, places where he was stationed," replied La Cigale, "and about his
Legion.  He was frightfully proud of that--like we are of ours.  He was
in the Third African Legion.  'The Augustine,' he called it.  He says
it was three centuries in Africa.  They only kept one legion in Africa,
he tells me, though there were three in Britain.  Great fellows, those
Romans, for system and organization.  What do you think?  In this Third
Legion of his, the recruiting was almost purely hereditary.  Think of
that--hereditary drafts.  When a man had served his time in the Legion
they gave him land on the understanding that he married and settled
down there, and sent his sons into the Legion.  No wonder there was
_esprit de corps_ in the Augustine Legion.  By the way, they built that
place over there in A.D. 100, called it Sagunta Diana, and built it on
the ground plan of a Roman camp.

"By Jove, he did a march that I envy him.  First they marched right
across North Africa, from here to Alexandria.  There they embarked in
triremes for Italy, and marched to Rome.  Thence north, right up Italy,
and all across France to a place whence they could see Britain.  Then
by transports again to Dover, whence they marched to London, and from
there through the length of England to Hadrian's Wall.  Twenty times
2,000 paces was their day's march--all marked off by regular
camping-places.

"He tells me they had a frightful row in camp outside Alexandria with
the Sixth Legion from Judea--the Ferrata Legion they called it.  It
seems the Third Legion hated the others coming into Africa to relieve
them while they did their tour of foreign service; they looked upon
Africa as their own, and didn't want interlopers in their stations,
such as Timgad, Lambsis, Mascula, Verecundia and Sitifis.  He called
Timgad _Thamugadi_.  I didn't recognize the word at first, as he
pronounced it.  He was awfully interested to hear that I'd been there
and could identify some of the temples in which he had worshipped.  It
is still in a wonderful state of preservation, as you know.  Lambsesis
was his favourite camp, for some reason.  He was delighted when I told
him that the Arch of Septimus Severus is almost as perfect to-day as
when he saw it last.  That led us to speak of the Arch of Caracalla.
That's at Theveste--about 200 miles from Carthage, you know.  I'm
afraid he began to think I was pulling his leg when I told him I knew
it, as well as his beloved Temple of Minerva.  He got quite excited."

The Treasure growled, cursed, and spat.

"Told you all that, did he?" he said.  "Damn fine ghost!  Pity he
couldn't have told you something useful.  Where he'd buried a few
bottles of wine, for example.  D'you know what there was when you and
your ghost was jabberin'?  Two village idiots together--that's what
there was."

"If you interrupt again I'll put your face in the sand, and sit on your
head till you die," murmured John Geste.

"But there wasn't two _crtins_," continued The Treasure.  "There was
only one barmy lunatic, and he was talkin' to hisself.  'E's talkin' to
three others, 'e is, now."

John Geste rose to his feet, and The Treasure scrambled from the tent
in haste.

"And this is a _most_ interesting thing," continued La Cigale, still
staring at the ground between his feet, as was his habit when not on
duty or employed.  "Very curious, too.  He told me about a deserter
from the Roman army--the Legionary Tacfrineas he called him, who went
over to the enemy, and organized the Berber tribes against Rome.  The
Third Legion was frightfully sick about it.  Of course, it was just as
though one of us deserted and joined the Senussi or the Touareg or the
Riffs, and taught them our drill and tactics, trained their
artillerymen, gave them our plans and passwords and generally made them
about ten times as dangerous as they are.

"I'd certainly never heard of this Tacfrineas before, so I couldn't
have _imagined_ all this, could I?"

And he gazed appealingly at the faces of the three brothers.

"Of course not," said Beau Geste.  "Extraordinarily interesting
experience.  It must give you great pleasure to think that, out of all
the Battalion, it was you whom the Roman soldier chose to visit."

"Oh, yes.  Indeed yes," agreed La Cigale, smiling.  "I feel quite happy
to-day, and can even bear the sight--and smell--of The Treasure.  And
the Roman soldier has promised to come and visit me again when I am on
sentry, and he's going to tell me a great secret.  I don't know what it
is, but it's something about some gold."

La Cigale fell silent, pondering, and gradually the light of
intelligence faded from his eyes, his mouth fell open, and he looked
stupid, dull and miserable.

Digby Geste leant over and shook him by the knee.

"Splendid, old chap," he said.  "You're a very remarkable man, you
know.  I envy you.  What else did you and the other old _lgionnaire_
yarn about?"

"Oh, we compared pay, rations, drill, marches and all that sort of
thing, you know," replied La Cigale, brightening like a re-lighted
lamp.  "They had the same infernal road-making fatigues that we do.

"Why, he tells me they built one hundred and ninety miles of solid
stone road from Thevesti to Carthage.  Think of that--_stone_!

"Oh, yes, we exchanged grumbles.  They had the same god-forsaken little
outposts down in the South and much the same sort of tyranny from
'foreign' N.C.O.'s, of whom they were more afraid than they were of the
Centurions themselves.  Yes, they had an iron discipline and even
severer punishments.  In a case where a man here might get
_crapaudine_, because there were no cells in which to give him thirty
days' solitary confinement, he would have been flogged to death in the
Third Legion, or perhaps crucified.

"I say, I _do_ hope he comes again.  Do you think he will?  He gave me
the happiest night I've had since I went--went--went----"

La Cigale groaned, and gazed stupidly around.

"Eh?" he asked.  "What's this?" and lay down upon his blanket to sleep.



 4

La Cigale's _bte noir_ was a person whom, in full possession of his
faculties, had less understanding and intelligence than La Cigale at
his maddest.

He was that curious product of the Paris slums, that seems to be less
like a human being than are the criminal denizens of the underworld of
any other city--Eastern or Western, civilized or savage.  He was not so
much a typical Paris apache, as an apache too bestial, degraded, evil
and brutish to be typical even of the Parisian apache.  Even the Geste
brothers, who could find "tongues in trees, books in the running
brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything," could find no good
in "The Treasure"--as Sergeant-Major Lejaune, with grim irony, had
christened him.  They had, individually and collectively, done their
best, and had completely failed.  That such a creature, personally
filthy (inside his uniform), with foulest tongue and foulest habits,
degraded and disgusting, a walking pollution and corruption, should be
one's intimate companion at bed and board, was one of the many things
that made life in the Legion difficult.  One had to sleep, eat, march,
and take one's ease (!) cheek by jowl with The Treasure, and could not
escape him.



 5

And the Treasure, by nature indescribably objectionable, deliberately
made himself as personally and peculiarly objectionable to La Cigale as
he possibly could.  From the store of his vile, foul manners, he gave
the sensitive ex-officer constant experience of the vilest and foulest
of his filthy and revolting speech.  Of his mean, low, injurious
tricks, he reserved the worst for La Cigale.  When accused by a
non-commissioned officer of some offence, he invariably laid the blame
upon La Cigale, in the reasoned belief and reasonable hope that the
poor madman would have either too little wit or too much chivalry to
defend himself and arraign his lying accuser.

On one occasion, at Ain Sefra, Beau Geste had seen The Treasure, just
before kit inspection, direct the attention of La Cigale, by a sudden
shout and pointing hand, to something else, while he snatched a belt
from La Cigale's kit and placed it with his own.  This saved him from
eight days' prison and transferred the punishment to the bewildered La
Cigale, who could only stammer to the roaring Sergeant-Major Lejaune
that his show-down of kit had been complete a few seconds before.  But
it had earned The Treasure a worse punishment, for the indignant Beau
Geste had soundly and scientifically hammered him, until he wept and
begged for mercy, with profuse protestations that he had not done it,
but would never do it again.

He never did, but he redoubled his efforts to render La Cigale's life
insupportable, and showed something almost approaching intelligence in
ascertaining which of his foul habits and fouller words most annoyed,
shocked, disgusted and upset his unhappy victim.

For Beau Geste, The Treasure entertained a deep respect, a great fear
and a sharp knife, the last-named to be taken as prescribed (in the
back), and when opportunity and occasion should arise.  These would
have arisen long ago but that his enemy had two brothers and two
horrible American friends who rendered an otherwise perfectly simple
job not only difficult but extremely dangerous...  (Remember poor
Bolidar!)

Like almost all of his kind, The Treasure was a drunkard, and there was
nothing he would not do for money, inasmuch as money to him was
synonymous with liquor.  Having been, in private life, a professional
pick-pocket and sneak-thief, he was able to keep himself modestly
supplied with cash while avoiding the terrible retribution which
overtakes the _lgionnaire_ who robs his comrades.



 6

"Do you know, young gentlemen," said John Geste, one afternoon, to his
two brothers as they strolled from the parade ground whence they had
just been dismissed to the tent where they would now settle down to the
cleaning of their kit, "I've had an idea?"

Digby seized John's wrist that he might feel his pulse, and observed:

"An idea, Beau!  He's had an idea.  Hold him while I fetch some water."

"He's got plenty already," replied Michael unperturbed, "on the brain.
Idea's probably drowned by now."

"No, no," said John.  "It's still swimming around.  It's this: La
Cigale is for guard again to-night and simply bubbling with excitement
at the thought of seeing his Roman soldier again."

"What!  Do you want to go and pal up with him?" interrupted Digby.
"Butt in and make up to La Cigale's old pal--severing two loving
hearts--green-eyed jealousy----"

"No, the pup only wants to see a ghost," said Michael.

"Well, of course, I would," admitted John.  "But what I was going to
say, when you two--er--gentlemen began to bray, was this.  Poor old
Cigale may do anything under the disturbing influences of full moon and
a private visit from this Shade."

"Shady business," murmured Digby.  "He may go clean off the deep end in
his excitement--start showing him round the camp, take him in to gaze
upon the slumbering features of Lejaune, or even toddle off with him to
visit a two-thousand-years-closed wine-shop in the forum at Sagunta
Diana.  It occurred to me that a few of us three might exchange with
fellows who are for guard, and keep an eye on the poor old chap."

"Quite so," agreed Beau Geste.  "Good lad.  I fancy Lejaune would be
only too glad of the chance to smash La Cigale for being a gentleman
and an ex-officer.  And if the doctor or the colonel or a court-martial
officially pronounced him mad he might be put in a lunatic asylum.  And
that would be about the cruellest and most dreadful thing one could
imagine, for he's half sane half the time, and as sane as we are
occasionally."

"Oh, yes," agreed Digby.  "Far saner than some people--John, for
example."



 7

In the early moonlit hours of the following morning, John Geste
patrolled the beat which adjoined that of La Cigale, while Michael and
Digby took turns to sit outside the guard tent to watch.

For an hour or so of his tour of sentry go, La Cigale behaved quite
normally.

Suddenly John, marching on his beat towards where La Cigale stood
staring in the direction of the ruins of Sagunta Diana, saw him spring
to attention, present arms, hold himself erect and rigid as a statue,
relax and stand at ease, change his rifle from his right hand to his
left and then, bowing, warmly shake hands with some person invisible.

"I am so glad you've come again, my friend," John heard La Cigale say.
"Most kind and charming of you.  I'm awfully sorry I can't show myself
as hospitable as I should like to be--but you know what it is.  No, we
shan't be disturbed until I'm relieved.  Grand Rounds passed some time
ago."

John Geste shivered slightly.

A most uncanny experience.  It was perfectly obvious that La Cigale was
talking to somebody whom he could see and hear and touch.

Could it be that ghosts really exist, and are visible to those who are
what is called psychic?

He stared and stared at the place where anyone would be standing who
was talking, face to face, with La Cigale.  Nothing, of course.

He rubbed his eyes and, clasping the blade of the long bayonet in his
hands, leant upon his rifle while he concentrated his gaze as though
peering through a fog.

Nothing, of course.

But was there nothing?  Was there a shadow confronting La Cigale?  The
shadow of a medium-sized thick-set man leaning upon his spear in the
very attitude in which John was leaning upon his bayonet and rifle.

Or was it pure illusion?  All moonshine--a curious optical delusion
enormously strengthened by La Cigale's conduct and the fact that he was
talking so naturally.

Yes, a clear case of hetero-suggestion.  Curious, though, that one's
ears could so affect one's eyes that one could imagine one saw what one
imagined one heard.

Would he hear the Roman soldier's voice in a moment?  If so, he would
be perfectly certain that he _could_ see the figure of a Roman soldier
wearing a helmet like that of a fireman; a moulded breast-plate from
which depended heavy hangings; metal greaves; and high-laced sandals--a
man who bore a longish shield curved at the sides and straight at the
top and bottom, on which was painted an eagle, a capital A, and the
figure III.

He only _thought_ he saw him now, of course, and in a moment he would
think he heard his voice.  At present there was but one, and hearing it
was like listening to a person who is using the telephone in the room
in which one is.

      *      *      *      *      *

"Were you really?  No!  How very interesting!"

      *      *      *      *      *

"Oh, yes; I've been there several times.  To think that we have trodden
the same streets, entered the very same shops and dwelling-houses,
temples and theatres, actually drunk from the same faucet and washed
our hands in the same stone trough!  I think that one of the most
interesting--the most _human_ and real--things in all the wonderful
Pompeii are those grooves worn in the edges of the troughs where
thousands of people for hundreds of years all laid their right hands on
the same spot to support themselves as they bent over the trough to put
their lips to the faucet from which the water trickled."

      *      *      *      *      *

"Yes, of course you have, many and many a time, and so did I once--just
to be one with all those departed Romans."

      *      *      *      *      *

"Yes, that's what makes it so wonderful.  Not merely a case of my
having been in a place which is only on the site of a place in which
you have been.  Yes, exactly.  The very same actual and identical
houses.  You and I, my friend, have trodden on the same actual
paving-blocks, and have sat upon the same stone seats.  I have walked
in the very ruts in which the wheels of your chariot rolled as you
drove it down the stone-paved High Street of Pompeii, and I have stood
in the wine-shops in which you have drunk."

      *      *      *      *      *

"Yes, a very funny picture, indeed.  It is still there, the colours as
perfect as when you saw it last.  They've got glass, and a sort of
blind over it now, and a custodian to guard it.  To think you actually
saw it being painted and remember roaring with laughter when Balbus
drew your attention to it."

      *      *      *      *      *

"Oh, didn't you?  A pity.  History says that he was living there about
that time."

      *      *      *      *      *

"Yes, you must have hated returning from furlough just then even to the
Third Legion."

      *      *      *      *      *

"Well, no, we aren't supposed to do it--and there'd be precious little
to be had if we were.  One hears tales, of course.  There's a place we
call Fez where one or two are supposed to have got hold of a little."

      *      *      *      *      *

"Really?  By Jove, that would be an interesting find for anybody who
unearthed it now...."

      *      *      *      *      *

"_I_ could?  I'm afraid it wouldn't be of much use to me--though it
would be most awfully interesting to see it.  There would probably be
coins of which no known specimen exists at the present day.  Priceless.
Oh, yes, they would fetch any sum...."

      *      *      *      *      *

"By Jove, that was hard luck!  They don't seem to have changed much,
from your day to ours.  We call them Bedouin and Touareg.  Attack us in
much the same way.  Stamp us flat occasionally, but discipline always
tells...."

      *      *      *      *      *

"Could you really?  The very spot?  Very kind of you--most charming.  I
should love to see the coins."

      *      *      *      *      *

"Oh, no, I shouldn't wish to remove it, but if you could spare one or
two specimens that are unknown to-day, I should love to have them as
souvenirs.  I should not part with them of course.  One or two early
Greek gold ones."

      *      *      *      *      *

"Now at once?  Really most kind of you.  A very great honour.  Oh, no,
I wouldn't dream of showing anybody else.  I never betray a
confidence...."

      *      *      *      *      *

And then John Geste rushed forward as La Cigale, throwing his rifle up
on his right shoulder, marched off in the direction of Sagunta Diana.
Digby Geste came hurrying from the direction of the Guard Tent.

Seizing La Cigale's arm, John swung him about.

"What are you doing, man?" he expostulated.  "You can't leave your post
like this.  You're a pretty sentry!  You don't want to be shot, do
you?--not at dawn by a firing party of your own comrades, at any rate!"

Digby arrived and seized La Cigale's other arm.

"Come home, Bill Bailey," quoth he.  "Setting us all a nice example,
aren't you?  And I thought you were the model _lgionnaire_."

"Good God, what am I doing!" stammered La Cigale and passed his hand
across his eyes as the brothers released him.

"Thank you so much, gentlemen.  This absent-mindedness is terrible.  Do
you know, a friend of mine, a most interesting chap, strolled over from
his lines and we fell into conversation.  I actually forgot that I was
on sentry.  I am getting _so_ absent-minded.  When he invited me to
come over and--er--look at something, I was just going to walk across
with him.  Thank you _so_ much."

"All right now?" asked Digby.

"Oh quite, thank you!" replied La Cigale.  "It was only a momentary
aberration.  I'd sooner die than leave my post, of course."

"What became of him?" asked John.

"Oh, he went off without me," replied La Cigale.  "There he goes, look.
I hope he's not offended."



 8

The brothers stared and stared in the direction of La Cigale's extended
hand.

"See anything, John?" whispered Digby,

"Well, do you know?" answered John, "I couldn't absolutely swear that I
didn't see a nebulous figure.  And the astounding thing is that I saw
or thought I saw something that La Cigale never mentioned."

"The shield?" whispered Digby.  "With a capital A and the Roman III,
and something at the top?"

"Did you see it, too?" inquired a voice from behind.  Michael had
joined them.

"Clearly," replied Digby.  "Did you, Beau?"

"Absolutely distinctly," replied Michael.  "I saw a Roman soldier.  I
could describe every detail of his kit; I could sketch him exactly as
he was."

"I, too," affirmed Digby.

"You, John?" asked Michael.

"Couldn't swear to it," replied John.  "Cigale was chatting away so
naturally with _somebody_--that I couldn't help fancying that I saw the
man to whom he was talking.  I certainly didn't see anything clearly
and definitely like you two seem to have done.  And yet I fancied I
dimly saw the III A shield.  If nobody else had mentioned it I should
have thought that I'd dreamed the whole thing."

"Rum business," murmured Digby.

"Not an 'absinthe' business, anyhow," replied Michael, as John and La
Cigale turned about and began to pace their respective beats.

"You and I are fey, Digby Geste," smiled Michael, linking his arm
through that of his brother as they turned back to the guard-tent.



 9

The Treasure lay hid in the black shadow of a crumbling arch watching
with wolfish eyes a man who laboured to remove the light, loose sand
that had collected at the base of a wall at a point twenty-five paces
from a pillar--the fourth of a row that had once supported and adorned
the front of a Temple of Diana.  Something approaching excitement
stirred the sluggish depths of his evil and avaricious soul as he once
more assured himself that he was on the track of something good.

Yesterday--with his back turned to his comrades and an appearance of
great absorption in his work--he had listened with close attention as
this bloomin' lunatic told his blasted friends, those bestial
Englishmen, about how he was going to sneak over to these ruddy ruins
and dig out a _cache_ of gold coins of which he had got wind.  Some
poor legionary had hid his little bit of loot there one night and the
place had been rushed and sacked at dawn, the next morning.  Gold
coins, too!  Nice, handy, portable form of loot, too!  And the dirty
double-crosser was only going to take one or two to look at, was he?
The sacred liar!  Not so _fou_ as he pretended, that Cigale.  Oh, very
tricky.  Well, other people might know a few tricks, too!  What about
letting the swindling silly hound sweat for the stuff, and a better man
scoop it when the fool had got it?



 10

An hour or so later, La Cigale straightened himself up, gazed around
the moonlit ruins in a dazed manner, climbed out of the hole that he
had excavated, and made his way towards the camp.

The Treasure crouched back, motionless, in the darkest shadow, until
his comrade had passed, and then, rising, followed him--a large stone
in his right hand.

The Treasure was a workman skilled in all branches of his trade--one of
which was the throwing of knives and other weapons of offence.  The
heavy stone, flung at a range of six feet or so, struck the unfortunate
Cigale at the base of the skull, and by the time he had recovered
consciousness The Treasure had come reluctantly to the conclusion that
the accursed lying swindling _crtin_ had only got a single old coin of
some sort, gold, and curiously shaped, about his person.  One ancient
gold coin, the size of a two-franc piece.

By the time La Cigale had painfully raised himself upon his hands and
knees, The Treasure was working feverishly in the excavation that his
comrade had recently left.

By the time La Cigale had recovered sufficiently to rise to his feet
and gaze uncertainly toward the ruins whence he had come, a dull
rumbling, followed by an earth-shaking crash, had startled the watchful
sentries of the camp.  An undermined pillar had fallen.

The Treasure was seen no more by his unsorrowing comrades.

_Buried_ Treasure.




VII

IF WISHES WERE HORSES...

 1

The full moon, a great luminous pearl, and the incredible tropic
stars--palely blue diamonds scattered over darkly blue velvet--looked
down upon four weary, dirty men who lounged around a small camp-fire
beneath a stunted, crooked palm beside a puddle of slimy water,
rock-circled, thing-inhabited, malodorous.

One of the men was fair, huge, with huge moustache, a great laugh,
great hands, and gross appetite.  He looked too dull to be wicked, or
successful.  Drink had washed him into the Legion.

The second was dark, tiny, the ideal gentleman-jockey in build; pretty,
small of mouth, and large of eye.  He looked too clever to be
trustworthy or determined.  Race-horses had carried him to the Legion.

The third was grey, tall, spare and gaunt, a light-cavalry type.  His
craggy face was sad and weary, bitter, and somewhat cruel.  He looked
too cynical to be very intelligent or helpful.  Vengeance had driven
him to the Legion.

The fourth was Digby Geste, typical English gentleman.  Brother-love
had led him to the Legion.

Around them stretched to the horizon, on every side, the illimitable
desert plain, still, mysterious, inimical, its dead level of monotony
broken only by an occasional bush or boulder.  A select small company
of vultures formed a large circle around them, and took an abiding
interest in their risings up, and their lyings down--particularly the
latter.

A more select and smaller company of human vultures had made their camp
a mile or so distant--by the simple process of lying down in their
tracks, eating dates, and going to sleep--while one of their number,
having wriggled like a snake with incredible flatness, speed and skill
to within view of the men around the little camp-fire, squatted behind
a boulder and also took an abiding interest in their risings up, and
their lyings down, and particularly the latter.

To the vultures, the chance of a meal was something to follow up for
days, and to the human vultures the chance of a rifle, worth its weight
in silver, was something to follow up for weeks.  Should the watcher,
one night, see the sentry nod, sit down, lean back, sleep--he would
wriggle near, satisfy himself, and then flee like a deer to his
fellows.  There would be a quick loping run, a close recognisance, a
sudden swift rush, a flash of knives, and soon the meal, ready jointed,
would await the other vultures.



 2

"Suppose the good Archangel Gabriel suddenly alighted here, with easy
grace, and, folding his wings, granted us each a wish, what would you
have, Zimmerman?" the dark little man suddenly asked the huge, fair one.

"Eh? ... Me? ... Grant me a wish? ... Like those people in the Grimm
fairy tales?" replied Zimmerman, a harmless, worthless waster--once.

"Oh, I don't know....  Pick up a diamond as big as my fist....  Strike
for Berlin, home and beauty then.  Take a suite in the Hotel Adlon in
the Pariser Platz, do the _Weinrestaurants_, _tanzlokals_, theatres,
beer-halls, night-cafs of the Kurfrstendamm, for a bit.  Look up all
the boys--and the girls....  Oh, ho!  Champagne ... fresh caviare ...
feasting ... races ... the tables ... Peacock Island, Grunewald,
Charlottenburg, night-clubs ... Ho, ho!  When I drove my girl down the
Unter den Linden, every one would turn and look at us.  Then I'd take
her down to Monte Carlo, by way of Paris.  Nothing wrong with Paris,
and Monte Carlo, after you've picked up a diamond as big as your fist.
Yes, I'd give her a time she'd remember.  Let her see all the shops in
Paris and Monte....  Let her see me win a pile of hundred-franc notes
at the Casino....  Let her see me shoot the pigeons."

"She'd _love_ that, I'm sure," observed Digby Geste.

"Yes, she would so! ... _Gott in Himmel_!  I'd melt that diamond
down....

"What would you do, Gomez? ... Madrid, a Senorita, and the bull-ring?
... Carmelitas ... fandangos, guitars, wine of Oporto and Xeres,
serenades?"

"Not a bit of it.  I should make straight for England.  Get another
string together, and train 'em myself."

"Win the Derby, Oaks, and the Grand National, all in the same year,
what?..."

"Yes ... I'd have my stables all white tiles, mahogany, porcelain and
silver plate--the talk of the country-side--and my horses the talk of
England, the talk of the world....  Ascot ... Goodwood ... Newmarket
... Longchamps ... Auteuil..."

He sighed heavily.

"Well, thank the good God for tobacco, even French tobacco, until
Gabriel comes," guffawed Zimmerman.

"What would be _your_ line, Jones," he added, turning to Digby Geste.

Digby took his pipe from his mouth, slowly blew a long cloud of smoke,
and gazed at the great ball of gentle light that hung from the velvet
dome of the low sky.

What boon would he ask, if one were to be granted to him?

It cannot be said that his thoughts turned to Brandon Abbas, for they
were already there.

What would be the loveliest thing his mind could possibly conceive?
What about a drive in the high dog-cart with Isobel?--through the
glorious Devon countryside; the smart cob doing his comfortable ten
miles an hour; harness jingling; hoof-beats regular as clockwork;
Isobel's hand under his right arm; Devon lanes; Devon fields and
orchards; Devon moors; glorious--beyond description.

But then he would have to keep at least one eye on the horse and the
road, and that would leave only one eye for Isobel....  When one is
driving a horse, one should drive him properly, with the care and
attention which is one's courtesy to a horse that is worth driving....
Well up to his bit, with watchful eye and ready hand...

No, not a drive.  What about two long chairs in the Bower, side by
side, but facing opposite ways, so that he would have a full view of
Isobel's face ... nothing for his eyes to do but to watch every change
of expression in _her_ wonderful eyes, and lovely face ... nothing for
his ears to do but note every change and inflexion and sound of her
sweet voice?

Or what about asking something bigger--something really big? ... Why
not ask that time be pushed forward a few years, and that the three of
them be distinguished officers?  Beau a Colonel, John and he Majors,
going home on leave after a glorious campaign; home to Brandon Abbas
and Isobel ... Isobel ... Isobel's arms about his neck ... the little
church in Brandon Park ... the Chaplain at the altar ... Beau should
give her away ... John should be best man....  Oh, too wonderfully
beautiful ... too terribly glorious ... too unthinkable....

He turned to Zimmerman.

"What would _I_ like best in all the world?" he said.  "Oh, I should
love, beyond expression, beyond the power of human speech ... to hit a
very bald man on the head with a very long cucumber."

His companions pondered this ambition.

"No, no!  Not _a_ bald man.  Not just any bald man.  It's _l'Adjudant_
Lejaune one would like to hit on the head with a long cucumber," said
the Spaniard.  "Now, that really would be a deed worth doing! ...
_Smack!_ ...  Just when he's bawling his foulest insults....  One could
die happy after that.  Yes, a really great conception, Jones.  Can you
beat it, Budiski?  What would you like?"

"I? ... I'd ask for nothing better than two minutes with a certain
Russian gentleman I know ... a perfect little gentleman.  A General, in
fact," replied the grey-haired, grey-faced man.

"I've followed his career with interest ever since he was quite a
junior officer....  I have shot him _once_....  That's why I am here....

"He came with his half-company to our village when I was a lad ...
long, long ago....  It was _pogrom_ time, and everybody was accusing
everybody, when they weren't shooting them instead....  And our Russian
masters were 'pacifying' that little corner of our country by the
excellent Russian method.

"Any Lieutenant was the equal of Julius Csar in respect of his
complete ability to 'make a solitude and call it peace....'

"They banged on our door one night, because ours was the biggest, and
most comfortable house in the neighbourhood....  Ostensibly, because
there was a blood-stained hand-cart in our stables.  Of course there
was....  It had been put there by the worthy soul who had used it to
remove bleeding carcasses from where they were inconvenient, to where
they were useful evidence against his enemy....  Probably--in proof of
his hatred of all evil-doing, and his love of all Jews and Russians--he
had shown the dripping push-cart to the Russian police.

"Anyhow, there it was, and there were the Russian soldiers round our
house, in which slept my father and mother in a front room; my sister
Wanda--a lovely girl of about eighteen--in the next room, and I and my
young brother in a big room at the back....

"He was a good boy, that young brother of mine.  I was rather fond of
him.  Perhaps some of you can understand that?"

Digby Geste nodded his head.

"And we both adored Wanda.  She was one of those simple, gentle, kind
natures who, knowing no evil, are slow to think there is any in others,
and imagine that all men--and women--are like themselves.  Not clever,
you know, nor accomplished, nor advanced, nor up-to-date, but just
merely simply something to thank God for, in a world like this."

"Marguerite, before Faust came on the scene, eh?" said the big German.

The Pole regarded him absent-mindedly, and continued:

"I suppose there is a God of Love--a beneficent Deity?"

"Of course there is," observed Digby Geste.  "Didn't he create your
Wanda?"

"And didn't he watch what followed? ... I pulled on an overcoat, and
ran downstairs as my father opened the front door to the soldiers.  In
five minutes they were all over the house, and they brought Wanda and
my mother and my young brother down into the big living-room where the
Lieutenant, his drawn sword in his hand, lolled in a chair, questioning
my father, or rather abusing and bullying him and shouting accusations
to which he would hear no answer.

"I can see that _l'intrieur_ now, the impudent hard-faced rascal in my
father's chair.  A Sergeant and half a dozen grey-coated, flat-capped
soldiers at attention behind him.  Other soldiers replenishing the
fire, lighting more lamps and candles, ransacking the place for food,
drink, and loot...

"For the sake of his wife and children, my father was humble, meek,
conciliatory, deprecating.  It did not take the brave Lieutenant, who
was prosecutor, witnesses, judge and jury all in one, many minutes to
try the old man, find him guilty, and sentence him to death.

"'Remove the prisoner,' said he, having delivered sentence.  'Bind him,
and take him outside--under a tree with a suitable bough.'

"As my mother and Wanda threw themselves on their knees before this
upright judge, a Corporal and four men seized my father, tied a rope
round his body, so that his arms were bound to his sides, and led him
out into the snow, over which the cold, grey dawn was beginning to
break.

"Smiling evilly on the two imploring women, the gentleman leant
forward.  With his left hand he gave my mother a rough thrust that sent
her sprawling, and then, cupping Wanda's chin in his palm, he turned
her face up to his, and kissed her on the lips.

"The brave rash boy, my brother Karol, sprang forward, before his two
guards could stop him--and even as I shouted, 'Don't, you young fool,'
and, with bursting heart, firmly controlled myself for the sake of all
of us--he struck the Lieutenant heavily between the eyes, sending that
hero over backwards, chair and all.

"Leaping to his feet, as the guards sprang upon my brother, and on me,
this brave Russian officer put his sword-point to my brother's
throat--and _thrust_...

"I fought like a madman ...

"I hear my mother's screams to this day...

"Wanda had fainted.

"The Lieutenant gave orders that she should be carried to her bed, and
tied to it securely.  Also that I and my mother should be bound.

"'Take the old hag out to her husband,' he ordered, as they tore her
from my brother, who lay bleeding to death among their feet.

"I lost control.

"'Yes,' I shouted.  'You foul dog!  You cowardly, inhuman devil!  You
_Russian_!  Bind an old woman, lest she hurt you! ... Bind her, and
feel safe, you miserable swine!'

"And I contrived to spit on him.

"Calmly he wiped his face, and sat himself down again.

"'Bring the woman back, Sergeant,' he ordered quietly, 'and send a man
to tell Corporal Kyriloff to fetch the old man back, too....  Bring the
next prisoner before the Court.'

"I was dragged before his chair, my arms roped to my sides, and my
ankles bound together.  He eyed me very coldly.

"Always beware of those who, while a seething hell of rage boils within
them, eye you coldly, and speak quietly.

"'You have resisted, insulted, and attempted to kill a Russian officer
in the execution of his duty,' he said quietly....  'You are condemned
to death.  Your father has already been condemned to death.  Your
brother has been put to death....  But the Court is merciful.  Like
your ruler, the Great Czar, whom I have the honour to serve, and
against whom you Polish scum treasonably plot and rebel, the Court is
just--but it is merciful....

"'Of the five of you, but two shall die, and one is already dead....

"'Or, at any rate, the dog is dying,' he added, stirring my brother's
body with his foot, 'so but one remains.'

"My mother's mind rose triumphant from the abyss of horror, woe, grief,
and fear into which it had sunk while they held her back from the body
of her dying youngest-born.

"'_Me!  Me!_' she cried.  'Kill _me_! ...  They are innocent,
innocent...'

"'Gag her, if she speaks again,' growled the Lieutenant, pouring
himself out a glass of wodka.

"'But one remains,' he repeated, smacking his lips.  'Yes, in my mercy,
I will hang but one.'

"'The one who spat upon you,' I said.  'The one who will surely kill
you some day, somewhere, somehow, unless you hang him now.'

"'_No, no_, my son!' shrieked my mother, and a soldier clapped his
great hand upon her mouth.

"'The Lieutenant will hang me,' said my father with calm dignity.

"'No, the Lieutenant will _not_ hang you,' replied that Russian dog,
'but hanged you shall most assuredly be.'

"And turning to me, he asked in that cold, cruel voice, so suave and
quiet now:

"'Do you love your dear Mother?'

"'In a way you could not begin to understand,' I answered.

"'And that nice, plump, pretty little partridge, your Sister?' he
continued.

"'To a degree that no foul _animal_ could begin to understand,' I
replied, hoping to turn all his wrath to me.

"What less could one do?

"'Ah, that is good,' he smiled.  'Most excellent....  And you would
save that dear Mother, and beautiful Sister, at any cost, eh?'

"'From what?' I asked.

"'Wel-l-l,' he drawled, 'from a certain--unpleasantness....  Your
Mother from dying of cold and hunger in a Warsaw prison cell, or
perhaps in the Loubianka dungeons, or, possibly, on that little stroll
to Siberia....  Who shall say? ...

"'And the nice plump partridge ... from being "_the little friend of
all the soldiers_" when she begins to bore me....

"'They _do_ bore one, you know,' he drawled, 'even the prettiest of
girls--in time.  They mope, most of them, and fail to realize their
good fortune; or else they are spit-fires, and one has to
take--er--_disciplinary_ measures.

"'Well, what about it?  Would you like to save them, and your own life,
too?'

"'Yes,' I replied.

"'Ah, then you _shall_.'

"My little Lieutenant smiled.

"'When you've done a small job for me, that is,' he added.

"'How do I know that you would keep your word?' I asked.

"'I always keep my word,' he replied.  'It is the word of a Russian
officer.'

"'That is the trouble!' I remarked.  But nothing could anger him
now--outwardly, that is to say.

"'What do you Polish boors know of the word of a gentleman?' he
continued, and then rose to his feet.

"'Come--we're wasting time,' he said briskly.  'You wish to save your
Mother from death, and your Sister from shame, I understand....  _Then
come and hang your father for me_.'"



 3

The other stared aghast at the old man's twitching face.  Like most of
his countrymen he was a good raconteur, and could dramatize a tale as
he told it.

"'_Hang your father_'?" murmured Digby Geste.  "Did you say..."

"Yes, my friends," continued Budiski.  "The Russian Bear stood
declared, in all its shocking savagery.  Fang and claw were revealed.
My little Russian gentleman had dropped his semi-transparent mask of
civilization.  He had been struck by a man, and now he was about to
strike back as a beast--the most terrible, relentless, savage, and
hypocritical of beasts--the Bear.

"Have any of you ever stood face to face with the bear, and seen it
change--change from a rather absurd, stupid, earth-bound thing,
somewhat ridiculous--into a monster, a great and terrifying Thing
reared upon its hind legs, towering above you, capable of removing your
face with one wipe of its paw, capable of removing the front of your
body with another? ..."

The speaker paused, and stared into the embers of the dying fire.

"You hardly believed your ears when I told of it," he continued,
turning to Digby Geste.

"Judge then whether we believed our ears when we heard those words,
'_Come and hang your father for me_.'

"We thought it was a joke--a typical Russian joke....

"It was--but it was a _practical_ joke.

"'Fetch the girl again,' said my Lieutenant to the Sergeant, and the
great brute, a huge Siberian, strode off and returned in a minute with
my poor Wanda--weeping, half-fainting in his arms.

"'Aha, our little plump partridge! ...  Bring her here,' said this
officer and gentleman; and, as Wanda sank to the ground, when the
Sergeant put her down beside the chair, he added:

"'Here, wake up, my dear, don't be alarmed....  Your brave brother is
going to save you,' and he shook her, tearing the shoulder of her
nightgown.

"'Oh, thank God,' she said, and, realizing that her father had been
brought back, uttered a cry of joy, and scrambled to her feet to rush
to him.

"The Lieutenant pulled her back, tearing her nightgown the more.

"'Gently, gently, _golubtchick_,' he said, as he drew her to him.
'Your brother hasn't saved you _yet_....  He's going to rescue you and
dear Mamma from the naughty men, by doing a little job for me.'

"Wanda raised trusting and grateful eyes to the face of this
nobleman--this true _boyar_.  My Lieutenant smiled at her, and cupped
her chin again.

"'Yes, sweet child,' he added, as he kissed her.

"'_He's going to hang Papa_' ... and this time his words became real to
us.

"We understood.

"'_No!_' my mother screamed.  '_No!_'

"'_What?_' shrieked Wanda.

"'_No, no, no,_' screamed my mother.

"'Very well,' smiled my Lieutenant, and turning to the Sergeant gave
the order:

"'Take the old woman to the Guard Room just as she is, and the girl to
my quarters.  Let _her_ dress, and take what clothing she wants."

"'Stop!' cried my father, as the Corporal and a couple of men began to
hustle my mother from the room, and the Sergeant seized Wanda.

"'Stop....  _You will save your mother and sister, my son_,' said our
brave old father, a picture of noble dignity.  'You have never
disobeyed me, and you will not disobey me now.  Do not hesitate for a
moment.  Are we Russians that we should save ourselves by sacrificing
our women?  I will show these scum how a man can die, and you will live
to protect your mother and sister....  And perhaps to avenge me' ...

"'_No, no, no!_' screamed my mother.  'Take _me_!  Take _me_!'

"Wanda shrieked in the Sergeant's arms.

"'Quick, my son,' urged my father.  'How could we live and face each
other ... _afterwards_? ... How _could_ we? ... I order you to save
your mother and sister....  How can you hesitate?'

"'I turned to the grinning Lieutenant.

"'End this joke, I beg of you, your Excellency,' I prayed.  'See, you
have killed my brother.  If we have done wrong, you have punished us
enough....  You do not make war on women and old men....  Hang me, and
let them go....  You said that two would be enough--two out of five,
and they are innocent.  We have never plotted, nor talked sedition, nor
raised a hand against the Government....  Be merciful....'

"'Wel-l-l, wel-l-l,' drawled the Lieutenant, 'Mercy is undoubtedly a
beautiful thing.  I will allow my soft and kindly nature to triumph
once again....  Yes, yes, my heart shall rule my head....  Your adored
Mother, and worshipped Sister, shall go free....  Your well-beloved and
revered father shall _not_ be hung.'

"'God bless you, sir,' I whispered.

"'No, he shall not be hung, since you intercede for him so movingly,'
he continued.  '_He shall hang you, instead!_'

"I stared this monster in the face, incredulous--though subconsciously
I knew that he meant what he said....

"And for the moment I was even thankful that my mother and my sister
were not there.

"'Well? ... Come, hurry up! ... I can't spend the whole night here.
Either hang your father, or let him hang you, and thank me for my
mercy,' he yawned.

"'Yes, my son, _hasten_,' said my father.  'Your mother will die of
cold ... And Wanda will...'

"'Oh, my God....

"'Father,' I cried, 'let _me_ die.'

"'Silence, my son,' replied the old man.  'Show now of what stuff we
sons of Poland are made....  You are young and strong, and I look to
you to protect your mother and sister--to work for them ... to comfort
them ... to save them ... And to _remember_ ... I am old and feeble,
and near my end....  It is a strong man they need....  Obey me for the
last time, as you have always obeyed me.'

"And the terrible knowledge grew in my heart that I must drink of this
cup.  How could I thrust this burden upon my father--this crushing
burden, this unbearable cross for him to carry to his grave?  For,
through every day and hour and minute that he lived, he would have the
burning, corroding thought of the deed that he had done.  Death would
be nothing to it.

"I would choose the harder part....

"But some day I would meet this devilish Russian, face to face....

"'So be it,' I said.  'Give me your blessing, my father.'

"And the brave old man thanked, praised, and blessed me.

"I turned to the Lieutenant.

"'If it is possible that you can do this thing,' I said; 'if you _can_
look forward to remembering this night upon your death-bed; if your own
soldiers will not prove to be human beings, tear you limb from limb,
and stamp you into the mud where you belong--I will save my mother and
sister.'

"The Lieutenant smiled.

"'Ah,' he remarked silkily.  'I doubt if _you_ will ever spit upon a
Russian officer again ... any more than your dead brother will strike
one!'

"He sent two men with orders that my mother and sister be brought back
forthwith.

"By the time they arrived, my father was standing beneath the
'suitable' tree, the noose about his neck, the rope dangling from the
branch above.

"And God was merciful, for my mother, with a terrible cry of '_Jan!
Jan!_' sank down senseless upon the snow.

"I glanced from my mother to Wanda, and saw that her body was hanging
inanimate in the arms of the big Sergeant.

"Her eyes were closed.

"'_Now_, my son,' said my father in a firm voice...."




VIII

THE DEVIL AND DIGBY GESTE

 1

"Look here," said Digby Geste, known locally as _lgionnaire_ Thomas
Jones No. 18896, "will you kindly endeavour to get into your
magnificent brain, Monsieur Tant de Soif, once and for all, the fact
that I will not drink absinthe with you? ... Very kind of you, and all
that; but I don't like it, and I don't want it, and I'm not going to
drink it."

"And would you have me _faire Suisse_?" asked the _lgionnaire_ Tant de
Soif, as, with trembling hands, he poured an evil-looking fluid from
his water-bottle into a tin mug.

"I don't care what you _faire_, you old marvel, so long as you don't
_faire_ yourself a nuisance.  If you do I'll pour that muck out on the
sand."

Tant de Soif shuddered.

"Hush!" he begged.  "Do not utter such horrible words--even in jest!
... It is a land of blasphemy," and he drank deeply from his mug.

"_Horrible_ language," he grumbled, wiping his bearded lips with the
back of his hand.  "Never heard anything like it in all my forty years
of soldiering--and I've heard some awful language, too, in the
_Marsouins_[1] and the Legion....  And so I must _faire Suisse_ at
last--after fifty years of soldiering! ..."


[1] Colonial Infantry.


"Once again, _faire_ what you like, only don't _faire_ nuisance.
That's just what you are when you're drunk--'a fair nuisance.'"

"Eh? ... _Mon Dieu!_ ... _To me!_ ...  After sixty years of soldiering!
... What did you say?  A _nuisance?_ ... Say it again...."

And, with drunken gravity, old Tant de Soif rose to his feet, drew his
sword-bayonet, and advanced upon the admired comrade whom he loved as a
son.

"Say it--_hic_--again if you please," he re-requested.

"_Vous tes une peste pour tout le monde_," repeated Digby slowly.
"Understand?  A nuisance to everybody, when you're drunk."

And, seizing the bayonet with his left hand, he gave the aged gentleman
a shove with his right.  The bayonet and its owner parted company.

"A nuisance when I'm drunk?" murmured Tant de Soif incredulously, as he
sat suddenly down.  "And am I to hear _that_ said of me, after seventy
years of soldiering! ... Why, I was born drunk--I've lived drunk, and
shall _die_ drunk! and be a loved and respected centenarian soldier....
Yes....  The Government will give me a tomb like that of Frulein
Eberhardt, the Spahi Sergeant, at Figuig....  On it they will write the
dignified and simple epitaph, '_One hundred years a soldier_.'"

A tear trickled from the eye of Tant de Soif as he contemplated his
apotheosis.

"More likely '_One hundred years drunk_,' you old lunatic," laughed
Digby Geste.  "That's what you are--the original and authentic Lunatic
among the Tombs."

"Undeniably we are in a tomb," replied Tant de Soif, nodding his head
thoughtfully, "but it is not _I_ who am the lunatic....  It is not _I_
who am refusing good liquor....  No, indeed! ... Nor have I, in eighty
years of soldiering, met a man who _did_....  No, not until this
night....  And now I am in a tomb with him.  _I_, Tant de Soif, with a
lunatic in the Tomb."


In a tomb they undoubtedly were, and in a place of tombs, built none
knew how many centuries before--perhaps on the site of some
battlefield, where great men had fallen and received princely
sepulture.  Or possibly some holy and far-famed _marabout_ had dwelt at
this tiny oasis, had been buried here by the sorrowing devout; and
around his tomb had been laid those of the pious who had wished to
sleep near him in death, as they had dwelt near him in life.

In the largest of these tombs the two _lgionnaires_ had taken up a
strategic position for the night.  Fastening the still practicable
heavy door, and using the two horizontal tombstones as beds, they had
converted the mosque-like _taj_ into a barrack-room and a fort.

The two graves were extraordinarily reminiscent of a pair of crusader,
princely, or episcopal tombs in a European cathedral--save that no
recumbent effigy adorned the large, flat, oblong stone that formed the
top of each.  Ideal beds--if a little hard--roomy, level three feet
from the ground, and thus well above the sphere of operations of
scorpion, serpent, and objectionable insect left by pariah dog or
wandering beggar.

As though in their heat-warped and horrible caserne at Tokotu, whence
they had come on this patrol, the two soldiers made ready for the
night, and, having cleaned their accoutrements and folded the clothing
they had removed, laid themselves down upon their cold and silent
tombs--their temporary graves, as Digby Geste described them.  The
"night attire" of the latter consisted of white canvas shoes, belted
canvas trousers, and a short-sleeved white shirt.  Tant de Soif, for
reasons best known to himself, wore only his _kpi_ and his boots.  He
explained, with convincing clarity, that, in the case of emergency, he
was thus protected against the sun (or moon) at the one end and against
sharp stones and thorns at the other; while, if no emergency arose, all
was still well, as it was obvious to the meanest intelligence that if
the head and the feet were kept hot, the intervening and adjacent
tracts must inevitably be benefited and remain in a satisfactory
condition.

"So you always sleep in your _kpi_ to keep your tummy warm, eh?"
observed Digby, as he settled his head upon his knapsack.

"And my boots to keep the lumbar regions protected," was the reply.  "I
have suffered from lumbago, and one cannot be too careful ...
especially when one has no blood in one's veins....  I have no blood at
all, and, when wounded, I bleed absinthe."

"Valuable gift," murmured his companion sleepily.  "Good idea.  Every
man his own canteen.  Like the pelican in the wilderness, or the camel
feeding on its own hump....  G'night, Gran'pa, and don't you dare speak
another word till daylight doth appear...."

Ere he fell asleep the thoughts of Digby Geste wandered.  First, to
Brandon Abbas, where dwelt the girl who had been his life's sunshine,
the sound of whose voice had been his life's music, for a brief sight
of whose face he would now have given almost anything--certainly a year
of his life.

"Darling Isobel," he murmured.  "Darling, Faithful Hound," and smiled.
Next he thought of his brothers, Michael and John, at the Fort of
Zinderneuf.

"Dear old Beau....  Dear old John....  Hope all's well with them....
Wish to God I could get transferred there.  They must be having a thin
time with Lejaune....  Wonder if de Beaujolais would listen to me if I
asked to be sent there....

"Glad old St. Andr and Maris, and Cordier are there too.  Decent
chaps....  Wish Hank and Buddy were--much as I should miss them at
Tokotu.

"Wonder if I and old Tant de Soif ought to keep watch and watch? ... No
point in doing so, really.  If a raiding-party come, they come--and
they get us, anyhow....  And it wouldn't be till dawn....  I shall be
awake by then...."

But Digby Geste was awakened before dawn.


Silence....

Outside the tomb a world of silence--a Universe of Silence, broken only
by the occasional sound of a soft, light footstep, almost inaudible.

Silence and stillness, upon which the great full moon looked down ...
upon the illimitable desert, all patined with fine silver, over which
the shadows thrown by the few scattered palms and by the ancient domed
and minareted mosques lay black as ink.

Into one of these mosques the great moon peeped, and by the light of
her own rays beheld, through a narrow unglazed window, two faces--the
one innocent, calm, peacefully happy, the other debased, scarred,
haunted, contorted in the agony of some miserable nightmare.

The moon watched....

Suddenly at the opposite aperture, appeared the face of another
watcher--a horrible face, a terrible face--long, gaunt, bearded, with
the shallow, soulless eyes of a beast.

Within the tomb, silence, broken only by the sound of breathing, and an
occasional sigh from Digby; from Tant de Soif a groan.



 2

An unusually loud groan from the restless veteran awoke his young
comrade from a deep dream of peace.  The latter raised his head from
the knapsack on which it rested.

"What's up, Daddy?" he said, and yawned.

The old man murmured something concerning a _courant d'air_, and the
extreme unwholesomeness of ventilation.

With a laugh the boy sat up, stretched and yawned hugely, and, with a
remark to the effect that, in his own callow and uninstructed mind, he
regarded absinthe as even more unwholesome than fresh air, he spread
Tant de Soif's _capote_ over him and bade him be of good cheer, for he
couldn't much longer survive the troubles of this vale of woe.

Returning to his stony couch, Digby gazed around the moonlit chamber,
so chapel-like with its high, narrow "windows," its pair of tombs,
high, vaulted roof, and stone-flagged floor.  In the moonlight the
figure of old Tant de Soif might well have been a stone effigy, as he
lay like a warrior taking his rest, with his martial cloak around him.

The boy closed his eyes.

Darling Isobel....

What was she doing now? ...

Sleeping, of course....  Sleeping in her moonlit, panelled room at
Brandon Abbas....

Same jolly old moon that was looking into this mosque was peeping
through the leaded panes of her casement.  Funny if she were awake,
too, and wondering whether he were looking at the moon at that
moment....

Darling Isobel!  When would he see her again?  Not till his five years
were up, anyhow; unless, of course, they were sent back to
Sidi-bel-Abbs and she came there....  Even when their time had expired
they couldn't go back to Brandon Abbas until that astounding business
was cleared up....  Beau running off in that extraordinary way....

And young John, the silly young ass! ...  Daring to run away from home,
too, like his elders and betters--a child like that....  A good year
junior to the twins....  Frightful little ass....  That's what happens
when the young are released from proper, repressive discipline....
Very 'cute of him, though, to guess that they had joined the Legion....
Pretty mess he'd have found himself in if he'd been wrong....  Dear old
Johnny....  How ghastly if anything happened to him....  Thank God he
was with Beau....  Beau would look after him all right....  Yes, Beau
would look after him.

Yawns....

Digby Geste slept.

And was awakened later by a blood-curdling yell--a terrible scream,
like that of a wounded horse.  In almost one movement he was on his
feet, crouching between the tombs, his rifle in his hands, his head
turning swiftly from window to window at the opposite sides of the
chamber--the one idea on his mind being of an Arab raid.

Nothing at either window.

No rifles thrust through the ten-inch aperture, between the stone sides
of the high, narrow openings.  No heavy blows upon the door....

And then he was aware that Tant de Soif was pointing with trembling
hand to the window nearest to him--the one through which the moon did
not shed her soft light.  Bringing his rifle swiftly round, he
"covered" the aperture and waited.

Strange! ... Why hadn't the devils shot at them from both windows as
they slept?  And why hadn't old Tant de Soif made one jump for his gun?
Why had he screamed like a tortured woman, and why was he still lying
there, trembling from head to foot?  Old Tant de Soif, with his
_Mdaille Militaire_, brave as a lion?

"Arabs?" whispered Digby.

"No, no," groaned the old soldier.  "Oh, my God! ... God forgive me ...
forgive me all my wickedness....  _Oh, mon Gnral le bon Dieu_, have
mercy on an old soldier....  _premiere classe_..."

"What _is_ it, you old fool?" urged Digby, breaking upon the prayer.
"God helps those who help themselves.  What _is_ it, if it isn't Arabs?
A lion, or a ... rabbit, or what?"

"_Hush_!  Don't blaspheme," whispered Tant de Soif, turning from the
window, flinging his arms about Digby, and crushing his bearded face
against the boy's breast.

There was no doubt that the old man had had a terrible fright, and,
indeed, a terrible shock.  He was sober enough now, and in a state of
absolute, utter terror.

There is nothing more infectious than panic, terror, fear--and
particularly fear of the utterly unknown.

Perfect love casteth out fear.  So doth perfect anger--and a good deal
more quickly.  Digby's anger was certainly perfect--at being awakened;
at being made to jump and take cover; at being--well--frightened or at
any rate threatened with fright--by this old drunkard.

"What _is_ it?" he repeated.  "What did you see--or think you saw?"
And his free hand was upon Tant de Soif heavily laid, though not in the
way of kindness.

But Tant de Soif could say nothing.  His teeth were chattering with
fright.

It was useless to be angry with the old man.  He was most obviously
terrified almost to death.

"What is it, old chap?  What did you see?" Digby asked again, without
taking his eyes from the narrow aperture, of which the base or
window-sill was some three feet from the ground.  "What did you see?"

"_The Devil himself_!" whispered Tant de Soif, and, with a hollow
groan, let his head fall heavily back upon the stone.

"Oh--_the Devil_?" replied the incensed Digby.  "Is _that_ all! ...
I'll show you something worse than the Devil if you wake me up again
with your nightmares--you walking whisky-flask; you woolly-witted
wine-cask; you bibulous brandy-bottle, you..."

"Oh, God!" moaned the old soldier.  "Oh, Jesus Christ!  Oh, Holy
Virgin!  Guard me this night.  It was _the Devil himself_.  The Devil
has come for me--at last! ..."

"Well, he hasn't _got_ you yet, has he?" expostulated Digby.  "And he
won't....  But I will.  _I'll_ get you all right, old son, if you wake
me up again."

"The Devil has come for me, and I am dying," groaned the old soldier as
he turned his face again toward the window.  "We were mad to come in
here....  It is a sepulchre....  This tomb is my bed, and this bed will
be my tomb."

"It'll be all _that_," replied Digby, "if you don't shut up.  Go to
sleep, you silly old ass.  Do you think the Devil's a fool, that he
should want _you_ in...."

An awful scream interrupted the speaker as the lower part of the
unglazed "window" was filled by a truly appalling face.

Tant de Soif again flung himself upon his comrade, effectually pinning
his arms to his sides.

Digby Geste was a brave man--young, strong, healthy, and devoid of
nerves.  He felt his blood run cold, his knees weaken, his heart pound
furiously, and the cold perspiration start forth upon his skin.

Not one of these symptoms would have been evoked by the sight of the
most evil face of any human being, Negro or Arab, looking at him from
behind a levelled gun.  Rather would Digby Geste's pulse have tingled
with the joy of battle as he jerked his rifle forward, and tried to
shoot ere he was shot.

But this was face neither of Arab nor of Negro....  Nor of any human
being.

Tant de Soif looked again, and shrieked again--the dreadful, agonized
shriek of a madman.

It was _not_ a human face.  It was the face of a ... the face of a
_devil_....  The face of _the_ Devil!

Yes ... merciful God ... from the forehead that overhung the glowing
luminiscent eyes--the dreadful, shallow, bestial, devilish eyes--to the
bearded chin, the face was fiendish...

The hideous mouth, with its great strong white teeth, opened to speak,
and closed again in silence.  The hideous lips twitched in a sneering
smile, and the whole awful face, long, gaunt, and hairy, leered with a
hellish malignity, triumphant, terrible, cruel beyond expression.

But Digby Geste was more afraid of fear than of the Devil.  Wrenching
himself free from the frenzied clutch of Tant de Soif, he threw his
rifle to his shoulder--only to find it torn almost from his hands as
Tant de Soif seized it, and scrambling to his knees, fell upon him.

"_Don't!  Don't!_" he screamed.  "_It is the Devil_....  You _cannot_
shoot the Devil."

"Watch me," laughed Digby, his own man again, and with a strong thrust
sent Tant de Soif sprawling on the ground, instantly raising his rifle
as he did so.

But the Devil had gone.

Nothing was to be seen, but the silvered sand-hills, and some distant
palms.


Digby lowered his rifle and stared aghast.  Was this a nightmare?  No,
he was awake, and here was Tant de Soif clasping him round the knees,
and praying to God and to the Devil impartially.

Was it hypnotism ... auto-suggestion ... hetero-suggestion?  Was he,
for some reason, seeing with his own eyes what this poor drunken old
sot, in an attack of delirium tremens, thought he saw with his?  Was
there something in the physical or psychic atmosphere of this ancient
mausoleum that was supernatural or, at any rate, super-normal?  _Were_
there djinns in these lone desert places?

"_Kneel down and pray! ... Kneel down and pray!_" gabbled Tant de Soif.

"Stand up and watch, more sense," replied Digby.  "There's a time for
everything....  Get up and get your rifle."

"You can't fight _the Devil_," groaned Tant de Soif.

"There isn't any devil," affirmed Digby.

"Haven't we just _seen_ him, you fool?" replied the drunkard.

"And if we can see him we can shoot him....  Pull yourself together,
you old coward," growled Digby.

"I'm not a coward.  I fear nothing human, nothing solid...."

"Pity you don't fear nothing liquid, too....  Absinthe, for example...."

Yes, that was all very well, but he, Digby Geste, had never tasted
absinthe in his life, and most undoubtedly he had seen what Tant de
Soif saw....  Seen it clearly and unmistakably, and for at least a
minute....  Had seen the dreadful eyes move, the ghastly mouth smile
horribly.

Stooping, he pulled Tant de Soif to his feet.

"Now, then," he said.  "Pull yourself together, you wretched old woman.
Put on your overcoat, and pick up your rifle.  Cover that other window,
while I cover this one....  If nothing happens I'm going outside for a
scout round....  If it's the Devil, I want to see a bit more of him....
Cloven hoof, and all that..."

But Tant de Soif was past self-help.

"For the love of _God_ don't open that door," he stuttered.  "Don't
leave me....  For the love of _Christ_ don't leave me.  I..."

"Look!" he shrieked, and collapsed.  The Face had reappeared at the
window....  Terrible, gleaming, yellow eyes....  Inhuman, sub-human,
devilish, shallow eyes....  Terrible, inhuman mouth with twitching lips
and gleaming teeth....  A gargoyle face, the face of the Devil as
portrayed in ancient books, wood-carvings and gargoyles.


Digby Geste raised his rifle, and the lips parted in a brutish smile.

Digby Geste stood firm and steady, the fore-sight of his weapon
pointing between the gleaming eyes--eyes that shone as though each
contained a glowing core of fire--his forefinger curled about the
trigger--and did not fire.

Undoubtedly he had been frightened.  He was not frightened now, and he
refused to panic.  He was not going to blow a hole in the middle of a
face simply because he didn't like the look of it.  That was not the
sort of thing that Beau would do.  To shoot first and ask after was to
exhibit the fear of which he was afraid....

Stalemate....

The devilish Face watched him, and he covered the devilish Face.

Stalemate....

His arms were growing tired....

Why didn't the Thing do something?  Did it calmly await his futile
shot, secure in the knowledge of its immunity? ... _Was_ it a devil?
... _The_ devil?

That dreadful, impish, evil face ... that hairy, bearded mask of evil
...

Mask! ... Mask? ... Was this some Arab trick to frighten them? ... To
drive them, screaming in terror, from their stronghold?

Absurd!  The man could have shot them sleeping....  Perhaps he had no
gun.

The great mouth opened.

No, that was a face, and not a mask.  Should he fire?  No.  One does
not shoot an "unarmed," unarmoured Face.

Digby Geste lowered his rifle and backed slowly to the door, his eyes
fixed upon those other terrible eyes that followed his every movement.

"Tant de Soif!" he called.  "Get up and open this door.  Tant de
Soif--you coward--get up!"

Tant de Soif stirred, struggled to his feet, glanced at the Face,
howled, rushed to his comrade, not to obey him, but to get behind him.

Turning his back upon the Face, Digby thrust Tant de Soif aside,
knocked up the heavy bar with the butt of his rifle, glanced across the
tomb at the motionless, basilisk head, dashed through the doorway, his
rifle at the ready, crept round the building, turned the second corner,
and there beheld, up-reared upon the cloven hooves of its hind legs, a
large billy-goat.




IX

THE MULE

 1

It is said that there is good in everyone, and that though the whitest
sheep has a black or a grey hair somewhere, there is no black sheep so
black that he has not one grey lock, if he cannot boast a white one.

Be that as it may, _le lgionnaire_ Xarro, blackest of black sheep, did
marvellously conceal the fact if he possessed the faintest redeeming
shade of lighter colour.

Although admittedly a black sheep, _le lgionnaire_ Xarro was known as
"The Mule."  This name had been bestowed upon him only partly in
tribute to the fact that he was astonishingly mulish, surly,
cross-grained, stupid, malevolent and dangerous.  For the other part,
the name was esteemed appropriate by reason of the fact that the
company mules apparently accepted him as a friend and a brother.  He
was one with them, and they were at one with him.  No mule ever kicked,
bit, thwarted or disobeyed _le lgionnaire_ Xarro.  Mules were his
friends, if not, as his comrades averred, his relations.  A fiendishly
cruel man, who delighted to torture other animals, and to devise
tortures which he hoped some day to inflict upon Arab men, women and
children, he was never cruel to a mule.

Nor was this merely one of those beautiful instances of virtue being
its own reward, and kindness begetting kindness.  Digby Geste was just
as kind to his mule as Xarro was to his, but this did not induce the
beast to lose any opportunity of kicking or biting Digby; of slipping
his heel-rope and absenting himself without leave; of throwing his load
whenever he could; of instigating his fellows to stampede, and
generally of being as ungrateful, obnoxious and exasperating as only a
mule can be.

Digby Geste loved animals, and hated this mule as he had never hated
anything before--with good reason--and the more he hated it, the more
kindly he treated it.  The more kindly he treated it, the more evil it
seemed to grow--_seemed_--because no one would care to state
categorically that there was room for it to grow more evil....

Yet when this same mule was in the hands of _le lgionnaire_ Xarro, it
was the Perfect Mule--an animal without moral spot or blemish, wearing
in its head-stall the white flower of a blameless life.

It pleased the good Xarro enormously that any peculiarly intractable
and unmanageable mule should be handed over to him with the sure and
certain knowledge that, while in his hands, it would be entirely docile.

Had _le lgionnaire_ Xarro been any other than _le lgionnaire_ Xarro,
he would have been promoted, and made one of the non-commissioned
personnel at a Mounted Infantry dept where men and mules are trained.
He might have become Sergeant-Major or even _Adjudant_, and had a
glorious opportunity of exercising his markedly developed traits of
cruelty, malevolence, brutality and spite, upon _les lgionnaires_,
whom he hated collectively and individually.

But, in spite of these qualities, it was quite impossible to promote
_ce bon_ Xarro.  He was too utterly unreliable and untrustworthy; too
debauched, depraved and slovenly; too mean, ineffectual and stupid; too
bad a soldier, and too good a liar, thief and drunkard.

Nor can it be urged in his favour that he was fond of his mules.

Love is a lovely thing--if it be only love for a mule; but Xarro loved
them no more than he did pariah dogs of the _Village Ngre_, wild cats
of the rocks, and vultures of the air.

When a mule was hit by a bullet, fell down a precipice, or suffered a
broken leg and was butchered to become steaks and cutlets for hungry
soldiers, he was inordinately amused, and apparently very pleased.

No, he certainly did not love them, but he understood them, and they
understood him, and were perfectly _en rapport_.

It was said--and probably truly--that he had been a muleteer "in real
life" (that is to say before he joined the Legion), and had been bred
and born among mules, thinking their thoughts, feeling their
sensations, needs, desires and sufferings, and, moreover, speaking
their language--this last because he uttered words, if such sounds
could be called words, which the mules understood.

Digby Geste, watching him, was reminded of what Uncle Hector had told
him about _mahouts_ in India, who undeniably had an elephant-language
which their charges understood and obeyed.

Seated on his mule, Xarro, without movement of hand or heel, could
cause his mount to sidle a few paces to the right or to the left, to
advance a few steps or to rein back--merely by the use of a single word
for each movement.  His mule would halt, about-turn, or wheel to the
right or left, at a word.  More, it would lift a left or right hoof,
come to its fore-knees, or lie upon the ground, at Xarro's command.

His particular beast, known as "Satan," was a rare black animal, big
beyond the size of large mules, and, save in the hands of Xarro
himself, a fitter inmate of a cage in a Zoological Gardens than a place
in a mule-lines.  Among mules, Satan was as objectionable and
detestable as Xarro was among men.



 2

We have it on excellent authority that we needs must love the highest
when we see it.  _Le lgionnaire_ Xarro must have been an exception to
this golden rule.  Definitely he did not love the highest when he saw
it.  Hating all his officers, non-commissioned officers and comrades,
he hated the best most.  For scoundrels like Bolidar, Boldini, Guantaio
and Vogu (all now away at Zinderneuf) he had quite a mild detestation.

The three English brothers, who called themselves Brown, Jones and
Smith respectively, he loathed peculiarly, and of these the one named
Jones, who was here at Tokotu, he abhorred most of all.  Was he not
always merry and bright, laughing and smiling--curse him!  As if there
were anything whatever to laugh or smile about, in this devilish world!
Was he not always pleasant and friendly--damn him!--in contrast to
one's own morose ill-humoured surliness?  Was he not open and frank and
generous--blast him!  Was he not popular and cool and unafraid?  Was he
not rich, a gentleman, an aristocrat?  Yes, and after all, what was he,
with all his airs and graces, but a damned jewel-thief, hiding from the
English police?  Who was _he_ to give himself airs, and walk in pride?

Pride goeth before a fall.  Aha, yes, _a fall_!  ... A bright idea! ...
And _le legionnaire_ Xarro showed a mouthful of blackened and broken
teeth, in an artful and evil grin.



 3

"Sunday pants of Holy Moses!  What in Hell's that guy Xarro up to now?"
exclaimed Buddy to his friend Hank one evening, as, having strolled
beyond the rough and dirty camp known as _le Village Ngre_, they
seated themselves upon the summit of a sand-dune and gazed across the
stretch of level country, an unbroken plain of rock, sand, and gravel,
which stretched before them.

Unaware of their presence, Xarro and Satan, a couple of hundred metres
distant, were engaged upon some mutually diverting exercise.  It soon
became apparent to the interested watchers that Satan was learning a
new trick, or rather was learning to do, instantly and methodically, at
the word of command, what he sometimes did at the prompting of idle
errant fancy.  He was learning to roll--on his back, over and over, to
and fro, bent legs waving in the air--as, and when, ordered to do so.

Hank and Buddy who, in their time, had played many parts and been many
things to many men, were intrigued.

"Say, that guy and his burro ought to be in vaudeville," quoth Hank.

"Sure thing," agreed Buddy, "Xarro and his Performing Mule."

"And a prize to be given for the first member of the audience as
correctly guesses which is the mule."

Their usual laconic silence then descended upon them, and they watched.

Satan stood at attention, Xarro three paces in front of him, both
motionless.

Suddenly Xarro uttered a single word of command, and down went Satan as
though shot.

Thrice he rolled from left to right and right to left, arose to his
feet, and stood like a graven image--of wickedness.

Xarro strolled away, and, from a few yards distance, threw a word over
his shoulder.  Instantly the mule rolled, and arose again.  Xarro
returned, patted the animal's neck, and gave it something from his
pocket.  Proceeding to the rear of the imaginary rank which Satan
adorned, Xarro wheeled about, and again at a few yards distance uttered
a word of command from behind the mule, and again Satan rolled.

Xarro now varied the proceedings.  Placing his hands on Satan's back he
lightly vaulted astride him, and sitting with folded arms bade the mule
rein back, right close, left close, advance, about turn, walk march,
right wheel, left wheel and halt.  He then, once again, uttered the
sharp short word of command, and sprang clear as the beast instantly
obeyed, threw itself down and rolled thrice upon its back.

"Say, Hank, what d'you know about _that_," murmured Buddy, as the last
manoeuvre was again repeated.  "He surely is the World's Champion
Mule-Tamer.  What's the idee?"

"Got me guessing, Bud," was the reply.  "P'raps he plans to get a job
lion-taming in a circus, when he's through with the Legion."

"He surely does understand mules," said Buddy.  "I've known guys make
horses act that way, but I allow he's the first man ever taught a mule
to sit up and beg.  Wonder how he does it?"

"Power of the human eye over the savage beast," opined Hank.

"Pity he don't try it on the Sergeant-Major then," observed Buddy,
rising to his feet, and the two sauntered back to the _poste_.



 4

The mule-_peloton_ out on a recognizance patrol was taking an "easy" in
the shadow of a great rock, or small cliff, that marked the turning
point of their journey, and weary men stood easing weary limbs, each at
the head of what one would have supposed to be a weary mule.

Not so, however, the four-legged fiend in mule-skin in charge of Digby
Geste.  The phrase is ambiguous, and so was the situation, inasmuch as
the mule appeared at times to be in Digby's charge, and the mule at
times to be in charge of Digby.

Suddenly the devil entered into the beast, or else the devil that never
left it awoke, and with an energy rarely displayed in a legitimate
cause, the perverse animal began to back, to kick, to buck, rear and
plunge, as though its soul's salvation depended upon creating the
maximum of confusion in the ranks, wrath in the Commandant, and despair
in the unfortunate Digby.  A torrent of abuse from the Sergeant-Major
did nothing to help the matter, though it seemed to amuse and
exhilarate the mule who, with a neigh of laughter, bounded the more
vigorously and struggled the more violently to be free, free to roam
the wide desert o'er, untrammelled and untied.

Genuine hearty mule laughter!

'_He saith among the trumpets ha, ha! and he smelleth the battle afar
off, the thunder of the captains and the shouting_,' quoted Digby from
the Book of Job.

"There will certainly be some thunder from the Captain in a minute, and
the Sergeant-Major is undoubtedly shouting," he added, as he clung to
the equine-asinine rebel.

The mule, rearing and lashing out with his forefeet, made a noble
effort for liberty and self-determination.

But Digby Geste had a word to say to that, and the struggle continued.

Giving his rein to his right-hand man, _le lgionnaire_ Xarro stepped
up to the kicking, struggling mule and quieted it with a word.

"That's the way to handle a mule," he said.  "You take mine, and I'll
ride this one back.  But remember this.  You mustn't hit it or touch it
with your heel.  If you want to steady it, you must just say
'_Brrrtsch_'--like that.  Understand?  Just '_Brrrtsch_'--and
especially when we are on that narrow path with a precipice on one
side, and a cliff on the other be sure to say '_Brrrtsch_' and it'll
prick up its ears, and know you for a friend.  See?"

"Thanks very much," replied Digby.  "But I'll stick to this Father of
Vice."

"Don't be a fool," urged Xarro.  "You'll find my mule like a lady's
hack."

"Thanks again, very much," replied Digby.  "It's very good of you, but
I mustn't let this beast get the better of me.  I must make it quite
clear that it is out with me, and not I with it."

"It'll get away," persisted Xarro, "and you'll do fifty-two days'
solitary confinement for a start, if it's lost.  You go and take old
Satan.  He's more like an Arab horse than a mule.  And don't forget to
say '_Brrrtsch_,' when you want to steady him."

"It's most kind of you, Xarro," said Digby again, "but I really mustn't
let this beast defeat me."

"More afraid of Satan, I suppose," jeered Xarro.  "Afraid he'll play
some trick on you, eh?"

"Put it like that if you wish," replied Digby.  "Anyhow, I'll stick to
this moke.  Thanks all the same."

And with a sneering laugh, Xarro shrugged his shoulders and turned to
Satan.

However, although _le lgionnaire_ Xarro had not done all that he
intended to do, he had done something, for Digby's mule gave no further
trouble, either on the narrow and dangerous mountain path or upon the
open plain.



 5

Digby Geste, alias _le lgionnaire_ Thomas Jones, was puzzled.  An
unsavoury comrade of the name of Xarro whom he particularly disliked
was making repeated overtures of friendship, and equally often-repeated
suggestions that Digby should ride his mule Satan.  It seemed an
obsession with the man, and he was particularly urgent when the
_peloton_ was at a maximum distance from Tokotu, or about to pass
through difficult and dangerous mountain country.

But _le lgionnaire_ Xarro had made a great mistake.  He had dared _le
lgionnaire_ Jones to ride the mule!  He had foolishly said:

"Jones, I'm willing to bet any amount that you are afraid to ride
Satan.  You would like to do so, but you refuse because you haven't the
pluck."

To which Digby had replied:

"Obviously that must be the reason.  It needs a hero like you to ride
the old black moke," and neither jeers nor cajolings could induce Digby
to do so.

What he did do was frequently and lengthily to wonder what the man's
object could be.  Doubtless Satan would give anyone but Xarro a great
deal of trouble, but he couldn't give Digby more trouble than did the
malevolent Son of Sin and Sorrow with whom he was at present afflicted.

One thing was very certain.  Xarro--the surly, quarrelsome, insolent
Xarro; the malignant, sly, dangerous Xarro; full of ill-will,
ill-nature and ill-breeding--was not offering the mule to Digby for
Digby's good.  It was very puzzling....

But one tragic day the puzzle was solved--quite horribly.

The Mule-Company to which Digby was attached rode out from Tokotu one
red-hot morning, on a forty-eight hours' patrol and tactical exercise
as Mounted Infantry.  On this occasion they were given admirable
exercise, for they were followed at a most respectful distance by a
Targui scout, and when at night they halted and made their desert
bivouac, he rode off with the glad news that rifles were to be had for
the snatching; mules to be captured, and Roumis to be hunted down, shot
and tortured.

      *      *      *      *      *

A little camp was pitched in the form of a square, the mule-lines in
the centre, each man sleeping in his own _tente d'abri_ which, being
only one foot high, two feet wide, and three feet long, sounds rather
more than it is, particularly on occasions of heavy rain, snow,
sand-storm or blasting sunshine.

When a unit of the Legion bivouacs, its Commandant's first thought is
to choose a place close to water, so that if the force is pinned to the
spot, thirst, the greatest enemy of all, shall not fight on the side of
the foe.

Each quarter of the force forms one side of a square; mounts all its
tents in a line; and then, at the order, _aux murailles_, builds a
stone wall some eighteen inches high, parallel to that line.  Should
that part of the country be devoid of stones suitable to dry-wall
building, a trench is dug instead, and the earth thrown up to form a
parapet.  By the time each of the four divisions of the force has done
this, the bivouac is a square perimeter camp, surrounded by four
defensible walls or trenches.

This temporary fortress having been constructed, fatigue parties are
told off to fetch in a sufficient supply of fuel and water.

When, as upon this occasion, neither is likely to be procurable, each
man carries his own supply of both, and unless he wants to go hungry,
supplies his personal quota to the cook.

At sunset, the guard is mounted for each of the faces of the camp, to
the extent of four to a Company, and each sentry does two hours on
guard and four hours off.

In theory, these sentries patrol continually, in a smart and
soldier-like manner, and meet other sentries at each end of their
respective beats.  Digby Geste, being for guard that night, found
himself posted at a corner of the Square, and, had he been less utterly
weary, saddle-galled and knee-sore, after a long day's wrestling with a
most uncomfortable and refractory mount, he would have enjoyed his two
hours of peaceful solitude beneath the glorious moon and incredible
great stars, as he gazed out over the silent and illimitable space....

All was very still and very silent.  Not even the sound of marching
feet disturbed the perfect peace--for no feet marched.  Every sentry
about the camp was apparently lost in admiration of the wondrous desert
night--or more probably in sleep.

Not so Digby Geste.  He was on duty, and he had a habit of doing his
duty and a little more.  He was there to watch, and he was watching--so
carefully and so conscientiously, in fact, that he almost thought for a
moment that a distant bush moved!  Bushes frequently do move, but not
when there is no wind blowing, and the air is still as death.  Nor in
the night-time, when no bird alights nor flies away, causing a branch
to quiver and sway.

But then again, moonlight is notoriously deceptive and treacherous,
making hovels look like palaces, witches look like fairies
and--stationary bushes to look like moving bushes.

But the thing _was_ moving....  Surely...

Digby rubbed his eyes.

It must be a trick of moonlight.  A bush might conceivably shake when
there was no wind blowing, and no big bird alighting nor flying away;
for some small nocturnal animal or snake might possibly cause its
branches to move.  He stared so hard and so long that his eyes watered,
and he closed them for a moment.  When he opened them again he was
instantly convinced that the bush was moving, and moreover that it was
_moving along_!

Now, bushes that move in this manner are really interesting phenomena,
and Digby was duly interested.  Placing the butt of his rifle on a
stone, he crossed his arms upon its muzzle, pushed back his _kpi_,
yawned loudly, and leant his head upon his arms.  With one eye open the
sentry slept at his post--or apparently the bush thought he did, for it
moved several yards nearer--or perhaps the sentry, in turn, thought it
did, because he had only one eye open.

Again yawning, he drew his body erect, struck the attitude of "Stand-at
ease," and contemplated infinity.  He also contemplated the bush, and,
before very long, was absolutely certain that the bush was approaching
him.  He was about to raise his rifle when he was overwhelmed with the
thought that, by firing a shot, he would arouse the whole company,
officers, non-commissioned officers and men, all weary to death and
almost preferring death to a needless awakening.

If he roused them from their sleep without the best of good reasons, he
would become an object of universal execration, the focus and target of
their ferocious wrath, hatred and contempt.

"_I thought I saw a bush move_," would be a fine excuse when brought
before the Commandant to offer any explanation he could find for
rousing the camp and wasting ammunition.  They would say he had been
asleep and had fired off his rifle in a nightmare.

No, the bush was not moving....  Not moving now, perhaps, but it
certainly _had_ moved, for it was undoubtedly nearer than when he had
first noticed it....  Or was it all moonshine?

An idea! ... There was an almost white stone shining in the moonlight a
few yards from the bush.

Digby Geste deliberately turned his back toward the bush, slowly
patrolled his allotted distance, and returned....  The bush had moved.

It was nearer to the stone by a distance about equal to the length of
his beat.  While he had been patrolling from his post, the bush had
moved forward, and when he had turned about to come back, the bush had
halted.

How many other bushes were approaching the camp in similar fashion?  Or
was this a solitary rifle-thief, intending to crawl into the camp,
silently slit the throat of a sleeping man, and crawl away richer by a
good Lebel rifle?  More likely the idea, since he was making a straight
line for him, was to get sufficiently close to a somnolent Digby Geste,
to rush him and stab him to the heart before he could make a sound.

Nasty man! ... Whole company asleep....  Mustn't make a mistake....
Plenty of time for one more patrol--to make sure....

No, a better notion.  Digby Geste yawned, stretched himself, sloped his
rifle, turned his back upon the mystery bush and marched off.  But, at
the end of half-a-dozen paces, he swiftly wheeled about--and saw the
bush progressing quite quickly in the direction of his post.  Raising
his rifle Digby fired at the lower part of the bush, and with all the
strength of his lungs called:

"_Aux armes!  Aux armes!_"

Immediately each one of the chain of sentries fired his rifle at
nothing in particular to show that he too was a keen, wakeful and
watchful warrior, and bawled "_Aux armes!_" in evidence that he had
seen something suspicious, and probably saved the life of every soul in
camp.

In less time than it takes to tell, the men were under arms and lining
the perimeter of the camp, each man at his own _crneau_ loop-hole.

From each of its four sides levelled rifles were ready to pour forth a
hail of death upon a charging enemy.

But no enemy charged.

Nothing happened.

In a very few minutes, lightly clad men were grumbling angrily as they
shivered in the bitter cold, and demanding the blood of the nervous
fool who had brought them from their warm blankets and snug bivouacs.

Making his rounds, the Sergeant of the Guard found that no sentry had
fired first until he reached Digby Geste, who promptly confessed to
being the offender, or, if the Sergeant liked to put it that way, the
saviour of the situation.

"What did you fire at, you half-witted _salo_?  You trembling,
squint-eyed, frog-faced Afraid-of-the-Dark?"

"At that bush," replied Digby, pointing.

"Oh you did, did you, _salo_? ... Is _that_ what you are afraid of?
Did you think it was going to bite you?"

"I didn't know _what_ it might do--when it got here, Sergeant," replied
Digby, standing stiffly at attention.

"When it got here?  What do you mean, you sodden lunatic?" roared the
Sergeant, and, before Digby could reply, an incisive voice cut in
sharply with:

"What's all this about?" and the Sergeant and his satellites sprang to
attention.

"This is the man who caused all the trouble, _mon Commandant_,"
answered the Sergeant, saluting.  "He confesses that he deliberately
fired at a bush."

Major de Beaujolais turned to Digby Geste, little thinking that this
Soldier of the Legion was one of the three boys to whom he had told
stories of just such nights in the desert, years before, at beautiful
Brandon Abbas in England.

"And why did you fire at a bush, might one ask?" he inquired coldly.

"Because it was moving toward me, Monsieur le Majeur," replied Digby.

"Or because you dreamed that it was?" asked de Beaujolais sternly.

"No, Monsieur le Majeur," replied Digby, firmly but respectfully.  "The
bush moved towards me.  I measured its progress by that stone."

"Then go and fetch it," ordered de Beaujolais.  "Quickly, _au pas
gymnastique_."

With his rifle at the ready, and his heart beating rapidly, Digby
doubled out towards the bush.  Arrived near it, he changed his pace to
a slow walk and covered the bush with his rifle.

He reached it.

Nothing happened.

But when, seizing a branch in his left hand, he pulled, the bush
yielded instantly, and with complete ease he dragged it to where the
little group awaited him.

"Show a light here," ordered Major de Beaujolais, and it was
immediately seen that the bush had been cut off at ground level.

"You have done well, _mon enfant_," he said kindly, and turning to the
Sergeant, added:

"A good thing if all your men were as ready to shoot at bushes that
move at night!  This was a spy.  Probably there's a Touareg band
somewhere near.  Quite possibly we are surrounded, and shall be
attacked at dawn.  Double your sentries, and see if any more of them
can spot moving bushes.  Bring this man to me in the morning."

And the Major strode away to give orders for the doubling of sentries
on the other sides of the camp, and for "Stand-to" an hour before dawn.

But at dawn no attack materialized, and the company struck camp and
moved off as though surrounded by enemies from whom an attack was
imminent.

The retreat from the position was made a useful tactical exercise, and
proved to be particularly so when, from distant rocks and sandhills,
came a sudden outburst of irregular firing.

Major de Beaujolais appeared quite pleased, and a look of boredom
promptly departed from his handsome face as he stood up in his
stirrups, and gazed coolly around in all directions and indicated that
the company would proceed at its best pace to a not far distant _ravin_
which appeared to offer excellent shelter for mules, while an adjacent
knoll provided an eligible site for riflemen.  From there he would give
his force a lesson in attack as infantry, and mobile rearguard tactics
as rifle-armed cavalry.

      *      *      *      *      *

In the rear of the company rode Digby Geste, his happiness faintly
clouded by anxiety as to the conduct or misconduct of Mildred, his
mule.  It would be quite the wrong time for her to have a fit of
self-determination, to demonstrate, and to try to make the Sahara a
country fit for mules to live in.  What would she do if she were hit
without being seriously wounded?  Probably bolt and take an undeserved
place at the head of the column.  Just as likely to bolt in the
opposite direction.

_Crash!_ ... Hullo, someone was down.  A few yards to his right a
_lgionnaire_ had fallen from his saddle.  He had clung to his rein,
and the mule had come to a stand-still beside him.  Digby pulled up, as
he realized that the man's efforts to get to his feet were in vain.

Riding across, while bullets knocked up puffs of dust and sand around
him, he saw that the man was Xarro, and that he was hit in the right
knee.  He was obviously in the greatest agony, and quite helpless.
Springing to the ground, and putting his rein over his shoulder, Digby
lifted Xarro in his arms, sat him sideways on Satan, who stood steady
as a rock, and then lifted Xarro's left foot and leg across the mule,
so that he was seated astride and firmly in the saddle.

As Digby thrust Xarro's left foot into the stirrup the wounded man, who
appeared about to faint from pain, shock and loss of blood, drooped
forward on Satan's neck and groaned:

"_I can't! ... I can't!_ ... Tie me on....  for God's sake...."

Easier said than done, with bullets smacking around, and the enemy
drawing nearer and nearer, as they dodged from rock to rock and bush to
bush.

"Cross your wrists under the mule's neck, quick," cried Digby, and,
snatching a weary-looking handkerchief from his pocket, he swiftly and
firmly bound Xarro's hands together.  Then, slipping the off
stirrup-leather from its fastening beneath the saddle-flap, he
unbuckled the strap, thrust the end through the girth, through the
buckle, and pulled the thick strap tightly across Xarro's left thigh.

He could not now possibly fall from the mule, even if he fainted, and,
provided Satan would canter after the Company, there was no reason why
Xarro should not get safely to hospital.

_Smack_!  A bullet had struck Xarro, and another hit Digby's
water-bottle.  Seizing Satan's rein, he swiftly scrambled on to the
back of Mildred, who, with all the incalculable perversity of the mule,
had behaved like a perfect lady at a moment when a little misconduct on
her part would have been literally fatal.

As he urged the two mules into a canter, he realized that some of the
nearest Arabs had ceased firing, and were actually rushing forward to
capture them and their mules alive.  Live men can be tortured, and live
mules can be ridden or sold.

"First catch your hare," quoth Digby as Mildred and Satan surpassed
themselves.  Never had he known mules to go so fast.  Pity there wasn't
a mules' Derby.  Was it because Xarro was present?

Hullo! ... What was this? ... Two men galloping back from the main body.

Hank and Buddy! ... Silly asses; they couldn't do any good, and were
merely risking their lives for nothing.

The two reined up, dismounted, and, with reins looped over arms, knelt
and opened rapid fire on the running Arabs.  These having magically
disappeared behind bushes, stones, mounds, boulders or such sufficient
cover (for an Arab) as a dead leaf, Hank and Buddy again jumped on
their mules and cantered after Digby and Xarro.

A few minutes later, still holding Satan's rein, Digby galloped into
the mouth of the nullah, wadi or _ravin_, in which the other mules
stood in groups of four, the reins of each group being held by the No.
3 man of the group.  A few wounded men sat or lay on the shady side of
the nullah, in the charge of a medical-orderly or dresser.

The remainder of the Company, strongly and invisibly posted, was
waiting to give the advancing Arabs a warm reception.

Leading Satan to where the wounded lay, Digby called out to the
_infirmier_, the medical subordinate:

"This man's wounded in the knee and chest," and then, reining in,
endeavoured to bring Satan to a stand-still.

But Satan seemed agitated.  Perhaps he missed his master's voice.
Perhaps he thought that in his master's best interests he had better
make straight for Tokotu, and his comfortable mule-lines.

He declined to stop.

Xarro opened a sickly eye and groaned.  He was not as good at bearing
pain as he had been at inflicting it.

"Whoa, whoa, Satan!" cried Digby, and, as he took his right foot from
the stirrup, to dismount from his own mule, he remembered the word, or
sound, that Xarro himself had told him to use, when he wanted to steady
Satan.

"Whoa, Satan! ... _Brrrtsch!_ ..." cried Digby....  "_Brrrtsch!_ ..."

Satan pricked his ears, and instantly flung himself down and rolled--as
he had been trained to do, at that word of command.

With his last breath Xarro shrieked in agony, as the huge mule rolled
upon him thrice.




X

LOW FINANCE

Seated on his bed in the barrack-room, and doubtfully assisted by the
comments of his brothers, Beau Geste was making up his accounts for the
month.

Gradually and unintentionally, he had drifted into the trade, business
or profession of money-lender.  In so doing, he had incurred the most
bitter animosity of Monsieur Veidhaas, a gentleman remarkable by reason
of the facts that he was at once a Jew, a _lgionnaire_, and a
financier; and that he could reap a harvest in so poor a soil.

Of the two financiers, Beau Geste had by far the bigger business, and
the more rapidly it grew, the more swiftly did that of Monsieur
Veidhaas decline; and yet the latter was undoubtedly the better
business man.

The explanation of the phenomenon probably lies in the fact that Beau
Geste charged no interest whatsoever, whereas Monsieur Veidhaas charged
exactly 5,200 per cent per annum.  That is to say, he would lend you a
sou to-day, provided you handed him two sous to-day week.

Beau Geste's method of business was to lend any reasonable amount to
any friend who wanted it; his only reservations being that he didn't
lend money to assist and encourage drunkenness, nor did he lend a
second sum until the first had been returned.

As Monsieur Veidhaas pointed out to him, with gesticulatory hands and
screaming voice, this not only wasn't business, but wasn't common
honesty and fair play to Monsieur Veidhaas.  In fact it was just the
low, mean, dirty, silly sort of trick that an Englishman would play.

In point of fact, things were even worse than has been stated, for not
only did this blackleg financier charge no interest, but he took no
security!

The very thought of such conduct sickened Monsieur Veidhaas to the
depths of his soul, and indeed, almost to those of his body.  He felt
physically nauseated when he saw men casually borrowing good copper
_sous_, without bond or receipt, and as casually returning them.  For,
curiously enough, return them they did, in spite of the lack of
documentary evidence against them, their own cruel poverty, the absence
of security, and the fact that return was never demanded.

Nevertheless, Beau Geste kept account of these loans, varying from a
_sou_ to a whole franc, because, though he had an unquenchable desire
to help and oblige, he had no desire, nor intention either, to be
robbed or to encourage cadging.

"Bloated bloodsucker!" accused Digby, sitting beside him, and watching
him cross off the names of men who had paid their debts that day,
fifth-day--pay-day--when every man received the sum of 2d. for five
days' labour, whether he deserved it or not.

Hank and Buddy approached, and John Geste moved up, and made room for
them on his bed.

"Bank still open for the transaction of business, Bo?" inquired Hank.

"To a valued and respected client, yes," replied Beau Geste.  "How much
do you want to pay in?"

Hank patted his pockets.

"Say now, that's too bad," he said with heavy concern.  "I've come
without it.  I must have left it where I left me youth and innocence.
No matter, I'll draw a bit, instead.  I'll draw myself a cheque for
fifty centimes."

"Me too, Bo," added Buddy.  "If it ain't making what you might call a
run on the Bank, like.  I'll cover the overdraft next pay-day, and if
I'm caught short, I'll sell something of Hank's and make it up."

"Same here, Son," assured Hank.  "I can always sell something of Bud's,
if it's only his scalp for a pen-wiper, or to Lejaune for a sooveneer
to hang at his belt."

"Or we could go hotel-borrowing again," mused Buddy.

"What _is_ hotel-borrowing?" inquired Digby Geste.  "I've borrowed
various things in my life, but I don't remember ever borrowing an
hotel."

"No, Son, you ain't got it right," replied Buddy.  "Hotel-borrowing
ain't borrowing hotels, it's borrowing _from_ hotels, like."

"Shouldn't have thought they were prompt and ready lenders," observed
Beau Geste.

"No," replied John.  "In fact I've always rather loved the expression
'hotel _guest_.'  A gentle irony about it!"

"Oh, that's all right," affirmed Digby.  "The hotel guessed it could
make a bit out of you--and it was right--so what's wrong?"

"Peace, pups," quoth their brother.  "How does one induce hotels to
lend anything, Bud?"

"Well, they don't rightly know they're doing it, Son," was the answer,
"and it's one of them cases of money making money, and 'unto him that
hath shall be given.' ... But if you've got 150 francs, you can borrow
quite a lot from hotels."

"At what rate of interest?" asked John.

"None," replied Buddy.

"For what period?" inquired Digby.

"Long as you like," was the answer.

"But why _hotels_?" asked Beau.

"Oh, reasons," answered Buddy.  "I'll tell you ... give you an example,
like.  Shall I, Hank?"

"Wel-l-l," mused Hank.  "Yes-s....  You might tell it to _these_ boys.
They got high principles and are above temptation.  It wouldn't be
likely to deterioralize them."

And fixing each of the brothers in turn with a calm ingenuous eye, he
added:

"Nobody oughtn't never to indulge in the sport and pursuit called
hotel-borrowing unless they are strictly honest, particular and
high-principled, and with strong firm character....  Oncorruptible."

The three Gestes slowly nodded their heads in understanding and
agreement.

"We was in Monte Carlo," observed Buddy.  "Also we had one hundred and
fifty francs, and there was lots of hotels...."

"Some lovely place, Monte Carlo..." remarked Hank.  "Nothing wrong with
Monte Carlo ... 'cept the people in it."

"That's so," agreed Buddy.  "There's a lot there that ain't so
simple-minded as they oughta be.  Sets their hearts on things of this
world--dross and filthy looker....  And the one hundred and fifty
francs didn't seem to us a right and sensible sum of money, somehow....
If it had been a hundred and fifty thousand, we could have made
ourselves comfortable....  We could have gone to the _Imperial
Splendide Continental_ and been two of them eccentric and amusin'
American millionaires what nobody minds what they does--as long as they
hands it out in wads....  Or if it had been one hundred and fifty
centimes, we could have tramped along to Marseilles and enlisted in the
Legion....  As it was, it was a foolish sum of money."

"Not so foolish either--in a way," mused Hank.

"No," agreed Buddy.  "In a manner of speaking it weren't....  You see,
it happened, by the kind and loving mercy of Heaven, to be in two
notes.  Being the financiers you are, you'll grasp the fact that it was
thus a hundred-franc note and a fifty-franc note....  Well, we was
sitting on a seat on that sorter River-Front Drive what looks over the
sea, and listenin' to them heroes down below, blowing the back-ends off
lame tame pigeons, when Hank has an idee..."

"That's a lie," interrupted Hank, "you miserable back-bitin',
evil-speakin', character-takin', foul-mouthed little runt.  It was
_you_."

"Oh _me_, was it?" replied Bud.  "Very well ... _I_ had the idee then,
that we oughta give the bigger note to the Society for the Protection
of Cruelty to Animals and use the other fifty to rush us a growler of
beer and then git up and git, and go on walking."

Hank snorted, as Digby murmured:

"Quite so."

And Beau gravely observed:

"I'm sure you did."

"And then Hank had the idee," continued Buddy, gazing mildly at Hank,
who remained watchfully silent, "of using the money otherwise, so to
speak.

"_His_ notion was for him to take the hundred-franc note and me to take
the fifty-franc note...."

"It was _your_ notion, you anmic Ananias," shouted Hank, seizing Buddy
by the scruff of the neck.

"Very well! ... _Very_ well! ... It _were_ then," agreed Buddy... "for
us to take the notes and invest them in real estate and begin to lead a
higher and a better life as solid citizens.  Hank says he wants to turn
honest and live respectable--after watching me."

The three Gestes contrived to separate the two Americans and to keep
them apart while Buddy developed his exposition of the art of
hotel-borrowing.

"Well, as I was saying," he continued, straightening his disarranged
clothing.

"Hank says:

"'You march into the _Hotel Imperial Splendide Continental_ as though
you owned it, and wasn't proud of it.  When the head waiter comes to
throw you out or show you to a seat, you gaze upon him as though he was
mud and you didn't want to tread in it....  Then you order a good
blow-out and have eggs-and-bacon in it, or pork-and-beans, or something
else they haven't got.  And then call 'em a ten-cent hash-joint, not
fit for a salmon-canning, corned-beef-packing, lumber-king to sit down
in.  Drink water because you're a rich eccentric millionaire and can
afford to, and don't spend more than ten francs....  When the waiter
brings the bill, pay with the fifty-franc note, and then set and chew a
tooth-pick cheerful, until poor Alphonso comes back with the change.

"'When he does--_don't take it_....  Let it lie on the plate while you
smiles a kinda sad sooperior amused smile, and gently shakes your head
from side to side.  Then you says, still amused, but dignified and
kinda ironic:

"'"What's the game, Alphonso--you poor, feeble, flat-footed fish!  What
do you take me for?  A half-witted Wop, or the monkey off the organ?"

"'Then you tells him to fetch the Head Waiter or the Manager or the
Owner if he likes, and sits back calm and sooperior while he does
it....  When the Head Waiter or the Manager or the Owner arrives, look
him up and down slow-like--take a good stare at any cracks in his shoes
and then admire where his pants goes baggy at the knees.  Then take a
interest in any grease-spots on his weskit.  Then sorta brace yourself
for a stare at his face; give a shudder at the sight of it, and then
work downwards again....  In course of time, when you've looked him all
over, say quiet, in a pompshus and contempshus voice:

"'"How often d'you get away with _this_ frame-up, Son?"

"'And when he replies that he _nong comprongs_, you say:

"'"Cut it _right_ out, Bo! ... Can it! ...  Fergit it--and listen an
earful....  I just give Mr. Alphonso Alonzo Fandango Lorenzo a
hundred-franc note, and he's brought me change for a fifty-franc note,
and if you think you can pull that bunk on me, you got another think
coming....  See? ... So cut out the funny stuff, and get busy with
another fifty francs."

"'When you said all that, the Head Waiter or Manager or Owner or
whatever It may be, he'll give you the soft and saucy answer that
turneth on wrath.  He'll tell you that your sort of poor bone-headed
hoodlum tries that silly old stale trick in that hotel, about seven
times a day and fourteen on Sundays.  And right there, you rises to
your feet, Bud, and with all the weight and dignity of an American
Citizen, with Old Glory flying over him, and the Band playing "Yankee
Doodle," you says in a crool, cold and cutting voice:

"'"Before I bring in the Police, will you have the goodness to go to
your cashier's desk _and see whether she has, or has not, a
hundred-franc note_ (and right here you draws out your pocket-book)
_numbered 624 in the top left-hand corner and E11373 in the right-hand
corner--and reverse as usual at the bottom_."

"Nacherally the guy, whether he's Head Waiter, Manager or Owner, will
look foolish in the face and make a quick hike to the cash-desk....
You'll foller him too, lookin' haughty, but cold and crool.  And right
there among the hundred-franc notes, on the very top or near it, _there
will be our old pal E11373_.'"

"'How will there, you old fool?' says I to Hank.

"''_Cos I shall have paid it in meself, in another part of the room,
ten minutes before_,' replies Hank...."

"An' lo! it was so," added Buddy.


Silence.

"And you got away with it?" inquired Beau.

"Sure thing," replied Buddy.... "Hank walks into that _Imperial
Splendide Continental_ and turneth unto the right hand....  A quarter
of an hour later, I walks in and turns unto the left hand and we has
our eats....  Soon as I seen him go out again, I calls for my bill, and
pays--and behold Francesco Gorgonzola only brings me change for the
fifty-franc note which I had give him! ...

"When the Manager comes, I says:

"'I have not the slightest wish to get Guiseppe Spaghetti into trouble,
nor yet the cashier, so if you'll be good enough to give me my proper
change for my lill' ole E11373' (consultin' my notebook) 'we'll say no
more about it.'

"Off goes the Manager, while I gazes idly round, and comes back in a
minute, most apologetic.

"Me, I'm quite affable and pleasant and we parts the best of friends....

"Well, not being too bad at games of skill and chance--so called becos
we has all the skill and the mugs hasn't a chance, we makes that fifty
into five hundred and sends fifty of it back to the _Hotel Imperial
Splendide Continental_ with our love and no explanations.

"Yes, we has quite a good time at Monte Carlo, hotel-borrowing and
hotel-repaying; winning at poker and losing at roulette.  Quite a good
time, we has, and we leaves Monte Carlo owing nobody a _sou_, and not
owning one ourselves."


Silence.


"Gee," murmured Hank.  "He oughta married that dame Sapphira, but I
wouldn't have liked to be the off-spring."

"_Me?_" replied Buddy in hurt surprise.  "My second name is George
Washington.  It was you thought of it, and you what paid in the
hundred-franc note that caused all the trouble and dishonesty! ... If
it hadn't been there, there wouldn't been fifty francs profit every
time....  _You_! ... Why, you'll prob'ly pinch angels' wing-feathers on
Judgment Day and sell 'em in Hell as sooveneers....  No, you ain't what
_I_ call a good, simple, honest man."

And Buddy walked away, as one too full for further speech.




XI

PRESENTIMENTS

 1

When a dam bursts, a mighty flood follows; when a notably silent man
talks, he is apt to say a good deal.

Wine sometimes loosens the tongue, particularly if the drinker be
habitually abstemious.  There are men who talk when they have fever;
others when the moon is full, and the desert and night sky a vision of
loveliness and a dream of peace; some when the nerves are frayed, so
that they must do something or go mad, and talking is the easiest thing
to do; others, again, when they are fey, and are well aware that
to-morrow's battle will be their last.


_Le lgionnaire_ Max Linden, a forbidding person, so taciturn, so
inarticulate, as to be known as the Dumb Devil, was talking to the
Geste brothers--and to some purpose.  It was the eve of the battle of
El Rasa, and Linden affected to be perfectly certain that he would be
killed on the morrow.

"Oh, rubbish, man," said Michael Geste; "not one in a hundred of these
presentiments is justified."

"... Begun in blood ... ended in blood," growled Linden, raising
himself on his elbow, and staring out into the moonlit night....  "But
that her blood oozed and spread and trickled in the direction of the
door, reached it, and slowly, slowly crept underneath it and out on to
the white doorstep, I should not be here now ... here now, awaiting my
death from an Arab bullet."

"Cheer up, old bird," said Digby.  "Have a cigarette," he added,
offering a packet of _Caporal_.  "I bet you I'll give you another, this
time to-morrow, and that you'll smoke it."

"You may stick it in my dead mouth if you like," replied Linden,
"before they shovel me under the sand.

"No," he continued, "if her blood had never reached the door, I
shouldn't be here now....  On the other hand, my father would not have
been executed, which would have been a pity.  Executed for the murder
of my mother."

The brothers eyed each other uncomfortably.  No wonder Max Linden was a
bitter and tragic-looking desperado, whose rare speech was either a
snarl or a growl.

"Your father murdered your mother before your eyes, and was hanged?"
murmured Michael Geste, as Linden turned to him and apparently awaited
a reply.

"He was hanged for it, anyhow," replied Linden, and he laughed horribly
as he added:

"Death on the scaffold was the terror of his life, too.  Yes, an
absolute obsession, this fear of the rope.  And the executioner got him
all right....  What about _that_ for a presentiment coming true?  _And
I could have saved him_."

"What about a spot of sleep?" suggested Digby.

"It was all clear enough to the police, when they burst in," continued
Linden, ignoring the hint.  "It didn't need a Lecoq, nor your Sherlock
Holmes, to see what had happened.  It leapt to the eye.

"Picture it.

"Old Franz Muller, nosing about the dust-pails and gutters in the early
morning, sees a pool of blood on the doorstep of the little house where
lives the drunken _mauvais sujet_, Marc Linden.  He knocks at the door,
tries the handle, peers through the keyhole, kicks heavily, runs round
to the window.  No sound nor sign from within; and, full of importance,
off he goes to the police.

"All in their own good time, they send a man along to see whether
there's a word of truth in old Franz Muller's story; or whether there
is a spot of red paint on our doorstep, and we peacefully asleep in our
beds.

"The man reports that blood has oozed under the front door; spread
across the step, trickled down the sides and soaked into the dust.

"The police come, burst open the door and find--what?

"A woman lies at full length upon the floor, dead.  So great a quantity
of blood has flowed from her head and neck that, if she was not killed
outright at the time, she has bled to death.

"Seated in a wooden arm-chair, and half sprawling across the table, is
a man.  He is still in a drunken slumber, his head pillowed upon his
bent left arm, the hand of which clutches an empty bottle.  His right
arm, outstretched before him, and resting on the table, points in the
direction of the body of the woman.  In the man's right hand is a
pistol, its muzzle resting on the table.  One chamber has been
discharged.  In a corner of the room, a boy--a stunted undersized
boy--lies on the bare floor.

"They thought he was dead, too, until the Police Surgeon discovered
that he was only suffering from a severe blow on the head, a dislocated
leg and various minor injuries.  He was very emaciated, and had a
number of old bruises, weals, abrasions and contusions.  It was
noticed, too, that the eyes of the woman were blackened and that her
face showed evidences of brutal injury.

"'Aha!' said the police, 'a wife-beater; a scoundrelly brute that
assaults children in his drunken frenzy; and now he has gone too far.
He has deliberately murdered his wife, and perhaps has fatally injured
his son!'

"They reconstructed the crime.

"The man had come home drunk, as usual, bringing with him a bottle of
cheap and fiery spirit.  He had savagely assaulted the woman, beating
her insensible, and had then struck and kicked the boy, finally hurling
him across the room, where he had lain unconscious and half-dead.

"The ruffian had then seated himself at the table to drink.
Unfortunately, before he had fallen into this drunken slumber the
unhappy woman had recovered consciousness and, clutching at the table,
had raised herself to her knees and reproached or defied him, or
perhaps had begged him to get help for the injured child.  His drunken
fury blazing forth again, he had snatched the pistol from his pocket
and shot her dead.  He had then emptied the bottle at a draught, and
fallen forthwith into the sottish, swinish slumber in which they had
found him.

"Thus the police.  And thus was the accusation of wilful murder framed
against my father.

"Nor could a shadow of doubt remain in the mind of any reasonable and
unbiassed person who heard the impassioned speech of the prosecuting
Counsel, the Advocate-General, who demanded a life for a life, the
heaviest of punishments for the foulest of crimes.

"Certainly there was no doubt in the mind of the Judge.  How should
there be?  What would you three have concluded if you had been the
three policemen who burst into the room, and saw the body of a
slaughtered woman lying in a pool of blood that had flowed from a wound
caused by a bullet that had severed jugular vein and carotid artery?
What would you have concluded if, facing the murdered woman, there sat
a man, a noted brute and wife-beater, whose hand clutched the pistol
from which the bullet had been fired?

"What, I ask you?" insisted Linden, seizing the wrist of Michael Geste
in his hot and shaking hand.  "Tell me; what?"

"I should have said that things looked black against the man," replied
Michael Geste, "very black."

"Would you have sent him to the scaffold if you had been his Judge?"
asked Linden.

"Don't know, I'm sure," was the reply.  "Probably....  Possibly not.
Evidence all circumstantial....  We have a different system, you know.
If a jury brought him in guilty of wilful murder..."

"Yes, but it wasn't England, you see," interrupted Linden, "and we
don't assume that every villainous criminal is innocent.  We leave him
to prove that he is--if he can.

"What would _you_ have done if you had been the Judge?" he added,
turning to Digby Geste.

"What the Judge did do, I suppose," replied Digby.

"And you?" continued Linden, turning to John Geste.

"Oh, I don't know," replied John.  "Benefit of the doubt, if there were
any doubt; and I suppose there always is a possibility of doubt when
there are no witnesses."

"There _was_ a witness," said Linden.  "Myself ... I witnessed the
whole affair from beginning to end."

"And you could have saved your father," remarked Michael softly.  "What
a terrible position for you!  Poor chap....  You'd have had to perjure
yourself to have saved him, I suppose?  What a ghastly predicament!
Did you give evidence against him, or did you refuse to speak?"

"_Aha!_" replied Max Linden, and grinned unpleasantly.

Silence fell on the little group, and three of the four settled
themselves for slumber.  But Max Linden, sick-souled and devil-driven,
had more to say.

"It is pretty generally true," he went on, "that bullies are cowards,
and that those who are readiest in inflicting torture are the worst and
feeblest in bearing pain.

"When they reconstructed the crime, my father made me, if possible,
still more ashamed to be his son.

"As soon as I had recovered sufficiently, they took me back again from
the hospital to the house, and put me on a mattress in the corner of
the room, just as the police had found me.  The body of my poor mother
was arranged exactly as it had lain when the police entered the room.
My father was seated in his chair, and made to assume the position in
which he had been found.  The pistol, clutched in his right hand, was
laid on the exact spot--marked by a pencil--where it had rested.

"A police agent then enacted my mother's supposed part in the tragedy.
First he lay upon the floor as though stunned by a blow.  He then
seized the edge of the table opposite to my father, dragged himself to
his knees, and showed how a bullet, fired from the pistol as it rested
on the table, would penetrate the side of his neck while he was in the
act of rising from the floor.

"My father shuddered, shrieked, covered his eyes, and then struggled to
escape.  Alternately he screamed his protestations of innocence and
grovelled for mercy.  Weeping, he would point out that he could not
possibly have done such a thing and know nothing about it; and he
called God and all His saints to witness that he did know nothing about
it.

"Then, tearful and voluble, he would point out that he was drunk when
the police found him, and that if he _had_ done it, he had been too
drunk to know what he was doing.  Surely they would not punish him for
a thing done in ignorance and innocence?  His only fault was that he
had got drunk.

"Then he would call upon the world to witness that no man, so drunk as
he had been, could possibly aim and fire a pistol.  But the _Juge
d'Instruction_ coldly asked him what evidence there was that he had not
deliberately murdered his wife and thereafter drunk himself insensible?

"And that was where I came in.

"Sobbing, groaning, weeping, and sweating with fear for his own
miserable skin, this creature, this man, this Noblest Work of God,
suddenly caught a glimpse of salvation.

"A bright ray of hope shone into the black darkness of his soul.

"'My son!' he cried, 'my son!  He was in the room throughout the night!
He can tell you what happened, _Monsieur le Juge_.'

"They took my evidence, and I gave it freely up to a certain point.  I
said:

"'For as long as I can remember, my father has been a drunkard and a
brute, living God knows how, and by any means but honest work.  Times
without number, I have seen him thrash my mother unmercifully, with a
stick, with the buckle-end of a heavy belt, with a whip, and with his
fist.  Times without number, I have seen him knock her senseless with a
single blow, and then kick her as she lay.  More times than I can tell,
he has flogged me, either for no reason whatsoever, or because he had
sent me out to steal and I had brought back nothing.  It has been his
habit, when in funds, to bring in good food--fish and meat and
vegetables--and to stand over my mother while she cooked it.  He would
then eat the meal himself, while we had nothing but stale bread, and
not enough of that.  Frequently the rich food and bottle of wine would
put him into such high good humour that he would observe that we had no
need to eat dry bread, for we could wet it; and that there was no
necessity for us to drink cold water, since there was no reason why we
should not warm it....

"'On the night of my mother's death, he came home neither more nor less
drunk than usual, bringing with him a bottle of liquor, but no food.

"'He demanded _soupe_ and bread.

"'When my mother told him that there was no food of any sort in the
house, and that we had that day tasted nothing whatsoever but a cup of
re-boiled coffee-grounds, he knocked her down, and then kicked her
until she managed to pull herself together and rise to her feet.  He
then announced that he would "feed me to rights."  Since I wanted food,
he'd feed me with a stick.

"'As I tried to dodge past him and escape from the house, he kicked me
with all his strength, and then, picking me up from the floor, flung me
across the room, so that I struck the wall and fell in a corner.  He
then got the stick, and, as my mother threw herself between him and me,
he struck her repeatedly with all his strength, until she fell to the
ground near the table.  Having kicked her several times, he seated
himself at the table and drank from the bottle.

"'I think I then became unconscious for a time.  When I recovered
consciousness, my father was drinking from the bottle, and my mother
was making feeble efforts to lift her head from the ground and raise
herself upon her elbow.

"'What I saw after that I will never tell.  Not though I am _tortured_
will I say one word; not though I spend the rest of my life in prison
will I add another syllable.'

"Naturally, the police thought that I was reluctant to give testimony
which would instantly destroy any chance my father would have of
escaping the scaffold; and, while respecting the filial feelings of an
unhappy boy, most miserably situated, they drew their own conclusions.
Naturally, too, it was perfectly clear to them that my mother could not
have committed suicide, inasmuch as the pistol was in my father's hand.
Moreover, had it been a case of suicide, I, of course, should have
testified to the manner of her death, and removed all suspicion from my
father.

"Still protesting his innocence, weeping, shrieking and struggling, my
father was taken back to prison, charged with the wilful murder of his
wife."



 2

Linden bowed his head upon his hands and fell silent.

"Look here, you've talked enough for tonight, old chap," said Michael.
"Lie down, and try and get to sleep."

"Oh, let me talk, let me talk, now I have started," groaned Linden.
"Let me finish, anyhow.  I shall be under the sand this time
to-morrow--shot, as my mother was shot, through the face and neck.  I
want to tell the truth about my father....  Let me get it off my
chest....  I must tell somebody....  Let me go on."

"Why, of course," agreed Michael, "talk as much as you like."

"Yes, rather," added Digby; "if it will do you any good, we'll listen
all night.  But you've really told us everything, you know....  Poor
old chap! ... Rough luck...."

"Awful hard lines," murmured John.  "Some people _do_ have frightful
tragedies in their lives....  But doesn't it make it worse for you, to
rake it all up again? ... And as my brother says, you've really told us
all about it."

"Oh, have I?" replied Linden, again grinning unpleasantly.  "Listen.

"Between the Examining Magistrate's preliminary investigations and the
Court trial, I begged and prayed and implored that I might be allowed
to have an interview with my father in his prison cell.

"And one day I found myself alone with the man who had made my life,
and that of my mother, a hell upon earth.

"In the most revolting manner, he fawned upon me, kissing me
repeatedly, and straining me to his breast.

"'My son!  My son!' he snivelled, 'my saviour!  You'll be famous
throughout Europe as the boy who saved his innocent father's life....
How wonderful are the ways of God!  Wonderful and yet terrible--for I
have always had this awful fear of the scaffold, and now I have stood
within its very shadow.  The thought has been my nightmare and
presentiment from childhood, and here I sit within a dozen yards of the
dreadful thing itself.  But my own beloved son has come to save me!
... My little Max has come to tell me all that happened on that
dreadful night when his poor dear mother took her life.'

"And again he thrust his beastly and tear-bedewed face against mine.

"'Yes, father,' I replied, 'that is just what I have come to do.
Listen:

"'You nearly committed two murders that night.  It was not _your_ fault
that you did not first kick your own beloved little Max to death, and
then his poor dear mother.  As a matter of fact, you beat them both
insensible.  The mother recovered first, thought her child was dead--as
he lay there, white and still, where his loving father had flung him.'

"'And thinking so, she took her life....  She took her own life....
_She committed suicide_,' gabbled my father.

"'Listen,' I repeated.  'The half-murdered woman, regaining
consciousness, despairing, dazed, beside herself with agony and grief,
stared at what she thought to be the body of her murdered child, and
then at the sodden brutal face of the bestial ruffianly sot whom she
supported by her unceasing labours, and who repaid her love and
generosity as a wild animal would not have done....  It was a terrible
look, and would to God that the eyes of the swinish drunkard could have
encountered it.'

"'But they could not!  But they could not!' yelped my father.  'He was
drunk, he was insensible; the poor fellow was helpless in a state of
stupor, dead to the world ... innocent, _unconscious_.'

"'Quite unconscious'; I agreed, 'drunk and incapable.  Entirely unable
to see that terrible stare from the woman who had loved him.  Nor could
he see her, after many failures and superhuman effort, rise to her
hands and knees and drag herself to her feet.'

"'But _you_ saw, _you_ saw!' cried my father.

"'Oh yes, I saw everything,' I reassured him.  'I saw her drag herself
to the cupboard where you hide your pistol.  I saw her stagger from the
cupboard with the pistol in her hand, and I saw her crawl into a chair,
fainting, and apparently about to die.'

"'Yes, yes, yes,' urged my father, 'and then _she shot herself_, eh?
Thank God!  Praise God that my own precious boy saw it all, and can
save his innocent father from this horrible false charge!'

"'Listen,' I said a third time.  'How long my mother sat there, I do
not know, but, after a time, she got to her feet once more, went and
drank water, and then, with one hand holding the pistol and the other
supporting her against the wall, she stood and peered at me.

"'_Dead!_' she whispered.  '_My little Max, dead!_' and turned again
and looked at you, dear father....  I would willingly have died if I
could have made you meet that look.  It would have haunted you,
sleeping and waking, to your grave.'

"'But you were _not_ dead,' interrupted my father.  'Why did you not
speak to her?  Why did you pretend?'

"'Because I thought she was going to shoot you, dear father,' I
replied.  'Going to shoot you, in the belief that you had killed me.
Not for worlds would I have let her see that I was alive.  I was dazed
and half-delirious, but I had my wits sufficiently about me to realize
that mother was (thank God!) about to shoot you, and that I could swear
that I had seen you commit suicide!  So I lay still as the dead, in
that dark corner, my eyes half-closed, and looking like the corpse I
almost was.

"'And _then_?  And _then_?' begged my father.

"'And then my mother made her maimed and broken way across to where you
sat and snored, your head upon your left arm, your left hand clutching
the bottle, your right hand and arm extended across the narrow
table....  And, to my astonishment, what did she do but carefully,
painfully, gently, slowly, open your right hand and clasp it about the
handle of the revolver, your forefinger through the trigger-guard, and
resting on the trigger.

"'And then my brain cleared somewhat, and my heart beat fast with joy,
for I realized that my brave and clever mother was going to make _you_
commit suicide!  _You_ were going to be found with your pistol in your
hand and such brains as you have scattered about the room! ... I almost
moved and spoke.  I nearly cried "_Bravo_, mother!" and blessed her
name.

"'And, wide-eyed, I watched as she went round to the opposite side of
the table and knelt facing you ... watched to see her take your right
hand in hers and bend it round so that the pistol touched your
loathsome face ... watched to see her press your forefinger when the
muzzle of the pistol was against your temple, or your eye, or thrust
into your open slavering mouth....

"She took your right hand in both of hers, and, to my puzzled
amazement, presented the pistol--the butt of which rested on the table
as you gripped it--_straight at her own neck_.

"'Even as my amazement turned to horror and I screamed aloud "_Don't,
mother!  Don't!_" she must have pressed your forefinger with her two
thumbs.

"'There was a deafening report, and she fell back.

"'Even as she died, she seemed to be trying to get farther from the
table....

"'And then, too late, I understood.  Thinking me dead, she had come to
join me, leaving you, the murderer of her child, to explain as best you
could the corpses, the blood, the discharged revolver clutched in your
hand.'

"'_Devilish!  Devilish!_' whispered my father.  'The vile hag....  But
God looks after the innocent; and my child was there and saw it all--to
testify truly that his dear father was the victim of a horrible plot.'

"'Yes, dear father,' I replied.  'Your child was there, and saw it all,
and has truly testified.'"


"My father was now anxious to be rid of me, and could scarcely contain
himself until he could communicate with the lawyer charged with his
defence.  From this gentleman I soon received a visit in hospital.

"'Well, well,' quoth he, standing beside my bed and rubbing his hands.
'What is this, what is this, my silent young gentleman?  You've found
your tongue with a vengeance! ... Now tell me again very carefully all
that you told your father,' he continued as he opened his bag, took out
a large notebook, and seated himself on my bed.

"'Now, my little man,' he smiled, smug and self-satisfied, 'let us have
it.'

"I gazed with blank incomprehension upon the smug face of the lawyer.
_Found_ my tongue with a vengeance, had I?  On the contrary, I had lost
it with a very real vengeance.

"'Sir?' I stammered.

"'Come on,' he encouraged, 'and be very careful and exact, especially
about your mother putting the pistol in your father's hand and pressing
the trigger.'

"'About my mother doing _what_, sir?' I faltered.

"'You heard what I said,' he snapped.

"'Yes, sir,' I agreed.  'I heard what you said, but I don't know what
you are talking about.'

"'Your father has just told me,' was the reply, slow and patient, clear
and impressive, 'that you have admitted to him that you witnessed the
whole affair, and did not, as you previously stated, lie unconscious
until you awoke to find your mother dead.  He says you told him how you
saw your mother put the pistol in his hand, and then deliberately shoot
herself.'

"I smiled with pale amusement.

"'My father seems to have been dreaming, sir,' I said.

"The lawyer stared at me in amazement.

"'_Dreaming?_ ... _Dreaming?_ ...' he said, at length.  'What do you
mean?  Are you implying that the whole story is a tissue of lies?'

"'_I_ called it a dream, sir,' I answered meekly.

"The lawyer stared the harder.

"'A wonderfully coherent and circumstantial _dream_,' he said....
'Astonishing amount of detail ... don't you think so?

"'My father didn't tell it to me, sir,' I said simply.

"'Well, I'll tell it you now, my young friend.' ... And he proceeded to
give a very full and accurate repetition of what I had told my father.

"'A really marvellous dream, sir,' I remarked, when he had finished.

"'And haven't you dreamed the same dream yourself?' he asked.

"'I _never_ dream, sir,' I replied.

"'Couldn't you dream that dream to-night?' he suggested, with a subtle
smile and a would-be hypnotic gaze.

"'I _never_ dream, sir,' I repeated, and matched his subtle smile."


The three brothers stared incredulous at _le lgionnaire_ Max Linden,
their young faces expressing a variety of emotions--wonderment,
contempt, pity.

"But did they confront you with your father?"

"Oh yes," replied Linden, "and he, having faithfully repeated the story
I had told him, flung himself at my feet, and implored me to
corroborate it; begged me to speak the truth; besought me to save him;
shrieked to me that he was innocent, _and I alone could prove it_."

"And what did you do?" asked Michael Geste, as Linden fell silent.

"I saw the wraith of my mother standing behind him, and turning to the
Advocate-General, who was present, I tapped my forehead and smiled."

"'Dreaming again, eh?'" growled the great man.

"'Yes, sir,' I agreed, 'he is still dreaming.'

"And so my father's presentiment came true."


"Excuse me," asked Michael Geste, as _le lgionnaire_ Max Linden lay
back and prepared to sleep, "but was the tale you told your father
_true_, or did you actually invent it with the object of torturing him?"

"_Aha_," grinned _le lgionnaire_ Linden, and composed himself to
slumber.


On the following day his own presentiment came true, and he died on the
battlefield of El Rasa.  A bullet struck him in the neck, and, as no
one had any time to attend to him, he bled to death.




XII

DREAMS COME TRUE

I

"Have you come across an extraordinary bird whom they call The
Apostle?" asked Digby suddenly, as the three brothers sat in the
_Jardin Publique_, and rested their weary bones, after a week of
murderous manoeuvres, marching, counter-marching, skirmishing,
attacking and trench-digging, during each day of which they had been
burnt almost unbearably by the sun, and, during each night, soaked and
chilled by a cold relentless rain.

"What's he like?" asked Michael.

"An Apostle," replied Digby.

"What's an Apostle like?" inquired John.

"Don't pretend an ignorance and innocence beyond your years," requested
Digby.  "It is perfectly well known to any student of German oleographs
that an Apostle has a mild and beautiful face, enriched by limpid and
liquid eyes like those of a camel; a longish, curly but well-trimmed,
golden beard; long hair, curling in ringlets about his shoulders; and
an expression of relentless benignity."

"And a halo," added Michael.

"Well, this chap has to make a _kpi_ do for a halo," said Digby, "But
I really think that, back in the old Home Town, he must have been a
professional sitter."

"What d'you mean--a sitter?" inquired John.

"It's the opposite of professional stander," replied Digby.  "A person
who makes a business of standing drinks....  There is no such person;
but a professional sitter is a person who makes a practice of sitting
for a photograph.  Surely you've seen the Beach Bathing Girl, laughing
like two tickled hyenas, waving a hand in the air; the Brother-in-Law
of the Murdered Man, marked with a cross, who had nothing to do with
it; the Mother of Nineteen, who might have reared twenty only he
swallowed a very bad penny; the Channel Aspirant, who had to give up
toward the evening of the third day, owing to currents in the bun they
gave her; the Very Respectable Man in Shirt Sleeves who won the
Football Forecast Competition at the 297th attempt, and is going to buy
his wife (inset) a mangle, because they've never had a cross word
competition in their lives..."

"Shut up," growled Michael.

"Certainly, sir," agreed Digby.  "And the Apostle must have made his
living sitting for the pictures that adorn the books on which Good
Children are brought up."

"Nearly finished?" inquired Michael, "because if so, I believe I know
the chap you mean, only he was pointed out to me as the Dreamer.  He's
a friend of Cordier, who, as a doctor and a psychologist, is deeply
interested in him."

"Oh yes," said John.  "I know the Dreamer.  Most extraordinary
creature.  Preaches, dreams and sees visions."

"Yes, by Jove, I remember now.  Some one called him _Le Reveur_."

"Well, what do you think of him?"

"I _don't_ think of him," said Michael.  "I prefer not to.  He gives me
the creeps."

"That's interesting," put in John.

"Why?" inquired his brothers.

"Well, I was on a fatigue with him, and after some hours, and quite a
long talk, I really didn't know whether I liked or loathed him; nor
whether he was quite charming or--not quite charming; almost sinister
in fact."

"That's the word," observed Digby.  "Sinister....  You feel he's a most
interesting and delightful chap, and then suddenly you come up against
something which is, as you say, almost sinister."

"Unwholesome, what?" suggested Michael.  "Bizarre, abnormal, got a mad
streak in him."

"Streak is a good word, too," agreed Digby.  "You may conceivably have
encountered the expression Streaky Bacon.  He's like that.  A nice
expanse of fat white piety and virtue, and then a hard red streak of
something lurid."

"A wretched and vulgar simile," commented Michael.  "But I know what
you mean.  He's certainly of less homogeneous structure, more
conglomerate, of more diverse elements compact...."

"Yes, Papa," agreed Digby hastily.  "In short, a weird bloke.  Let's
cultivate him for our collection."

"Or collect him for our cultivation," added John, as they arose to
return to Barracks.



 2

_Le lgionnaire_ Maximilien Gontran, as he called himself, seated at a
table in the Canteen, held a circle of his admirers spell-bound by his
eloquence--a thing he loved to do, and which he could do at will.  He
was describing one of those astoundingly vivid and circumstantial
dreams that had won him the sobriquet of "The Dreamer," while his
unusual appearance, manner and conduct had won him that of "The
Apostle,"

As the three brothers approached, warmly welcomed by their friends
Maris, Cordier and St. Andr, Gontran paused to bow courteously and
suggest refreshment.  He then resumed his well-told and realistic
account of his latest dream.

"No, I couldn't tell you what place it was," he said, "save that I got
the impression of a kind of Cathedral Chapter-House, or some such
place; nor could I say for certain whether it was part of a Catholic or
a Protestant foundation.  It might have been the Vatican, Canterbury
Cathedral, Notre-Dame, St. Paul's or St. Mark's.  It may have been in
Seville, St. Petersburg, New York, Athens or Bruges, but it was a
magnificently ornate interior of lace-like ancient stone carving,
lace-like old wooden carving, jewel-like medival stained-glass, all
mellowed and harmonized with the patina of Time.

"'In this great room, with its marble pavement, from which grew great
pillars branching and exfoliating in the dim recesses of the groined
and lofty roof, was a great old table from the refectory of some
monastery.  It was surrounded by great old carven chairs, each worthy
to be a Bishop's throne.  And in these chairs, about this table, sat a
great company of Princes of the Church, over whom presided the most
wonderful and venerable figure of that most wonderful and venerable
Ecclesiastical Court.  A Prince Bishop, Cardinal, Archbishop or Pope.
I can see his face now, old ivory, aquiline, austere, beautiful,
beneath the silver hair and golden mitre.

"His vestments, stiff with brocade, precious metals and more precious
stones, were the most wonderful that I have ever seen; even more
costly, ornate and marvellous than those of the constellation of lesser
lights that shone around him.

"I can see the faces of those others, too.  One was that of a
strong--perhaps headstrong and violent--man; a face that could flush to
dull purple with anger; a face of heavy brows, heavy jaw and heavy
looks.  When opposed by one of his colleagues, he bared strong even
teeth and covered them again reluctantly.

"Next him, in purple and gold and finest lawn, with a great jewel upon
his white forefinger, sat a gentle, quiet creature who, in silken
tones, angered and goaded the strong and violent man, with honeyed
words and mocking smiles.  A subtle wily man, a very fox of sop.

"And on his other side, a pompous dullard, diseased with egoism and
conceit, a man who thought, if he did not actually say, 'God and I in
our wisdom have decided and ordained...'

"And others there were of the great and good--and successful.  And they
talked about it and about, while the High Priest in the high chair
slowly nodded his august head in agreement, or pursed his thin lips in
even more august disapproval.

"What they discussed with such intensity of feeling, such veiled
acrimony and bitterness, I do not know; but I rather fancy that some
liturgical practice was in process of revision; the proposal of some
modification of ritual was being defended and attacked; some alteration
in the long-established forms of ancient prayers.  I know not what--but
it was abundantly clear that while some evidently thought the proposals
would afford the Almighty considerable satisfaction, others were of an
adamantine certainty that Almighty God would be frightfully put out
about it.  One man--if one may use the mere word 'man' without
irreverence--arrayed in clothing more beautiful and costly than that of
a great Queen at a State Ball, spoke most eloquently of Progress, of
the necessity of the Church's parallel growth and development with that
of the development of the mentality and education of the nation.  A
good and learned man, he said that when the nation was a child, it
thought and prayed as a child, but that now it was attaining to lusty
youth and incipient manhood, it would no longer think and pray as a
child, and the Church must realize the fact.

"As he resumed his seat, after a most moving peroration, the beautiful
and saintly figure at the head of the table slowly nodded its noble and
most venerable head.  And even as it did so, another Prelate sprang to
his feet, and with clenched fist and blazing eye, called down the curse
of God, the rebuke of the High Priest, and in culmination, the
disapproval of the Prime Minister, on the impious head of him who would
dare to lay defiling, desecrating and sacrilegious hands upon the most
treasured, the most beloved, the most sacred heritage and possession of
the People.  If such a dreadful thing were done, they would not believe
their very eyes when they opened that book which so rarely left their
hands.  They would not believe their ears when they detected a change
in the service of those churches which they daily thronged.  And when
the awful truth at last dawned clearly on their shocked and shattered
souls, they would swarm forth into the streets and market-places in
their millions, and with tongues of men and angels, they would--er--do
all sorts of things.

"And as this impassioned Defender of the Faith sank back exhausted upon
the velvet cushions of his Throne, and wiped the foam from his lips
with an embroidered handkerchief of finest lawn, a little wicket opened
in the vast oaken double doors of this great Chapter-House.  The little
wicket, not five feet high, nor three feet wide, opened, and through it
stooped the figure of a man--a common coatless working-man, wearing
overalls and an apron, and carrying, slung over his shoulder, one of
those flat straw baskets in which carpenters carry their tools.  From
its ends protruded saws, hammers, and the handles of other such
implements used by those who work in wood.

"Humbly, quietly, treading as softly and silently as the contact of his
hobnailed boots with that wonderful marble pavement permitted, the
workman, with averted eyes and meekest mien, made his unobtrusive way
toward a piece of unfinished work in the far distant corner of the
Hall.  There, in silence, absorption, and obscurity, he went about his
business of measurement and then of boring into some rotten wood.  In
fact, he had settled to his work of restoration before the Lords
Spiritual had properly recovered from the shock of his intrusion.

"The High Priest at the head of the table, as became a Leader, was the
first to give voice to the indignant astonishment of the august
assembly.  But it was the headstrong and violent Prelate who first took
action.  Even as the High Priest, cried with a stern note in his
beautiful silvern voice:

"'Go hence!  Depart! ... You intrude....  This is not the time for you
to enter here,' ... the strong-faced Prelate, rising from his throne,
strode across to where the carpenter worked engrossed, his back turned
upon that judicial Court of Princes of the Church.

"Seizing the intrusive workman by the arm, he swung him about, and with
an angry glare and display of strong white teeth, shouted,

"'Here, what's the meaning of this?  Who are you, that you should come
into the presence of the Lords Spiritual themselves, even while they
deliberate on high matters of the Church--actually while they debate
changes in the Form of Worship of Almighty God! ... Who are you, sir?'

"A sweet and gentle smile wreathed the lips of the carpenter.

"'I am Jesus Christ,' he said softly...."


_Le lgionnaire_ Maximilien Gontran, known as the Apostle, and also as
the Dreamer, laughed, and then emptied his glass, while the Geste boys
eyed him critically.



 3

The patrol under Corporal Heintz, twenty-four hours out from Douargala,
sprawled wearily about that great man's feet, as they rested in the
providential shadow of a great rock in that thirsty land.

There were present, the Geste brothers and most of their _escouade_,
Maris, Cordier, St. Andr, Hank, Buddy, Boldini, Brandt, Haff, Delarey
and a few others, including La Cigale, old Tant de Soif and
Gontran--who distinguished himself next day and was soon afterwards
promoted Corporal.

To become the equal and even the superior of Corporal Heintz was the
dream of Gontran's life, for he hated Heintz with an unspeakable,
unappeasable, almost unbearable hatred.  If there were, in the whole
world, another hatred that equalled it, it was the hatred of Corporal
Heintz for Gontran.

"Well, Apostle," growled Heintz with a bitter vicious sneer, as he
looked down, from where he was seated on a big stone, at the prostrate
form of Gontran.  "Had any more dreams lately?"

"Not lately, Corporal Heintz," replied _le lgionnaire_ Maximilien
Gontran, softly, as he turned his large mild eyes toward the hard,
handsome face of his enemy.

"Not lately, eh?" mocked the other.  "Then I must see if I can't give
you something to dream about.  I wonder if you'd dream better in the
cells or _en crapaudine_....  Tell us one that you _haven't_ dreamed
lately...."

"I'll tell you one I once dreamed about a bully," replied Gontran,
sitting up suddenly, and looking Heintz squarely in the face.  "Two, in
fact, if you'd care to hear them.  I do not know whether you ever went
to school, Corporal Heintz....  Yes? ... Indeed! ... So did I, and they
sent me when I was very young--far too young, in fact.  I first went to
school on my third birthday, and I went in fear and trembling
unbelievable, for the schoolmaster was a known bully and brute, who
ruled his unhappy charges with a rod of iron, or rather with a rod of
pliant cane, that left blue weals and bruises on their tender bodies.
He did not spare the rod, but he spoiled the child, by making him a
trembling little coward, an arrant little liar.  What child, who thinks
he can escape torture by means of deception, will not deceive?  This
brutal bully, this cruel sadistic savage, enjoyed beating children and
thrashed them, not 'for their own good,' but for his own enjoyment, and
made them furtive, treacherous, cowardly and untruthful.  He also made
their days a misery, their nights a terror, and their lives a burden.
I can see him now, with his flaming red beard, red hair, red nose and
cold greenish eye, a great powerful, vindictive ruffian of whom our
parents were as much afraid as we were.

"It was no Academy for the Sons of Gentlemen, our school, but a log hut
in a forest, a mile or so from our village, and there can be but few
buildings in this world from which more screams of agony had rung out.
One reads of tortures, tortures of the Chinese and of the Holy
Inquisition; one has seen photographs of the bodies of our poor fellows
tortured and mutilated by the Arabs; but, you know, I doubt if any
tortured person suffers more from steel, or cord, or red-hot iron, than
does a tender child from the stinging, biting cuts of a swishy cane
applied by a master hand.

"To me, at any rate, it was a refinement of agony ineffable, and I
suffered it daily for years, dreamed of it nightly for centuries, and
tried to find the courage to commit suicide.  But _tout lasse, tout
casse, tout passe_, and at length I was free, and went out into the
great world where I grew big and strong.

"Oh yes, I'm very strong, Corporal Heintz, and most patiently I
developed and trained my strength, as the earnest pupil of a great and
famous professional Strong Man.

"And then came this dream of which I started to tell you.

"I dreamed that one fine morning I revisited the village of my birth,
spent a delightful hour with my dear old parents, and then took a
stroll through the forest to the scene of my happy school-days--those
days which we are told are the very happiest of our lives.  Nothing had
changed in the five or six years of my absence; not even the sound of
agonized shrieks as I drew near the building; not even the sound of
cutting blows upon bare flesh as I drew near the open windows of the
schoolhouse; not even the savage grin of enjoyment upon the vile face
of my erstwhile preceptor...

"With my blood boiling, my nerves tingling and my fists clenching and
unclenching, I flung open the door, and strode into the room, smelt the
old familiar smell, saw the rows of strained white faces, heard the
stifled sobbing of a cruelly-beaten child.

"'You dog,' I said quietly.  'You brutal, savage, snarling cur.'

"And as he whirled upon me, I struck with all my strength, and he went
down, down across the whipping-bench, over which he had held me a
thousand times.  And I saw fear in that brute's eyes as he rose to his
feet, and again I smashed my fist between them, with all my strength.

"When he could stagger to his feet no more, I flung him across that
whipping-bench on which my young life and soul and nature had been
warped, and taking his own cane, I flogged him until I was too weary to
raise my hand again.

"And as I resumed my coat, I told him that I would keep in closest
touch with certain of his pupils, and that if ever I heard of his
striking one of his pupils a single blow, I would visit him again and
give him a punishment compared with which this would be as nothing.

"Wasn't that a fine dream, Corporal Heintz?  Oh!  _I am a good hater
and I always repay!  I always repay!_"

"I suppose it was a true dream," observed Michael Geste.

"Yes," replied Gontran.  "A day dream--and quite true."

"You spoke of two," observed La Cigale, who had shuddered and covered
his face with his hands during Gontran's description of the sufferings
of the children.  "What was the other, might one ask?  Did you dream
that some scoundrelly ruffian was punished in that one also?"

"Ah, a curious dream," murmured Gontran, eyeing Corporal Heintz.  "Very
curious....  '_Wage du zu irren und zit tramen_,' as Schiller says....
'Dare to err and to dream.' ...  Yes, there was a scoundrel in this one
also, and I think one may say he was punished....  A woman too...."

"Do you never have beautiful dreams of drink?" inquired Tant de Soif.
"I once dreamed that I was swimming in a river of wine.  Lovely....
Wonderful.  Every night I go to sleep hoping that I may dream it again."

"I suppose you drank while you swam?" inquired Boldini.

"No, I swam while I drank," replied Tant de Soif, "and I drank so much
and so fast that I choked and woke up, to find that it had come on to
rain, and that a stream of dirty water was pouring from a roof-gutter
into my open mouth.  Fancy dreaming of wine, and waking to water."

"That is life in epitome, my friend," observed La Cigale, "to find your
wine is water.  Tell us your other dream," he added, turning to Gontran.

"Oh, it was nothing ... nothing much.  There are really only a few
varieties of dream.  They all belong to one or other of about half a
dozen kinds.  This was quite a stock one--the old triangular dream, you
know; two men and a woman.  She was a remarkable girl.  Of course, all
women are remarkable, I know.  But she was doubly so, for the simple
reason that she was two women."

"So you had two wives, bigamist?" growled the Corporal.

"I did not say that she was my wife--and after all, I'm only telling a
_dream_, am I not, Corporal Heintz?

"Yes, she was a gentle, timid, soft little thing, meek and nervous and
humble, full of gratitude for your smile, fearful and anxious and
cringing at your scowl."

"Proper sort for a wife," smiled Boldini, and licked his lips.

"And yet there was a core of granite at the heart of this soft clay;
there was steel somewhere beneath the silk."

"Perhaps she had a heart of gold," sneered Boldini.  "Gold's hard
enough, and hard to come by."

"Excellent," smiled Gontran.  "What a very clever man you are!  It must
have been her heart of gold that one occasionally came upon beneath
that tender softness.  Quite so; for she was good.  Oh, unutterably
good and sweet--the sweetest nature, the sweetest disposition, the
sweetest temper--oh, incurably sweet.  How would you like to eat honey
all day long?  And think of the flies such honey attracts.  There was
one fly in particular....  To pursue the simile a little further, he
got honey on his wings and couldn't fly away....  Sticky stuff,
honey....  And he got it in his heart, and certainly in his voice.  Oh,
honeyed words, I assure you.  The husband listened secretly.

"He was a gentle soul, this Lover ... made for love....  Undoubtedly in
a previous incarnation he had been a Provenal _jongleur_, a wandering
minstrel of love, going from castle to castle, and from Court to Court;
singing of love; making love; a very warrior in the lists of love;
right welcome at King Ren's Court of Love; slender, willowy,
white-handed, large-eyed, long-haired, golden-bearded--oh, a great
lover.

"And she, pleased and smiling, always pleased and smiling, but
discreet....  Oh, yes, always discreet....  And virtuous....  Or so the
Husband hoped.  And believed--sometimes.  And sometimes he did not.
When he was with them he believed, as he gazed upon that lovely Madonna
face, and looked into the soulful, gentle eyes of his sweet-mouthed
friend; but when his affairs took him away, as periodically they did,
and he must leave his Mountain Forest chalet for days at a time, he did
not believe; and a dark cloud of jealousy gradually overspread the
heaven of his soul.

"Jealousy, to change the metaphor, that purest poison, that deadliest
and most damnable distillation of the Devil....  And the poison spread
and spread until his mind was rotted and corrupted, his conscience
paralysed, his better nature dead.

"And as poisoned love was metamorphosed into hideous hate, he watched
and schemed and plotted and laid traps.  And worse--he made
opportunities for them.  He would say to his friend:

"'This time to-morrow night I shall be on the Rhine again, gazing on
moon-lit schloss and vineyard, and thinking of my girl, lonely at home
here.  Pass the cottage on your night round, comrade, and try the door
and window.  She is young and careless, and thinks no evil.  She does
not believe the world holds thieves and robbers and evil men.'

"And the young forester would eagerly agree.  What had he to guard
one-millionth part as precious as little love-faced Heart-of-Gold?

"And the Husband would take an impassioned farewell of his Dutiful
Beautiful, and bid her not to mope in loneliness during his week of
absence.  Why should she not go and visit Frau Englehardt, and take
some dainty for her invalid and aged husband?  Young Fritz would see
her safely home if she lingered after nightfall.

"And departing, he would swiftly return--and watch.

"And one night he was rewarded--or punished, for he saw her sauntering
beneath the trees with her Lover, strolling hand-in-hand in the
moonlight, and lingering in the black patches of darkest shadow.

"At the door of the cottage they stood and spoke awhile, and then she
drew him in and closed the door.  Would a light appear, and if so in
which room?  With teeth embedded in the knuckle which he gnawed, the
Husband waited ... waited ... waited.  And a light appeared.  They had
lit the lamp in the sitting-room downstairs.

"Cautiously he crept to the window.  Blind and curtain were drawn and
he could see nothing.  Later, the Lover emerged and strode off into the
forest, whistling, his gun upon his shoulder.  Scarcely could the
Husband refrain from rushing to the house, taking down his own gun from
where it hung upon the wall, and stealing off to waylay him on his
round.  But that would be crude--and dangerous; and it was just
possible that he was wrong, his suspicions unfounded.  He would make
absolutely sure--and then his vengeance should be dreadful.

"But it would be a poor game to alienate his wife, lose his friend, and
put a noose about his own neck, for nothing at all--put himself within
the shadow of the prison--of the gallows--because of a suspicion that
might be as baseless as the airy fabric of a dream.

"_Prison_!  _Gallows_!  Unpleasant words, and conjuring up unpleasant
thoughts in the mind of one who already had a guilty secret--one who
already knew what it was to feel uncomfortable at the approach of a
_gendarme_, to feel a certain apprehension whenever there came a sudden
and heavy knock upon the door.  Such a sinister and sullen sound,
ominous and foreboding.

"So he waited ... waited ... waited through that night, seated with his
back against a tree, his eyes upon his moonlit silent house, wherein
the light had disappeared from the sitting-room, appeared in the
bedroom, and suddenly gone out.  And later, the Lover returned from his
round, whistling merrily until he was near the house, when he fell
silent and walked delicately, making no noise with his iron-shod boots.

"The Husband rose to his feet and stiffened like a hunting-dog that
sees its prey.  The forester entered by the little garden gate, and
crept silently to the door.  The Husband, in the shadow of his tree,
took a step forward, and the faint sound of the intake of his breath
was audible.

"The door did not open.  Nor did the window.  No light appeared within
the house, and the Lover strolled silently away.

"At a short distance from the house, he turned, bared his head,
extended both arms in the direction of the upstairs window, and stood
as though in adjuration and in prayer.  Then, wafting a kiss in the
direction in which he gazed, he suddenly turned and strode swiftly away.

"Nothing much in all that, you will say.  And so the Husband said--for
a time.  But, being of a jealous nature, he could neither let well
alone nor ill, if ill it were--until, one night, returning two days
before he was expected, he found his house silent, empty and deserted.

"Stunned and incredulous, he seized his gun, and strode out of that
unbearable and mocking house, and, with murder in his heart, rushed
through the forest, bareheaded and distraught.  He realized that his
feet were carrying him in the direction of the cottage where dwelt the
_garde-champtre_, and his aged parents.

"Why?  She would not be there.  They would have fled.

"But she was there, serene and calm, sitting with her lover in the
porch, while, in the room above, the old mother ministered to her sick
husband, the invalid for whom the girl had brought some delicacy.
Coolly she greeted her husband, and told him that he was just in time
to take her home, instead of Fritz, who had kindly offered to do so.

"'But why the gun?' jeered the Lover.  'Going rabbit-shooting in the
dark?'

"'Yes, I'm going to shoot a rabbit,' replied the Husband, in a deadly
quiet voice, 'and quite probably in the dark.'

"Thereafter his mind dwelt much on shooting, but he feared the law.  He
feared what his wife might suspect, and say, and do, if suddenly her
lover disappeared.  For he knew, in his heart, though never a word had
been spoken, that his wife was but too well aware of his jealousy and
his hatred; and he suspected that the forester knew of it, too.

"With amusement?  With contempt?  Would they laugh at him together
behind his back, adding vilest insult to foulest injury?  The thought
was unbearable, and his soured suspicious mind was all but unhinged.

"One day, the dark recesses of his mind were brilliantly illuminated by
a lurid idea, and he could scarcely await the hour for translating
thought into action--the action that would give completest proof and
every excuse and right for committing a _crime passionel_.  The law
would pardon the deed, and public opinion condone it.  Proof,
confession, punishment.  Punishment for them both.  The utmost penalty
of the law--the unwritten law.

"Having made his usual preparations for a journey, and requested his
wife to put a change of clothing and a parcel of food in his rucksack,
he announced his departure for Cologne, and his intention of returning
on the fifth day at earliest.

"'There is no time earlier than the earliest, is there?' observed his
wife, with her enigmatic smile; and bade him a sufficiently fond
farewell.

"He returned the next night, and once again watched and waited for the
passing of Fritz, the _garde-champtre_.  This time he waylaid and
accosted him, a quarter of a mile from the house; and, as though even
more in sorrow than in anger, in wounded misery than in savage and
vengeful wrath--accused him of being the Lover of his wife.

"It was the young forester who was angry, and angry that the woman
should be accused, that a single word should be uttered against her, a
single breath of suspicion tarnish her good name.  Of himself he said
nothing--his sole reply was to condemn the unbelievable baseness and
villainy of the mind that could think such thoughts, the man who could
speak such words of his innocent wife--and such a wife.

"Oh, it was well acted, clever and very plausible, and when the Husband
bade him cease to speak of the woman, and to answer the charge brought
against himself, he replied:

"'Why waste my time and trouble, madman?  But take note that I am
merely _suspected_ of a vile thing, and that by only one man--if you
are a man.  Whereas you have done--actually _done_--a most vile and
awful thing.'

"The Husband recoiled in alarm.

"'_What have I done?_' he cried.

"'Fouled your own nest, bird of ill-omen,' was the reply.  'Falsely and
filthily accused the sweetest and most innocent of women.  Spat your
stinking poison at a star of Heaven, immeasurably above you.  Yes, and
it falls back upon your own most beastly face.'

"The Husband laughed.

"'Why all this heat?" he asked softly, 'since you are not her lover?'

"'Because she is an innocent woman, you diseased hound, and I will not
hear her name befouled, not even by you.  Nay, _especially_ by you, who
should be her sure shield and strong protection.  You, the very man who
should strike dead the lying scoundrel who spoke evil.

"'Or did evil, eh?' interrupted the Husband.  'Strike him dead, you
said.'

"'I did, and I repeat it,' replied the forester.  '_Evil_ in connection
with that true, sweet, innocent woman!'

"'She is innocent, eh?' interrupted the Husband again.

"'You know it.'

"'And you?  Are you innocent?'

"'You know it.'

"'Good.  Then you shall prove it.  Refuse to do what I now order you to
do, and I shall know, _know_, once and for all, that you are a liar, a
coward, and a thief, and that she is a...'

"The forester raised his clenched fist, and the Husband sprang back.

"'Blows prove nothing,' he cried.  'Fists are not arguments.  Come with
me, and we shall see what we shall see--or hear ...  _Innocent_, is
she!'

"And with a bitter laugh he strode in the direction of his house,
followed by the forester.

"Silently opening the little garden gate, he laid a finger on his lips
and whispered:

"'Make a sound, and it is a certain proof of guilt.  Come.'

"And taking the key from his pocket, he crept to the door, and silently
unlocked it.

"'Follow me,' he whispered almost inaudibly, and drew the Lover into
the house.

"There, in the darkness, behind the closed door, they stood.  The
Husband, shaking with jealous rage, and scarcely able to keep his
twitching hands from the throat of the man whom he hated beyond telling
or belief; the Lover, sorely bewildered and disturbed, but strong to
protect and defend the woman whom he loved.

"Thus they stood, silent in the noiseless darkness, till suddenly the
Husband, in low, tense whisper, bade the Lover mount the stairs and
open the door of the room where the woman slept.

"'Go up, you dog,' he whispered, 'softly open the door, and say
"_Lisette, it is I.  I am here, Lisette, it is I, Fritz_"--and we shall
hear what she replies!  Innocent, is she!  We shall see.'

"'I do not know the door,' answered the Lover.  'I have never set foot
upon those stairs.'

"'Liar!' whispered the Husband.  'Coward!  Liar again!  You dare not.
You are afraid of what she will say.  You dare not stand there in the
dark, knowing that I am behind you with my hunting-knife against your
back, and say "_Lisette, it is I, Fritz.  I have come to you_."  No,
you know too well what she will answer.  "_You are late, my beloved_"
... or "_And I am waiting, my sweetheart Fritz_." ...  Eh?  That's
about what we should hear, isn't it?  Very awkward with the point of
this between your shoulder-blades, eh? ... No, you don't know the way
to that door, do you?'

"'No,' replied the Lover.  'Show me the way.  Creep softly, and open
the door yourself.  Then stand behind me, place the point of your knife
just where you will, and I will call "_Lisette, it is I, Fritz.  I have
come to you_," and abide the result.  Lead on.'

"'Bluff and bravado,' growled the Husband, softly.  'We shall see.'

"'Lead on,' whispered the Lover, and slowly, stealthily, silently the
two went up the stair.  At the top, the Husband, seizing the Lover's
wrist, crossed a little landing at the end of which a small window,
vaguely outlined by starshine and the feeble fleeting light of a lean
cloud-haunted moon, was visible.

"'This is the door,' he breathed, then directed the Lover's hand toward
the latch, swiftly stepped behind him and drew his knife.

"After a brief fumbling at the latch, the Lover opened the door, and
with low insistent voice called '_Lisette, Lisette._'

"And again:

"'_Lisette, Lisette._'

"'There was a faint sound of movement from the bed, and the Lover felt
a pressure on the left side of his broad back.

"'_Lisette,_' he called urgently.

"'_What?  Who's that?_' came a woman's voice from the pitchy darkness
of the room.

"The pressure increased behind the forester's heart, and he fancied he
felt the knife-point against his skin.

"'_It is I, Lisette,_' he said.  '_It is I, Fritz.  I have come to you,
Lisette._'

"Dead silence in the blank black darkness.

"No reply.  No movement.  No sound--even of breathing.

"The pressure increased, and no doubt remained as to whether the
knife-point pricked the Lover's skin.

"'_Lisette,_' he said again.  '_Speak to me, Lisette ... Say something.
It is I, Fritz.  Standing here in the doorway of your room.  Speak,
Lisette._'

"Silence.

"Aching, unbearable silence and suspense.

"'_Say something, Lisette.  Speak to me._'

"Silence.

"And then suddenly, at what seemed to be the very end of Time itself, a
voice came out of the darkness.

"'_You, is it, Fritz?_' spoke the woman.  '_And you have opened the
door of my room, and are standing there.  Ah! ... Then listen, Fritz.
And when I have spoken, you will know what to do._'

"The voice ceased, but not the increasing pressure behind the young
man's heart.

"'_I am listening, Lisette,_' he said.

"And Lisette spoke again.

"'_On the 25th day of June of last year, at about 9 o'clock in the
evening_...'

"The pressure suddenly relaxed--the knife was no longer touching the
young man's back....

"'... _a man was sitting on a log in the forest near the waterfall.  He
had sold his winter's wood-carving that day, and returning homeward had
sat him down to rest and to gloat upon the money he had got for it._

"'_By a curious chance two people saw him--one of them from some
distance, but not from so far away that there could be any possibility
of mistake as to who sat there with the last rays of the setting sun
shining full upon him--nor any possibility of mistake as to who was the
other person who saw him, and who crept stealthily upon him from
behind.  THAT man was..._'

"'That's enough,' roared a bull voice in the darkness, and almost in
Fritz's ear.

"Dead silence.

"And then the voice of the Husband, a little shaky, false and falsetto,
gabbled unconvincingly,

"'Ha, ha, ha!  What do you think of this for a joke, my love?  Fritz
and I thought we'd play a little trick on you.  I met him in the forest
on my way home.  He said, "_Let's go and give little Lisette a
fright._"'

"'_Oh, you are there too, are you, Karl?_' replied a cool voice from
the darkness.  And I swear there was a smile in the voice.

"'_I think it was a splendid joke ... a wonderful little trick for
Fritz, of all people, to suggest.  And now the little Lisette has had
her fright, eh?  Or is it the little Lisette who has had the fright?_'

"'Get out of this, you, quick,' growled the Husband, and gave the Lover
a thrust that sent him headlong down the stairs.

"Rising to his feet, the young forester debated for a moment as to
whether he should return in triumph and demand an apology, in the name
of Lisette, from that evil-thinking, unworthy animal above.  But
natural delicacy joined with instinct and with wisdom to forbid.
Rarely are peacemakers really blessed who come between husband and
wife....  And the young man, bewildered, indignant, angry and sore at
heart, quietly went his way.


"And then for the Husband there followed a period of hell upon earth
that made the recent months of misery seem like halcyon days of peace
and joy.  He had shown his hand, and Lisette had shown her
knowledge--her knowledge of a deed which he had hitherto supposed no
human eye had witnessed.  He had shown his hand, insulting and
alienating his friend, insulting and alienating his wife, and had
proved nothing, gained nothing.  Gained nothing, save a dreadful Fear,
a Fear that dogged him by day and gripped him by night.

"How much did Lisette know?

"Everything, of course.

"How otherwise did she know the very hour at which old Caspar Knutzen
met his death.  Had she followed and watched as he dragged the frail
old body to the mouth of the old disused mine and thrust it over the
edge?  It mattered not, since she had witnessed the crime.

"What a woman--to live with that secret in her heart and to say
nothing!  But had she said nothing?  Had she told her lover?  And if
she had not told him, would she tell him now, in revenge for this
unpardonable offence, the insult of the unforgivable accusation he had
made against her and Fritz?

"In what a morass of fear, horror and suspense had he to walk?  If she
had not told Fritz up to that very day, she might tell him on the
morrow.  After any quarrel she might run to him with this story of the
murder.

"Did Fritz eye him queerly nowadays?

"Was there special meaning and triumph, as well as contempt and scorn,
in the glance which he gave him?

"And if she did tell Fritz, what was there to prevent their getting him
sent to the scaffold that they might be free to marry?  Or, for fear
that that might look like interested collusion, why should not Lisette
denounce him to the world, go to the Police and, after his execution,
marry Fritz quietly, in due course?

"And if she had not yet breathed a word about it to any living soul,
might she not still use this awful secret for her own ends?  Use it to
secure his acquiescence and compliance?  Perhaps use it to make him
agree to her divorcing him?

"Ah, divorce!  Could he not divorce _her_, with the help of perjured
witnesses?

"The Husband was well aware that there are base scoundrels who rid
themselves of women, from whom they wish to be free, by taking action
against them in the Divorce Court, and putting them in the position of
having either to defend their good name and remain tied to the foul
beast, who has accused them; or of gaining their freedom at the cost of
leaving the perjured liar's filthy accusations unrefuted.

"But what would he gain, even if she and Fritz were willing to remain
undefended, and he succeeded in divorcing her?  They would marry and
she would surely tell Fritz the husband what she might not have told
Fritz the lover.  And Fritz, of course, would use the knowledge to
punish him for the lies and insults of the divorce.

"And meanwhile, how much longer could he go on living in the same house
with this woman whom he dared not look in the face?  This woman whom he
had so injured and insulted, even while she knew this dreadful thing,
and had said no word.  And how could he continue to meet this Fritz
daily, this Fritz whom he had insulted and accused, and who might, at
any moment, learn that he was a murderer, might indeed know it already.
How much longer could he go on living here, awaiting the heavy hand
that would one day fall upon his shoulder; awaiting the heavy knock
that would one day fall upon his door; fearing every stranger who
approached him; fearing the sound of every foot that followed him in
the forest or the town.

"Flight?

"And if he fled?  Whither?  And where would he be secure?  For the arm
of the law is long, and the voice of the murdered dead is loud, as it
crieth for vengeance from the unconsecrated grave.

"What to do?  How many people knew?  Almost certainly no more than
Lisette and Fritz.  Quite probably Lisette alone.  And if Lisette alone
knew, and anything--happened to--Lisette, then _no one_ would know, and
all would be well, and the Husband could struggle out of this fearful
morass, shake its mud from his feet, and walk forth a free man.

"But then again, how could one live without Lisette, the beautiful, the
sweet, the charming--and maddening--Lisette?

"Well, better to live without her, a free man, than live without her in
prison, or die without her, on the scaffold.  Lisette was dear, but
life was dearer, and self-preservation is man's first law.

"Yes, it looked as though the dear Lisette might have to die, but
clearly the first thing was to find out whether the good Fritz had been
told of the fatal secret....  And if he had, why then it might prove a
fatal secret indeed--for Fritz.

"How one's mind did run on!  And how one thing led to another--two more
murders to cover one!


"Meanwhile Fritz, the _garde-champtre_, lived in a state of
unhappiness far removed indeed from the guilty misery of Karl, but
almost as far from his former condition of light-hearted contentment
and _joie-de-vivre_.  Why had that ill-conditioned cur behaved so, and
spoilt everything between him and Lisette; made them self-conscious and
uncomfortable?  Nothing could ever be the same again, now that this hog
had wallowed in the dainty dream-garden of their delight.

"Life was spoilt and defiled, and instead of rising in the morning with
a song in his heart and thoughts of a glimpse of Lisette, a word with
Lisette, perhaps a walk with Lisette, he must now avoid her, and slink
shamefacedly past the cottage that had been the lodestone of his
thoughts, the haven of his dreams, the shrine of his dear love.

"And what was the meaning of that astounding bedroom scene, that drama
played in darkness?  What had Lisette meant, and why had her reference
to a man seated on a log so suddenly changed a blustering and menacing
bully into a frightened fool?

"How had Lisette known that Karl was standing there?  Woman's quick wit
and intuition telling her that her friend Fritz would not have come to
her thus? ... Had she guessed; and instantly realized the plot and
trap?  Possibly she had heard them whispering below.  Anyhow, the
cunning blackguard had had his lesson; the evil-minded dog come
whimpering to heel.

"But everything was spoilt and a heavy dirty hand had roughly and
rudely brushed the bloom from life's fairest and sweetest fruit.  Why
was it that women such as Lisette married such men as this Karl the
Miller?

"What a man, what an animal, to be the husband and owner of Lisette!
How could she possibly tolerate him, much less love him?

"No, if truth were told, the man whom Lisette loved was..."

"_That's enough,_" suddenly roared Corporal Heintz.  "Fall in.  Stir
yourselves, _salauds_...."

And the weary squad dragged itself to its feet, and painfully heaved
its _sacs_ to its shoulders.



 4

On the following night, as the squad sat about the camp fire, digesting
the indigestible and smoking the unsmokeable, Michael Geste requested
_le lgionnaire_ Gontran to continue the story of his remarkable dream
concerning the miller and the forester.

"It certainly was some dream," observed Hank to his friend.

"You've said something," replied Buddy.  "If I could dream like that,
I'd dream you was a lovely girl, old Hoss; or else that you was rich
and had a generous nature.  Nothing ain't impossible in dreams."

"Which is the true dream, and which the true reality--that of the
sleeping night, or this of the waking day?" asked La Cigale.

"How did the dream go on?" replied _le lgionnaire_ Gontran to Michael
Geste.  "Oh, I dreamed that the woman died....  Yes, in my dream I saw
that unhappy lover, Fritz, receive a letter.  It was handed to him by a
neighbour's half-witted son, who, on being asked later whether a woman
gave it to him said 'Yes,' and on being asked again if a man gave it to
him, also said 'Yes.'

"The letter was in the handwriting of Lisette.  It seemed to have been
written in a state of some agitation and in great haste, and it bade
him come to her at ten o'clock that night, for speak to him she
must--and in the absence of her husband.  The latter had again gone
away that day, saying he would be absent for three nights at least.
She relied on Fritz to come to her; she knew that he would come, for
she needed his help, and there was something that must be done and done
quickly.

"Beneath the signature of Lisette was an urgent appeal.  It seemed that
she had started to write with discretion and restraint, and at the last
moment her feelings had overcome her.  Terror, anxiety and the very
fear of death had broken the bonds of prudence.  She had written:

"'_Come and advise me and help me.  He is so strange and terrible, and
I feel that I am in the greatest danger.  I truly believe, that I'm
being poisoned.  What shall I do?  Where can I go?  Help me, Fritz._'

"You may imagine the state of mind in which the Lover spent the hours
which intervened.  They were the longest through which he had ever
lived.

"At ten o'clock that night, he approached the dark and silent house,
opened the little garden gate, crept to the door, and tapped softly.

"No answer.  No movement within.

"Again he tapped, and again without response.

"In conjunction with the fact that no light burned in the sitting-room,
this was vaguely disquieting, though not alarming.

"He tried the latch of the door, and found that the door was not
fastened.  Should he walk in?  She had bidden him come at ten o'clock,
and the hour had struck.

"He entered warily, closed the door behind him, and softly called
'_Lisette, Lisette_.'

"He struck a match, and entered the living-room.  It was, as he had
expected, empty, though he had half hoped to see her sitting there in
the dark, awaiting him.

"Similarly deserted was the kitchen at the back of the sitting-room.

"With swiftly-beating heart, he went to the foot of the well-remembered
stairs on which he had set foot but once, and called her name.  Again
he called, more loudly; and yet again, receiving no reply.

"What could be the meaning of this?  Was it a trap, some new and
devilish ingenuity of her husband?  Should he go up?  No.  How explain
his presence there, if Karl sprang out upon him, or were lurking,
awaiting him in the bedroom?

"But she had sent for him.  She had implored him to be there at ten
o'clock, and time was passing.  Should he not go up?  Yes.  Lisette
would not send for him and then go out of the cottage.

"And if it were a trap, let the good Karl see what he had got in his
trap!  He would not be the first setter of traps that had caught a
Tartar--not the first spider whose net had caught a wasp.

"Yes, he would go up, and if the worst happened, things could be no
worse, apparently, for Lisette, and might, indeed, be made very much
better.

"The Lover climbed the stairs, and was confronted by a closed door.
Upon this he knocked again and again, receiving no answer.

"He then tried the door, and found that this also was unfastened.
Opening it, he whispered '_Lisette!_' and louder and louder said
'_Lisette!  Lisette!_'  She could not have gone to bed and be sleeping
so heavily that his voice failed to wake her.

"Of course she would not have gone to bed after having begged him to
come to her at ten o'clock.  Could she possibly have gone out into the
forest to meet him, and have missed him in the darkness?  Almost
impossible.

"With fear clutching at his heart, he struck a match.  A terrible cry
burst from his lips, and dropping the match, he covered his stricken
eyes with shaking hands.  On the bed lay Lisette--dead.  Murdered.
Most violently and brutally murdered.

"The reactions of the human mind to sudden emergency or shock are
strange and unaccountable, and are not to be foretold.  His first
impulse was to flee from that dreadful spot.  The next was to fling
himself upon the bed and shield in his embrace that dear defiled and
injured body; coax it back to life and movement with his caresses.

"What he _did_ do, was to strike a match and fumble at the lamp with
trembling fingers, the while waves of nausea, grief, and rage shook him
from head to foot.  Having succeeded in lighting the lamp, he took a
grip upon his courage, and then, turning to the bed, repressed his
shuddering horror and strove to do what might be done.

"Hopeless and useless.  A hunting-knife had done its dreadful work too
well, in heart and throat; and all that the stunned, incredulous and
broken-hearted man could do, was to pray that he might be vouchsafed
sufficient length of life and health and strength to become the
instrument of vengeance.

"It was thus the police found him--the police who, it appeared, had
been anonymously warned to surround and enter the house at the hour of
ten-thirty, if they wished to prevent the perpetration of a terrible
crime, involving robbery and murder, in the absence of the miller--a
crime arranged for the hour of eleven.

"There they found him, his hands stained with blood--a picture, at any
rate to the Police, of guilt as well as of horror at the deed he had
committed.  Nor was the Sergeant of Gendarmes disposed to change his
opinion when he noticed that every drawer in the room was opened and
ransacked; and that a box, evidently dragged from beneath the bed, had
been burst open.

"To the fierce questions and demands of the Police, Fritz could give no
satisfactory reply.  He could but protest his innocence and swear that
he had _happened_ to enter the house, had _happened_ to go upstairs....

"'Oh, quite so...,' the Police had observed, nodding its collective
head.  'And had _happened_ to go into the poor woman's bedroom, and had
_happened_ to find her robbed and murdered.  A likely story.'

"And why, pray, had he gone to the house at all, at that time of night?

"And in reply to that awkward question, the prisoner had preserved a
dogged silence.

"But the case proved to be far less simple than had, at first sight,
appeared, and the Police were mystified.  Though they had caught him in
the very act--in the ransacked room itself, where was the loot?  Where
were the money and poor jewellery that had undoubtedly been taken from
drawer and box?  Though he had been caught red-handed indeed, his hands
red with the murdered woman's blood, where was the weapon, and what the
motive?

"And another most extraordinary feature of the case--where was the
husband?  He had absolutely disappeared--vanished from off the face of
the earth.

"And was it literally from off the face of the earth, and was he now
under the earth in some secret grave dug for him by this monster?

"And then again Fritz the forester was most certainly not a monster,
but a most worthy young man of excellent education, known good
character and unimpeachable virtue.  Hitherto, at any rate.  But you
never knew, you never knew.  And the Police shook its head darkly.
Nevertheless the Police was mystified.

"But heart-broken Fritz the forester, in his dank dark cell, was not
mystified.  He knew, with absolute certainty, as if he had seen it all,
that Karl had murdered Lisette, and with superhuman devilish cunning
had contrived to divert suspicion, blame, and accusation upon the
friend of whom he was jealous.

"Karl had never been the same man since that night of mad accusation
and infamous attempt at proof.  He had gone from bad to worse, and
quite obviously had rendered Lisette's life unbearable, until at length
she had been driven, in fear of her life, to write Fritz the letter
that had brought him to the house that terrible night.

"Obviously her husband, having told her that he was going away from
home again, had spied upon her and had either caught her in the act of
getting the letter to the half-witted go-between, or had intercepted it
_en route_.  He had then waited as long as he dared, had most foully
and brutally murdered the poor girl, and had taken all the money and
jewellery that was in the house, leaving the bedroom in calculated
disorder.

"He had then gone off in the darkness, sent his anonymous message to
the police and escaped.

"A neat plot, and worthy of the Devil himself.  But not quite
successful, for the four absent elements saved Fritz's life--probably
because he valued it so little--absence of motive, absence of stolen
property, absence of weapon, and absence of the husband whom it was
decided could not have been murdered and disposed of--at any rate by
the prisoner--between the time he was last seen alive and the time of
the arrest.  Fortunately for Fritz, his movements and whereabouts were
known throughout the earlier part of that evening.

"So, finally, Fritz was discharged with a stain upon his character--a
stain indelible; and in despair he left his home, his beloved forest
and his native land, and joined the Legion of the Self-condemned...."

The Dreamer fell silent.

"And is he in the Legion still?" asked Michael Geste.

"He dreams that he is," was the reply.

"And do you dream that he is?" asked John.

"I dream that I dream that he is," replied Gontran, turning his curious
pale, unsmiling eyes upon the boy.



II

Life at Zinderneuf was life in death, and not infrequently death in
life.  As _le lgionnaire_ Gontran observed, it was like nothing on
earth, but was indeed most remarkably like something in Hell--one of
Hell's punishment cells, where the Devil sends defaulting fiends from
his Penal Battalions when other means have failed to repress them.  But
_le lgionnaire_ Gontran had great compensations, for he had been
promoted Corporal.

On the day on which he stood forth, a Corporal revealed, with two
chevrons upon his cuff, he had gone in search of Corporal Heintz.  And
tapping the two red chevrons upon his sleeve had said:

"Ha, ha, my friend, now we shall see what we shall see."

But the triumph of Corporal Gontran had been brief, his grim and
menacing complacence short-lived, for the last official act of the
Commandant, Captain Renouf, on the very day that he shot himself, was
to promote Corporal Heintz to Sergeant.  So a Sergeant, pending
confirmation in orders, Heintz became.  And a Sergeant can make himself
quite as painfully unpleasant to a Corporal as a Corporal can to a
_lgionnaire_.  He can get him reduced to the ranks, for example.
Meanwhile he can punish him with confinement to Barracks, or with
_salle de police_ and he can get him sent to prison.  Without punishing
him at all, he can make his life a burden, a misery and a shame, by
undermining his authority and making him ridiculous before the men of
his _escouade_.  And he can legally and officially hold him responsible
for every fault committed by every man of the room of which he is in
charge.

It is probable that, on the whole, Sergeant Heintz made life even more
unbearable for Corporal Gontran than had Corporal Heintz for le
_lgionnaire_ Gontran.  He quickly succeeded in turning the
unfavourable attention of _l'adjudant_ Lejaune upon the unfortunate
man.  To show forth their proper zeal beneath the watchful eye of
_l'adjudant_ Lejaune, Sergeant Dupr and Corporal Boldini, friends of
Sergeant Heintz, joined enthusiastically with him in discovering cause
for dissatisfaction with the work of Corporal Gontran.

One fortunate result of this state of affairs was that neither Heintz
nor Gontran had much time for bullying other people and became almost
popular.

But Sergeant Heintz overdid it, and, one night, Corporal Gontran
dreamed another dream, and when on the following day, according to his
wont, Sergeant Heintz jeeringly inquired as to whether he had dreamed
anything of interest lately, Corporal Gontran replied that he had
indeed.  And something, moreover, of personal interest to the good
Sergeant himself.

It was a curious dream, and in two parts.

In the first of these, the Dreamer had dreamed of a most regrettable
and deplorable event, which was nothing less than the premature demise
of Sergeant Heintz himself.

Yes, he had seen him die.

"And how, might one inquire?" sneered Sergeant Heintz, moistening dry
lips.

"Well, in this curious dream of mine, Sergeant, you were stabbed, just
here and just here," and Corporal Gontran indicated his heart and his
throat.  "Yes, you were stabbed in the heart and in the throat, and you
bled to death.  When the murder was discovered it was too late to do
anything for you.  You were dead--oh, quite dead."

"And the second part of this interesting dream?" asked Sergeant Heintz,
as listening men, lounging outside the Guard Room, edged nearer and
nearer.

"Oh, very vague--you know what dreams are, Sergeant Heintz--but somehow
mixed up with the first one.  As far as I can remember, it was mainly
about a _lgionnaire_ who had a mission in life."

"What, to shirk work, and give trouble to his superiors?" inquired
Heintz.

"No, no.  So far as I can remember, it was something more difficult
than that.  It was to inflict punishment rather than to get it.  In
fact, to inflict punishment without getting it.  Yes, that was it.  I
remember it quite clearly now, that part of it.  Yes, this
_lgionnaire_ had to kill a man."

"Murder, eh?" sneered Sergeant Heintz.  "Sort of thing you would dream
about."

"Well--not so much murder him as execute him.  Take the law into his
own hands, or, one might say, assist the law--do what the law had
failed to do.  Carry out the death sentence which the law would most
certainly and most righteously have passed upon him had not the bestial
and cowardly Judas fled beyond the reach of its arm.

"Oh yes, an execution.  That was his mission.  And he not unnaturally
wanted to live awhile, to enjoy the satisfaction that his good deed
would bring him....  But in my dream--and I remember this part most
clearly--it seemed that he had come to the conclusion that it really
did not matter whether he lived or not, once he had fulfilled his task,
done his duty by the community and mankind in general, punished an
unspeakable villain, and avenged the best and sweetest soul that ever
graced this world...."

"Quite a dream, in effect," interrupted Sergeant Heintz, his livid face
twitching.

"Yes, Sergeant Heintz," continued Corporal Gontran.  "Quite a dream.
And making it perfectly clear that this _lgionnaire_ had most finally
and firmly decided that he had done wrong and acted foolishly, in
waiting for an opportunity to execute justice without himself falling
beneath the sword of justice....  Yes, he saw the error of his ways, in
that he had not immediately done his duty and carried out his mission
most cheerfully--as soon as he found the man--and willingly offered his
life as the price of that privilege.  Why, man, he had prayed--prayed
most fervently--that he might live to be the instrument of vengeance
upon that foul savage beast, that treacherous base brutal..."

As he spoke Corporal Gontran thrust his suffused face close to that of
Sergeant Heintz, raised his clenched fists, and slavered at the mouth.

Clearly a case of _cafard_--the man was going mad--and Corporal
Boldini, seizing his arm, pulled him roughly away.

"I'll give you something to dream about," growled Sergeant Heintz, "and
before long, I'll put you where you'll stop dreaming altogether."



 2

That night, a night so unbearably and dangerously hot that but few
could sleep, Beau Geste and his brother John sat side by side beneath
the desert stars, and talked of Digby, away at Tokotu, of Brandon
Abbas, and of old, happy, far-off things.

After a time they fell silent, and from the darkness of the black
shadow in which they sat against the wall, idly watched the occasional
comings and goings of their comrades, commenting from time to time upon
their more salient characteristics.

"Who's that with Boldini?" murmured Beau as two men passed in the
moonlight, their heads together in whispered converse.

"That weed Bolidar.  They're very thick these days," replied John.

As he spoke, Sergeant Heintz approached, and Bolidar slunk away into
the shadows.  Heintz gave Bolidar a sharp order, and as he hurried off
to fulfil it, another man, descending steps that led down from the
roof, approached.

"The Lover and the Husband," murmured John.  "Which is which?"

"Neither of them really knows much of love, I think," replied Beau.

Corporal Gontran and Sergeant Heintz met in front of the brothers, and
a few yards from where they were sitting.

"Get to your room and dream, you dog," growled Sergeant Heintz.  "Dream
while you have yet time.  Dream you're on the scaffold and..."

"I'm dreaming now, Sergeant Heintz.  I'm dreaming _now_, you cesspool
of sin," and, drawing his sword-bayonet, he stabbed Sergeant Heintz in
the left breast.

"_Lisette!_" he shouted, and as the stricken man staggered back, sagged
at the knees and fell to the ground, Corporal Gontran struck again,
driving the bayonet through the Sergeant's throat.

"_Lisette!_" he cried a second time, and as the astonished brothers
sprang forward, he whipped out an automatic pistol.

"Stand still," he shouted, "or I'll shoot you both.  Stand to attention
until I tell you to move," and he covered them alternately with the
automatic.

"Keep still, John," murmured Beau, in English.  "He's quite mad and
won't care whom he shoots.  Wait till I say 'Now,' and then jump to the
right as I jump to the left....  _Wait_, though."

"Good," whispered John.  "You duck and collar him low, and I'll jump
for his pistol."

Corporal Gontran kicked Sergeant Heintz heavily.

"Can you hear, you dog?" he shouted.  "Or are you dead?  '_Quite a
dream in effect,_' eh?"

And then, with an incredible change of voice, he said, softly, as he
placed the muzzle of the pistol to his temple and gazed upward at the
stars:

"_Je viens, ma Lisette._"



  Made and Printed in Great Britain
  by Butler & Tanner Ltd., Frome and London



      *      *      *      *      *



  BY THE SAME AUTHOR

  BEAU GESTE
  BEAU SABREUR
  BEAU IDEAL
  THE WAGES OF VIRTUE
  STEPSONS OF FRANCE
  THE SNAKE & THE SWORD
  FATHER GREGORY
  DEW AND MILDEW
  DRIFTWOOD SPARS
  THE YOUNG STAGERS






[End of Good Gestes, by P. C. Wren]
