“I have seen many terrible sights in my life, Master Chitterley,—none so terrible as this.”

Thus old Martin Bracy, Sergeant-Yeoman of the Tower of London, to the Lord Constable’s body-servant.

His companion flung up trembling hands for all response. As old as the sergeant—whose head had grown white in the King’s service: at home in the civil wars, abroad in Charles’s regiment of Flanders—but of less solid metal, years had stricken him harder, and he had little breath to spare after his grievous ascent to the platform of the Beauchamp Tower. And as the two now stood, side by side, looking down from the great height over the stricken city, they might have served as types, one of green old age, the other of wintry senility.

The scene outspread below them was indeed such as to strike awe to the stoutest heart. It was the fifth of September, third day of the great fire; and nothing, it seemed, was like to arrest the spread of the red desolation until it had embraced the whole of the town.

Under the canopy of black smoke, like some monster of nightmare, the fire crouched, spread, uncoiled itself; now it clapped ragged wings of flame high into the sky, now grasped new, unexpected quarters as with a stealthily outreached claw. The wind ran lightly from the east, so that, in cruel contrast, the sky was fair blue over their heads, while to the westward horizon it spread ensanguined, overhung with lurid clouds.

“If hell itself had broken open,” said Martin Bracy, “and were vomiting yonder, methinks it would scarce show us a more affrighting picture. Often these days, Master Chitterley, I have taken to minding me again of the Crop-Heads’ sayings—and I had a surfeit of them in my days of imprisonment, forever talking of Judgment! Aye, I would have my laugh at them, then. But now it comes back to me:—

He mused as the aged will, speaking his thought aloud:—

“There was one Jedediah Groggins—Smite-Them-Hip-and-Thigh was the name he gave himself, but Smit’em-Grogs they used to call him (aye, and a smiter he was!)—who had charge of the jail at York, where I was caged awhile, ye wot, after Marston Moor—”

Chitterley nodded his palsied head; his faded eyes looked out with scarce a flicker of comprehension on the present vision that so impressed the soldier; but his brain was still to be stirred by memories of the past.

“Marston Moor … aye! ’Twas at Marston my Lord Rockhurst took the pike-push in his thigh—and he and I in hiding long days after in a burnt-out farm-house on the wolds. Scarce bite or sup had I for him. And he fretting for the death of his gallant friend, Sir Paul Farrant, killed at his side—Aye, aye, good Sir Paul—”

The sergeant’s gaze was still roaming out to where the great heart of the city throbbed in agony.

“‘There went up a smoke in his wrath and a fire flamed forth from his face,’” he went on. “Truly, I mind me, that was one of this Jedediah’s favourite texts. Yes—I had my laugh at it then: little thought I should ever see it come true, as I have done these days!… I was young then, and made mock of such things. But, sure, the sins of this land began with the Crop-Heads themselves, when they took up arms against his sacred Majesty.” He raised his hand to his velvet cap. “But they were right in this, friend Chitterley: the wrath of the Lord is an awful thing.—Hark ye at that!”

A dull explosion had rent the air. A belching column of white smoke, fringed with black, sprang up at the extremity of the fiery picture. The sergeant moved to the corner of the parapet to peer forth:—

“See yonder … our lads at work! Blowing up houses ahead of the fire. Aye, truly, Master Chitterley, I would his lordship had let me take the mining party to-day. But one would think—in all respect—there was a very devil in him, since this outbreak began. ’Tis ever to the hottest with him. And the men must after him, though the flames be as greedy as hell’s.—’Tis hard on a soldier,” added the old campaigner, with a philosophic sigh, “to be driven to burn before his time!”

The other’s clouded perception caught but the hint of danger to a beloved master.

“His lordship?” he cried; “and whither went he to-day, Sergeant?”

“Toward Bishopsgate. See, where I point; there, where ’tis like looking upon a pit of fire.”

Chitterley curved his withered hands over his eyes and strove to fix them in the direction indicated.

“God save him,” he muttered.

“Amen,” echoed Bracy earnestly, “for he carries those white hairs of his whither he would scarce have ventured his raven locks! ’Tis beyond all reason. Aye, and Master Harry with him.… Lord, Lord, how it doth burn!”

Bracy seated himself upon the sill of an embrasure, and drawing a stump of pipe from his pocket, proceeded to strike flint and kindle the tabaco, with all the old soldier’s habit of making the most of a spare hour of rest. The other remained standing; forlorn, pathetic figure enough, beaten about by the light wind that flapped the skirts of his coat against the wasted limbs, and set sparse strands of white hair dancing as in mockery about his skull.

Sergeant Bracy rolled another text upon his tongue as two or three fresh explosions, closely following each other, shocked even the mighty masonry of the Tower:—

“‘The earth shook and trembled, because He was angry with them.’ Aye, ’twould seem to fit in singularly!—Yet, as you and I know, ’tis but our men at work of salvage. They must even destroy to save!—There went the last house in Shoreditch!” He made a gesture with his pipe-stem. “Ha, now the Hall falls upon itself like a house of cards!… Pray Heaven none of our boys be caught beneath the dropping masonry, as was honest Corporal Tulip yester-eve! ’Tis no marvel to me, Master Chitterley,” he went on, settling himself more comfortably on his narrow seat, “that the men like not the work. Nay, were it with other than my Lord Constable, or young Harry—or one such as I am, Master Chitterley—we might well expect a show of rebellion among them. To see death, you may say, be soldier’s life,—aye, give death, lay siege, waste, burn and slay,—all in the way of glorious war, friend Chitterley, and service of King—wholesome heat of blood to keep the horrors off—But this business, there is neither glory nor plunder in it. No—no, I’ve seen sour looks and lagging feet, as much as dare be, at least, under my lord’s eye or Master Harry’s.”

“My lord—Master Harry—” repeated Chitterley, as in a kind of dream. “Do not mock me, sergeant, but there be days now when I scarce know them apart … remembering.… Or rather—”

“Aye,” interrupted the soldier, good-humoured, yet impatient of the other’s maundering, “I catch your meaning. Young Master Harry that was a boy has grown marvellous quick a man these troublous times. ’Tis his gallant father all over again as you and I knew him. And, on the other hand, my Lord Constable is changed—oh, damnably changed! An old man in one year!—Hark in your ear! ’Tis never plague horrors, nor fire horrors, that have worked on him so sorely; ’tis the mind, Master Chitterley. Trouble of the mind!”

He tapped his forehead with the pipe-stem, nodded his head, and thereafter puffed awhile in sagacious meditation.

“In faith,” said Chitterley, with piteous trembling of the lip, “my dear lord’s hair has grown as white as mine own.”

“Ah, it is trouble changes a man,” pursued the sergeant, presently. He cast a look of kindly pity at Chitterley. “And in sooth, poor soul,” muttered he under his breath, “who should prove it better than yourself, who have been a doddering poor wight ever since yon fearful morning when Master Harry was like to die of his reopened wound and my lord to go mad—and plague in the very house?—Aye, aye,” his voice waxed loud again, “shall I ever forget the hour when you all came back to the Tower, and none knew if the lad was not dead already? ’Twas then the Lord Constable’s hair began to turn white.” He gave a kind of sniff, his teeth clenched on the pipe, and touched Chitterley on the arm to call back his wandering attention. “I was on guard, man, the day his Majesty returned to the city (upon the subsidence of the great sickness), and I was present at the first meeting between him and the Lord Constable. His Majesty did not know him!”

He emphasised each word of this last remarkable statement by a separate tap of the pipe-bowl upon his open palm.

Chitterley turned troubled eyes upon him.

“His Majesty hath ever had great love for my lord,” he protested.

“He—did—not—know—him,” repeated Sergeant Bracy, scanning his words. “I was as near his Majesty as I am to you.—‘What,’ says the King, staring, ‘this is never my merry Rockhurst?’—‘Always your Majesty’s devoted servant,’ says my lord, bowing that white head, ‘but your merry Rockhurst never again.’ ‘Oh, damn!’ says his Majesty.—Ho, ho, ho! I heard him with these ears!”

There was no smile on old Chitterley’s lips. It was a question whether he followed his more sturdy comrade’s gossip or whether, in the dimness of his mind, he was only aware of the pity of many things.

“Aye, in truth, and as you say,” the yeoman went on after a while, “Master Harry hath changed even as much as his father. Faith, ’twas but a lad when we laid him on his bed here; he rose from it a man. Sooth, Death’s a grim teacher! I’ve seen many a boy soldier turned to a man by a single battle.—But there’s secret trouble there, too.… Pity that so gallant a youth should ever wear so sober a brow! Again a word in your ear, Master Chitterley: They say a lady was lost in the plague days, none knowing where or how she died—is it true?”

Chitterley drew back and flung a cunning glance at the genial, inquisitive countenance. Old? None so old yet, nor so foolish, that he would betray his master’s secret!

“Aye, the plague! the plague!” he mumbled. “As you say, good sergeant—those were terrible times.”

“Sho!” said the sergeant; knocked the ashes of his pipe with an irritable tap and turned his keen blue eyes out once more to the red westward glare. Even at that instant there rose from the gateway tower the blare of a trumpet, the roll of drums. The sounds caught up and repeated from different quarters.

“God be praised,” said he; “’tis the party home again from the work!”

Back went the pipe into Sergeant Bracy’s pocket. He drew himself from his seat; fell, unconsciously, once more into military bearing, and made for the stairs to seek his officer. Chitterley followed, stirred into a fleeting return of energy.

II
THE TESTAMENT

The Lord Constable halted on the first platform and flung from his head the hat with the singed plumes. His son looked at him in some anxiety: he had felt his father’s hand press ever more heavily on his shoulder as they came up the winding steps. Between the ash-powdered white locks, the handsome face struck him as more than usually drawn and pallid.

“A cup of wine for his lordship, Chitterley.—Haste!” cried he.

Rockhurst staggered slightly and sank down upon a stone bench; then looked up at his son and smiled.

“’Tis but a passing giddiness. All thanks, good lad!”

Even as he spoke the smile was succeeded by a heavy sigh. Scarce twenty-two, and his boy to wear so careworn a countenance! But a year ago, before their great trouble, he had tenderly mocked the boy for his over-youthfulness…! Here was a man with sad, haunted eyes, and features set with silent endurance of pain. And all the boyhood that had been the father’s delight was lost forever.

“’Tis as if the patience of God were worn out,” he went on, as though speaking to himself, after a while, during which he had gazed wistfully at the distant conflagration. “Well for those who can say in their heart that no sin of theirs has cried aloud for vengeance.”

And again the heavy sigh escaped his lips.

The anxiety grew deeper in Harry Rockhurst’s eyes; he took the cup of wine from Chitterley’s hand (half crazed his fellow-retainers deemed him, but alert enough still in all that concerned his master’s service):—

“Drink, my lord,” said he, “you need it. Human strength will not bear more of the work you have done to-day … indeed, all these days!”

But Rockhurst’s eyes having fallen upon Chitterley, he beckoned him to his side before lifting the wine to his lips. Full of secret importance, the old servant hurried to him.

Harry drew back. In many ways he felt as if his father still treated him like a child; in none more than these secret interviews with Chitterley. The Lord Constable seemed to make his servant sole confidant and instrument in the matter of some urgent and troublous private business; one which necessitated frequent absences on both sides. The secrecy pained the young man, but he bore the slight in silence; he had not been brought up to question the parental actions.

“Didst go where I bade thee?” whispered Rockhurst.

“Aye, my lord.”

“No news?”

“No news, no news!”

Rockhurst sat awhile, moodily gazing on the red of the wine. Rousing himself at last, he drank wearily, handed the empty cup to the old man and, with a wave of the hand, dismissed him. Then he sat awhile longer yet, watching his son—There were those who said that my Lord Rockhurst’s eyes could look at naught else, when his heir was by him. Harry was engaged in receiving the sergeant yeoman’s report. The father did not speak till he saw Bracy salute and withdraw. Then he lifted his voice:—

“Harry!”

The young man started, and in an instant was by his father’s side. There was something of womanly solicitude in his air. ’Twas a vast pity (the soldiers said among themselves) to see a young man so set upon an old one!—“Clean against nature,” Corporal Tulip had vowed, whose own amorous heart was now ashes beneath the ashes of the Thames Street Hall, while his sweetheart already thought of walking o’ sunsets with Anspessade Strongitharm.

Rockhurst rose and placed his hand on his son’s shoulder. The two looked affectionately into each other’s eyes: sad men both, and deadly worn this evening hour after the fierce work of the day.

“Harry, it is borne in on me that not many days will be given us of company together thus—”

“How, my lord—would you wish me from you again?”

“Nay—this time, Harry, it will be thy father who leaves thee.”

The young man started. Look and tone left no doubt of the meaning of the words.

“Ah, father,” he cried, with the irritability born of keen anxiety; “if you would but listen to me! Indeed you expose yourself unduly—”

“When death threatens from without, a man may smile at it. But when death knocks from within, Harry, thrice fool who does not hearken!”

“Sir, you alarm me.” Harry’s voice shook. “Oh, I have been blind! Your white hairs, your altered demeanour, are sure signs of suffering—some hidden sickness!”

“Even so, lad. Sickness incurable! A secret pain that gives no rest, night nor day. Nay, nay, Harry, no physician can avail, no remedy ease—”

“Ah,” exclaimed the son in bitter accents, “now I understand much. You have never given me your confidence, yet methinks I might have been as true to help you in your need, as wise in my devotion to advise, as old Chitterley. This sickness is the secret between you. ’Tis for physician or remedy that Chitterley journeys forth daily in such mystery while you toil. Can you not see, my lord, that to be shut out from your counsel has but added deeper grief to me? And methinks that I might have proved as true to help, as wise to counsel, as yonder old man.… But it has always been your pleasure to treat me as a child.”

Rockhurst fixed deep eyes of melancholy on his son.

“My illness is not of the body, Harry; it is of the mind. But the canker works, never ceasing, eats from soul to flesh.”

“You speak in riddles, sir.”

“Alas! you shall read my riddle soon enough. Hast ever heard—thou canst never have known it—of that sickness of the spirit which is called … remorse? In sooth, ’tis uglier than the pestilence.”

At the look of sudden fear his son cast upon him the Lord Constable laughed,—a laugh sadder than tears.

“Sit you down with me, Harry, and listen; for I have much to tell you, and it is, as I said, borne in upon me that it must be told now.”

The young man obeyed in silence; but for a moment or two neither spoke.

The western sky before them had become an image of flaming immensity, almost beyond the power of realisation. Glow of sunset mingled with glow of fire and painted the volutes of smoke massed on the horizon with every shade of fierce magnificence and lurid threat.

“’Twould seem as if the whole town were doomed,” muttered Rockhurst at last.

“The powers of hell let loose upon us,” said his son, gloomily.

“Say, rather, my son, the wrath of God! Look at me, lad! The last time, perchance, that you will look upon your father’s face with love and reverence.”

Words froze on the young man’s lips. The Lord Constable folded his arms; his voice grew stern, ironic:—

“You believe me—do you not?—a sober, godly gentleman, as true to his duty as Christian as he has been to his king as subject—”

“Indeed, my lord, I know you as such,” quickly interrupted Harry, in deep offence.

“Aye, Harry, aye,” laughed Rockhurst, bitterly, “I had but one part to act toward thee, and it seems I did it well!—I never let thee know but the father in me, the stern yet loving father.” His voice suddenly broke on a note of tenderness. “Nay, never doubt that, whatever else you may come to doubt: I loved you well. You were my delight—My son, you’ve had a sore heart against me many a time for that I treated you, in sooth, as a child, kept you far from me, in the country; that I so sternly forbade you the town and the life of the Court. Even now you have the plaint that you are excluded from my counsel. Well, such as I planned, I have made thee. Where I have failed in life, thou art strong. Thou hast kept thy manhood pure and clean, where thy father rioted, wasted—”

“Gracious heavens! my lord! What words are these?”

“Ah, ’tis not the sound man that praises the glory of health, but the sick. Not the sober Christian sees the full radiance of the jewel of purity, but the libertine. I never let thee guess that here, in this town, now dissolving in fire, I had won me the name of Rakehell Rockhurst.”

With paling cheek and a starting eye, the son had listened. Now he winced as if his father had struck him.

“Rakehell Rockhurst—Rakehell! And I smote Lionel Ratcliffe on the mouth for daring to couple the name to yours—!” Then, on a fierce revulsion of feeling, he caught the pale hand close to him and kissed it passionately. “Wherefore tell me this? Father, as I have ever known you, so must I ever love and honour you.”

“The Rakehell—” repeated the Lord Constable; and once more, out of the very pain of his avowal, came harshness into his tone—“that was my name in men’s mouths. His Majesty had another, a kinder one, for me; he called me in jest his merry Rockhurst. You have been reared in ripe veneration of the King’s Grace; yet, had you known life by my side (as once you yearned), you would have learned that the one name and the other meant, in Whitehall, at least, the same thing. Rakehell—aye, I may have had black perdition in my heart many a time; yet believe this, Harry, that when like Lucifer I fell, I sinned like Lucifer with pride, arrogance, recklessness, what you will—never with baseness. Merry, my good liege called me. To find me so mad, yet see me wear so grave a face, it gave him a spur to laughter. Merry? Nay; he loved me, in chief, because in his sad heart he knew mine. Both sad hearts, sickened of life. Forever striving to find a blossom in the dust, a jest in the weary round, to taste of a fruit that was not ashes on the tongue. And there you have the secret of my life and his.… Then came Diana.”

“Ah, hush, my lord!” Harry rose from his seat, in violent agitation, and stood a second, pressing his hands against his breast. “With me, you know, wounds heal slowly,” he went on, striving to speak calmly. “Do not touch upon that hurt, lest the bleeding begin afresh.”

The father rose, too, followed his son to the parapet, and, again laying a hand upon his shoulder, compelled his attention. The splendour of the sunset pageant had faded, and with it all beauty from the sky. Only the glow, the gloom, the belching smoke remained.

“I knew her ere ever you did,” said the Lord Constable, his eye fixed as upon an inner vision, fair and fresh and pure. “Aye, you never knew it. She spoke not of it again, nor did I; for you had come between us!… She entered into my life one winter’s night; and across the snow I set her again on her sheltered way, knowing what I was—and seeing what she was. But from the instant of our parting (’twas all in the snow, lad, and above us a sky of stars; scarce I touched her hand; not a word exchanged but a God be wi’ ye), from that instant she was never from my thoughts—She, the might-have-been, the one woman for me! Aye, you stare, your grave father! Your old father! I was a strong man, then, and life ran potent in my veins. Dost remember how I met her again, in the Peacock Walk at home, and you prating of your love for her, with beardless lip?”

“Oh, father, father, father!” cried the poor lad. “For God’s sake!… You are all I have left!”

“Hush! Look on these white hairs, sign among so many that life has done with me. Nay, I know full well I am not old in years, scarce double thine own; but the vital spring is dying. Listen, Harry, you are a man; I have a trust to lay upon you. Since that terrible dawn, when, crying out, ‘Diana’s dead!’ you fell, bleeding of your old wound, into swoon upon swoon, and thereafter into mortal sickness, you know her name has never passed your lips nor mine. It was better, in sooth, you should believe her dead.”

The young man caught at the parapet behind him for support; and the sweat broke on the father’s brow as he looked at him. There was a tense silence. Then, fiercely, Harry Rockhurst said:—

“Now, my lord, you must speak!”

A moment longer Rockhurst kept silence. Curious reversal of the wheel of fate! Here stood he, who had always been as a god to his son, now as one in the dock before his judge. He, Rockhurst, whose will the King himself could not bend, ordered to speech; and because of his own just mind, just through all injustice wrought, unresentful—aye, submissive. The moment of agony of a little while ago had passed.

Already it seemed to him the things of life were receding so quickly that he looked on them from afar. Passion had gone from his voice as he spoke; only a mighty sadness was left.

“It was even to speak, Harry, that I kept thee by me here. Know, then, that until the night of Lady Chillingburgh’s death,—the night which found Diana without a shelter,—in my daily intercourse with your promised bride the father was ever stronger in me than the man. Aye, and when her brother fled from the plague-stricken house and there was none but me to protect her (for her kinsman Lionel was, as thou hast good cause to know, my poor wounded boy, no guardian for thy bride) ’twas as a father I cared for her all through the livelong night as we wandered, vainly seeking a refuge. I brought her at length to my house, and went forth to seek the means of conveying her home. That was even the very morning of your arrival. Alack, nor horse nor man could fugitive then find in the waste of the doomed city! I came back to her.… Oh, my son, before you judge me, remember: men knew not what they did those terrible days. Question any who passed through them. Staid citizens became drunken reprobates, greybeards rioted horribly with the madness of youth, priests denied their God—”

“But Diana, Diana—”

“Aye, Diana! I deemed Fate itself had given her to me. The madness of the horror about me had turned my brain. Madness of my love for her, of my long self-denial! I would have wedded her, even that hour. But she, she had yielded her troth to thee … to thy father she gave her scorn! At that most cursed moment thy voice rose from the street, thou, my son whom I deemed far away, in the heart of the country! I would have killed her rather than yield her. Remember, I was mad. I thrust her from thy sight into an inner room. Ah, God, in that room!”

“In that room?”

“The plague lay in wait for her.”

“The plague—”

“Unknown to me one lay there, a woman who had crept in, sick—to die!”

Harry gave a deep groan, covered his face with his hands, and fell upon the bench.

“Whilst I lay raving, did she die of the plague, there, in your room? O my Diana!”

“My son, I know not. When I sought for her she was gone, vanished. The window was opened into the garden. The woman lay dead upon the bed.”

Harry sprang to his feet, clapped his hands together in a sudden agony of joy, more dreadful at that moment than all his sorrow to the father’s eyes.

“She escaped? She may be living yet! There is mercy in heaven!”

“No mercy for such as I—nor for thee, being my son. For my moment’s madness, what retribution! Harry, this whole long year I have looked for her, night and day. There is not a corner of the town we have not scoured, old Chitterley and myself. Aye, that was the mystery you fretted not to share!”

Harry looked at his father speechlessly, with fierce dry eyes.

“Alas!” Rockhurst went on stonily, “she must even be dead, stricken by the contagion—fallen at the street corner perchance, swept into the common pit as so many others! And yet, if she were not dead—There is not a burning house I pass but I fear she may be in the flames. Food is as ashes, drink as gall upon my tongue. And now, with the presage of death upon me, I lay the hideous burden upon thee, my son, my innocent son!”

He stretched his hand. But, drawing back, the latter turned a red glance upon him.

“And you let me believe her dead that morning—that morning! I could have saved her!” He flung his arms in the air and shook them; a terrible menace on his face.

“God!” he called, “God—!”

Rockhurst gave a loud cry:—

“My son, do not curse your father!”

The young man’s arms dropped by his side. He looked at the bent white head, at the countenance worn, wan, patient; then he cast himself upon his father’s breast, sobbing:—

“God help us all!”

Night was falling apace. Father and son sat together over the supper table. The meal, such as it was, was over; each had made a pretence at eating, lest he add to the other’s burden. In silence Harry’s eyes ever sought his father, striving to reconcile the man he had known and reverenced above all manhood with the man who had harmed him to the shattering of his life. Yet he could now find nothing in his heart but a deeper tenderness. Nay, as he gazed at the noble silvered head, the countenance, beautiful, diaphanous, it was with no jot of reverence abated, rather a kind of awe added to a climbing apprehension. His own words of that terrible moment of revelation rang in his ears as a tolling bell: “Father! You are all I have left!”

At last he rose and went restlessly to the open window. When he looked up, there was the pure sky overhead with a star or two, very peaceful; and when he looked forth between the towers, there raged the flames, yonder hung the murk the blacker for the fire lurid below. It seemed an image of his own life.’

“At least there can be peace,” he told himself.

The door opened behind him; he heard Chitterley’s shuffling feet, and next the quavering voice; but, lost in his contemplation, he never turned his head.

“Harry!” came Lord Rockhurst’s voice of a sudden.

The young man leaped at his tone. Rockhurst thrust a crumpled sheet into his hand.

“Read it, Harry! A messenger has brought it, hotfoot, and is gone as he came.”

As he spoke, the Lord Constable strode to the door.

“Ho there!” he called to the sentinel in the passage. “Call out the guard! Have the assembly sounded!”

His voice rang out, clarion clear. Harry, holding the paper, stared, astounded; the old fire had come back to his father’s eye, the old life to his step; under the very whiteness of his locks his face looked young again.

“Read, lad, read!” ordered Rockhurst, “and be in readiness.”

His step was already clanking down the stone stairs ere his son, hurrying to the window, could read the sheet in the waning light. Then a great cry broke from the young man: “Diana! Diana!”

From below was heard the roll of drum; then the tramp of feet and the clank of firelock. And over all the Lord Constable’s voice:—

“Steady, lads, and haste. We’ve urgent work to-night!”

Hurriedly Harry set out to join them. His knees trembled as he went. He thought, in the confusion of his mind: My father goeth like a young man again to the rescue, and I like an old one. What will happen between us when we see Diana again?

III
THE LAST COMMAND

Ten frightened ladies, of various ages and comeliness, were gathered round the Mother Abbess in the great stone refectory of St. Helen’s House. Queen Catherine’s convent—removed since the subsidence of the great sickness from its original home in St. Martin’s Lane—was thus far outside the track of the fire, yet the “Blue Nuns” jostled one another like so many frightened children, each in the endeavour to get the closer to the large, firm comfort of her presence. Adown the long table, between the platters of untouched food, burned the four candles in high brazen candlesticks, scantily illumining the room.

The atmosphere was oppressively close, for all the windows were shuttered and barred. And, save for the whimpering of some of the nuns, the mouthing prayerful whispers of others, there was a heavy stillness within, in contrast to the sounds that beat round the walls without: the voice of a mob in a fury.

A husky roar it was, that grew and fell like the waves of the sea. Anon a deep shout or a shrill cry, a shot or a clang, pierced high; anon the thunder of blows at the main doors, echoing through the old house.

As a knock angrier than the rest shook the very foundations, the women raised a wail. Madam Anastasia, the Abbess, looked round them, a certain twist of humour belying the sternness of her face.

“O mother, mother!” shrilly lamented the youngest novice, “shall we all be murdered?”

“Well, and what of that?” quoth the stout daughter of the Bedingfields. “Do we not lay down our lives, in taking convent vows?—Fie, child, Mary Veronica!” Her steady tones began to dominate the thin plaints. “And you, clamouring as you were, but a week ago, to be one of the faithful virgins! Daughters, is this our faith? And, besides, are we not under her Majesty’s special protection, and help sent for? To the chapel with ye, and sing complines. Tut! Have I given permission to break the rules? ’Tis past the hour. Off with ye!”

She rose, hustling them with gestures of her great hanging sleeves, in good-humoured yet irresistible authority. Not one attempted protest, though the smallest novice halted on the threshold to fling a supplicating look which begged piteously for the shelter of the motherly skirts. But the kind steel-grey eye was relentless; and, shivering, the neophyte pattered after her sisters.

Madam Anastasia watched them depart with a shrug of her ample shoulders. Then as she stood, in deep reflection, by the open door, hearkening to the increasing menace, there came the faint tinkle of the chapel bell; and thereafter the uplifted voices of her nuns chanting, dismally enough, but yet sufficiently in unison. She nodded to herself, with a shrewd smile, and was about to gather her long blue skirts together, preparatory to a survey of the defences, when there came the sound of steps along the flags and the figure of the convent guest moved into her view. The Abbess’s face brightened.

“Hither, child!” she beckoned, as Mistress Diana Harcourt, bowing her veiled head, was about to pass on to the chapel.

The young woman approached, flinging back the folds from her face. Against the black filmy frame, her hair, even in the dimness of the corridor, took marvellous brightness as of copper and gold. Her countenance shone with a pearl-like fairness; it was wan, as by long vigils; sad were her eyes, as though from secret tears; but serenity enveloped her as fragrance does the rose.

Her kinswoman surveyed her an instant with favour. Then she plunged into her huge hanging pocket.

“This letter, flung in through a window, tied to a stone; I had nigh forgotten it! ’Tis addressed to you. Had you been of my flock, ’twas my duty to have read it.”

Diana glanced at the superscription, announced coldly that it was from their kinsman, Lionel Ratcliffe, and proceeded to burst the seal. But the colour welled to her pale cheeks, and she gave a cry of indignation as she read:—

“A man’s patience is not eternal. You have forbidden me sight of you, this month past. My offence—the constancy of my love! You will not, so you tell me, out of your papist cage. Yester-eve our kinswoman threatened me that you would change your religion and take the vows. You have reckoned without me, without the anger of the people. ’Tis the cry that the papists have fired London; I care not, false or true. But no papist shall help to rob me of you! Here is my chance, and I shall seize it. I saved you once, in spite of yourself; now, Diana, I shall save you again from yourself. Have no fear, though every stone in the walls that keep you from me be laid low, no harm shall come to you. I shall be there, and with friends. So you are warned; be wise, bid our obstinate old Coz Anastasia yield you peacefully, unbar the doors, facilitate the search for the papers we come to seek, and I will even do still what may be done for her safety and that of all her silly pack.

“If this findeth you open to reason, see that she hang a white cloth from the window over the porch, and soon after unbar the gate. And leave the rest to your faithful and ever-loving cousin,

“Lionel Ratcliffe.”

“And he of our blood! Shame!” cried the Abbess, with hot cheeks.

“Mother,” said Diana, and her lip trembled in spite of her brave tone, “had you not best yield, even as he says? Alack! ’tis by bringing peril on you I repay your shelter!”

“Yield you up? A pretty thought! I would rather we all perished together ’neath the stones of the old house. Yield and facilitate, forsooth! Nay, we will even hold the place bolt and bar. An our message have reached the Tower, ’twill go hard with us if the gates do not stand till succour comes. How, hand thee over to yon infamous wretch, who useth the extremity of the city, the blind folly of the mob, the helplessness of a poor house of gentlewomen, to the furthering of his own base purposes! As for my threat that you would take the vows,”—she gave a dry chuckle,—“I’ve overshot the mark, it seems. I deemed to show thee as out of reach of his pursuit. Well, ’tis ill talking when so much is a-doing. Hark ye at that, ’tis the fiercest onslaught yet. Get thee to the chapel. I must to the outer hall.”

“Nay,” quoth Diana, “I go with you.”

The two kinswomen looked at each other for a second with a mutual pride; then, without further word, they went together to the great outer hall, reverberating now to its vaulted roof as hammer strokes fell upon the iron-studded door.

The stolid, elderly red-headed porter came forth from a deep embrasure,—where he had been philosophically, it seemed, listening to the progress of the attack,—and with a hand on each arm drew them in their turn into the shelter out of reach of stone and shots.

“Will the door hold, think you, Bindon?” asked his reverend mistress, briskly.

“Aye,” quoth Bindon, “good iron, stout oak!—So they lay not gunpowder.”

“And so they do, what then?”

Bindon lifted his hand in slight but expressive gesture. Then his small eye rolled from the old face to the young.

“Eh, but ye be two brave women—not a blanch, not a squeak!”

“Sho!” said the Abbess, with a tolerant smile. “And why should I fear death? Have I not been dead these forty years?”

“And why should I fear death,” said Diana’s young voice, “since life has naught left for me?”

“I hope you’ll not be taken at your word, ladies,” said Bindon, with the familiarity of long service. “Nay, look you, I’m none so ready myself! But,” he went on, “I like not this pause without: there may be gunpowder in it. And by your leave, I’ll creep round to the lookout. Eh, ’tis time the guards should arrive, in faith!”

As his burly figure had moved out of sight, Madam Anastasia turned with some asperity:—

“Indeed, Mistress Harcourt, I marvel at you! Life nothing left for you, forsooth? Tut, tut! Is not the best part of it before you? What have you done with your good youth, answer me that—not even borne a soul to God’s service?”

“Why, mother,” Diana exclaimed, and the tears sprang to her eyes. “Do you know my history, and chide me? Oh, I am dead, and this is my tomb. And truly, ’tis best so; since, when I lived in the world, I brought—God knows unwittingly—dire sorrow on two noble hearts that loved me.”

The Abbess thrust her hands impatiently up her big sleeves.

“Tush, child! Shouldst have made thy choice boldly. And he whom you had left of the two would be no worse off than now. This shilly-shally likes me not. In a convent, and no nun! A lovely, free woman, and no wife! Either wed or pray, say I. Nay, my dear, though I threatened your cousin with it, I have known it long: your vocation is not with us! With the blessing of God, I’ll yet give the house a feast on the day of Mistress Harcourt’s wedding with my Lord Rockhurst’s son!”

The renewal of clamour without, the report of a musket, the shattering of a few more panes of glass in the high windows, all but drowned the valiant woman’s words. Yet Diana had caught the drift of them, and clasped the stout shoulders in sudden embrace.

“Wedding! ’Tis more like we feast with death this day!”

“Why, then, ’tis the best feast of all,” cried the Abbess, petulantly.

There came three measured, emphatic blows upon the door. Then, above the loud, continuous howl of the mob, a ringing call:—

“Stand back, there within, stand back for your lives! We now blow your door in.—Stand back!”

“’Tis Cousin Lionel’s voice,” whispered Diana, with white lips.

“Sho!” returned the old lady, with great contempt. She caught Diana by the shoulder and dragged her to the entrance of the passage, where she paused, panting, being somewhat weighty for such swift movements. Bindon, trailing a musket, clattered in their rear.

“Aye, truly,” she said to him, “I begin to think this may be the end. Tut! Where lag those sluggard guards? Sho! Here now come my silly children!—Well, well, Sister Magdalen, my pastoral staff! So we have visitors we shall receive in state.”

She took the crook from the hands of the nun; then, waving back the community, terrified now even to speechlessness:—

“Back to your stalls, daughters! Shame on you! Shall not the shepherd come when he pleases, and shall he find the sheep dispersed?”

She rang her staff threateningly on the flags, and the fluttering bevy fled back to the chapel. “Sheep, indeed—poor things!” chuckled the Abbess.

She was chuckling still when the thud of the explosion came.

It seemed to lift the stone house about them, to make the solid flags heave under their feet. For one instant Diana deemed that they all had been blown in pieces as well as the convent; and, opening her eyes after a reeling moment, was considerably astonished to find herself whole and sound. Before her, in stout equilibrium, was the Abbess, jubilantly chanting a psalm; beside her, Bindon on one knee, poising his firelock. The words he was breathing were not those of prayer.

There was a burst of wailing from the chapel within. Through the porch a wall of white smoke rolled up in swirls.

“They’ve made the breach; the door is down,” said Bindon, superfluously.

The vapour parted. Three men were seen cautiously advancing; beyond them, confusedly, in the ragged breach, Diana caught a glimpse of the street and a crowd of begrimed faces, in brutal exultation, brutal lust of destruction. Ravening as wild beasts behind bars, something yet seemed to hold them back. The next instant, as she recognised Lionel, she knew whose power at once excited and restrained the mob. Waving his sword, he advanced, scarce a fold out of place in his handsome suit, plumed hat on his head, the red curls of his great wig hanging ordered on either side of the long, pale face.

Their eyes met; she saw the gleam in his, and her heart turned sick. The two that strode behind him were dark-visaged, sinister enough, yet had something of the same air, as of men decorously carrying through a necessary act of violence.

Lionel Ratcliffe halted a pace in front of his old kinswoman and swept an ironical bow. There was no flinching of shame in him as he met the stern challenge of her eye.

“Out of my way, madam,” he cried. “I’m not here to deal with you. You’ve not chosen to take my warning; take your lot. My business is with my cousin here, whom you unlawfully detain.—Diana, I have seen to your safety.”

He made an almost imperceptible gesture of his hand as he concluded. The two men darted forward. Hideous confusion instantly sprang up. Diana remembered (and afterward it was with tender laughter) seeing the Mother Abbess strike out right lustily with her pastoral staff; to such good purpose, indeed, that Lionel’s sword was snapped at mid-blade as he tried to parry her blow. At the same instant there was a deafening report in her ear: Bindon had loosed his musket. The foremost of Ratcliffe’s attendants threw up his arms and fell forward. Then she felt herself grasped, and knew the hated touch.

“Diana, are you mad?” Lionel was whispering fiercely. “’Tis life or death!… If you are seen to struggle now, you, whom this rabble believes I come to rescue from the papists, you are lost, even as the others!”

Through Lionel’s words she was aware of the wild-beast roar, execrating:—

“Kill the papists! Burn them! Fire the convent—fire for fire!”

She was aware also of the invisible bars broken down, of the rush. And next, even to her bewildered senses, there came the feeling of a change, a halt.

It was like a flood at full tide miraculously arrested. Shots followed each other in rapid succession outside; and other sounds now, a roll of drums, words of command, some cheers, began to mingle with those hideous recurrent yells. The throng that struggled to pour in through the broken door recoiled.

“The guards! the guards are on us!” was now the cry.

And with the curious unanimity of crowds general panic succeeded general fury. Above the torrential sound of feet on the pavement, a voice, clear yet panting, like the blast of a running trumpeter, rose ever nearer.

“Make way, in the King’s name!”

Then Diana heard the Abbess’s “Deo gratias”; heard Lionel curse as his grasp relaxed; heard him curse again as he leaped forward, brandishing the stump of his sword, and, in vain frenzy, striving to stop the fugitives.

Harry Rockhurst was the first of the rescuers to dash through the gaping door. The Lord Constable had in truth reached the gateway before him, but had stood aside to let his son pass. Bare-headed, his black curls flying, his face set with the sternness of fierce intent, Diana for one delirious instant took the son for the father—the father as she had first met him in pride of noble strength, when she had loved him, unbidden. And as he sprang toward her, crying out in accents of unmeasurable joy, “Diana—safe!” she cast herself into his arms.

Now, even as he held her, she knew who it was, knew that there was youth in his pressure, an unhampered ecstasy of leaping blood. But yet she clung to him the closer, past and present so inextricably mingled in her thought that all she felt, all she cared to know, was that now, here, her heart had come home at last!

The inner circle of their joy lasted but the moment of a radiant bubble. About them the turmoil still raged. There was one, within a few yards, white-haired, grappling with a furious blood-stained ruffian. Diana clutched her lover’s arm.

“Harry, Harry, save the old man!”

Harry turned, saw, and fired his pistol point-blank in the rioter’s face. In the same instant, with a horror that stifled the cry of warning in her throat, Diana saw Lionel, with livid countenance of fury, advancing upon the young man, his broken sword drawn back like a dagger for the thrust. But even as she found voice, all was over: one whose love had been swifter than hers had flung himself between the steel and its aim. Then all was a swirl of confusion. She saw Harry draw his sword from Lionel’s fallen body, fling it from him, and rush with a deep cry of anguish to the tall, white-headed man who yet stood erect, smiling, but with a face of terrible pallor.

She looked again; and, as if the blast of a mighty wind had torn the mists from her eyes, she knew him. The old man she had called him: it was Lord Rockhurst himself.

And now it became clear to her that he was wounded, and grievously. Though he still stood, he was supported on one side by his son; on the other by a grey-bearded yeoman who, seeing his leader struck, had worked his way to him with great strides, through the mob of soldiers and rioters struggling at the door.

“Sir,” he was saying, “this is the weight of a dead man.”

“Ah, no!” cried the son. “For God’s sake, look to the wound! O God!—the sword, to the very hilt!”

Rockhurst came back from his far-smiling contemplation to forbid the hand that would have plucked the broken sword from his side.

“Touch it not yet, Sergeant Bracy. When you draw it, you draw my life with it.”

“He’s sped, Master Harry,” whispered Bracy, and his face began to work.

Then Rockhurst failed in their arms and they gently laid him down on the flags, but a few paces away from Lionel Ratcliffe’s dead body. As in a dream, Diana came and knelt by his side. Madam Anastasia was praying under her voice the prayer for the dying: “… Remember not, O Lord, the offences of thy servant, and take not revenge of his sins.…”

“Oh, father,” sobbed Harry, “the best, the dearest! Oh, my honoured lord!”

The dying man, as with an effort, brought his far gaze to the two young faces bending in sorrow over him.

“It is well,” he said, “very well. Diana, lay your hand in his. I would fain place it there myself, but I cannot, I cannot.” His eye roamed as if seeking. Once again he smiled at Bracy’s distraught countenance.

“Old comrade,” he breathed, “pluck out the blade.”

The Lord Constable had given his last command.

Mr. F. MARION CRAWFORD’S NOVELS

THE SARACINESCA SERIES

In the binding of the Uniform Edition, each, $1.50

Saracinesca

“The work has two distinct merits, either of which would serve to make it great,—that of telling a perfect story in a perfect way, and of giving a graphic picture of Roman society in the last days of the Pope’s temporal power.… The story is exquisitely told.”—Boston Traveler.

Sant’ Ilario. A Sequel to “Saracinesca”

“A singularly powerful and beautiful story.… It fulfils every requirement of artistic fiction. It brings out what is most impressive in human action, without owing any of its effectiveness to sensationalism or artifice. It is natural, fluent in evolution, accordant with experience, graphic in description, penetrating in analysis, and absorbing in interest.”—New York Tribune.

Don Orsino. A Sequel to “Sant’ Ilario”

“Perhaps the cleverest novel of the year.… There is not a dull paragraph in the book, and the reader may be assured that once begun, the story of Don Orsino will fascinate him until its close.”—The Critic.

Taquisara

“To Mr. Crawford’s Roman novels belongs the supreme quality of uniting subtly drawn characters to a plot of uncommon interest.”—Chicago Tribune.

Corleone

“Mr. Crawford is the novelist born … a natural story-teller, with wit, imagination, and insight added to a varied and profound knowledge of social life.”—The Inter-Ocean, Chicago.

Casa Braccio. In two volumes, $2.00. Illustrated by A. Castaigne

Like Taquisara and Corleone, it is closely related in plot to the fortunes of the Saracinesca family.

“Mr. Crawford’s books have life, pathos, and insight; he tells a dramatic story with many exquisite touches.”—New York Sun.

NOVELS OF ROMAN SOCIAL LIFE

In decorated cloth covers, each, $1.50

A Roman Singer

“One of the earliest and best works of this famous novelist.… None but a genuine artist could have made so true a picture of human life, crossed by human passions and interwoven with human weakness. It is a perfect specimen of literary art.”—The Newark Advertiser.

Marzio’s Crucifix

“We have repeatedly had occasion to say that Mr. Crawford possesses in an extraordinary degree the art of constructing a story. It is as if it could not have been written otherwise, so naturally does the story unfold itself, and so logical and consistent is the sequence of incident after incident. As a story, Marzio’s Crucifix is perfectly constructed.”—New York Commercial Advertiser.

Heart of Rome. A Tale of the Lost Water

“Mr. Crawford has written a story of absorbing interest, a story with a genuine thrill in it; he has drawn his characters with a sure and brilliant touch, and he has said many things surpassingly well.”—New York Times Saturday Review.

Cecilia. A Story of Modern Rome

“That F. Marion Crawford is a master of mystery needs no new telling.… His latest novel, Cecilia, is as weird as anything he has done since the memorable Mr. Isaacs.… A strong, interesting, dramatic story, with the picturesque Roman setting beautifully handled as only a master’s touch could do it.”—Philadelphia Evening Telegraph.

Whosoever Shall Offend

“It is a story sustained from beginning to end by an ever increasing dramatic quality.”—New York Evening Post.

Pietro Ghisleri

“The imaginative richness, the marvellous ingenuity of plot, the power and subtlety of the portrayal of character, the charm of the romantic environment,—the entire atmosphere indeed,—rank this novel at once among the great creations.”—The Boston Budget.

To Leeward

“The four characters with whose fortunes this novel deals, are, perhaps, the most brilliantly executed portraits in the whole of Mr. Crawford’s long picture gallery, while for subtle insight into the springs of human passion and for swift dramatic action none of the novels surpasses this one.”—The News and Courier.

A Lady of Rome

Mr. Crawford has no equal as a writer of brilliant cosmopolitan fiction, in which the characters really belong to the chosen scene and the story interest is strong. His novels possess atmosphere in a high degree.

Mr. Isaacs (India)

Its scenes are laid in Simla, chiefly. This is the work which first placed its author among the most brilliant novelists of his day.

Greifenstein (The Black Forest)

“… Another notable contribution to the literature of the day. It possesses originality in its conception and is a work of unusual ability. Its interest is sustained to the close, and it is an advance even on the previous work of this talented author. Like all Mr. Crawford’s work, this novel is crisp, clear, and vigorous, and will be read with a great deal of interest.”—New York Evening Telegram.

Zoroaster (Persia)

“It is a drama in the force of its situations and in the poetry and dignity of its language; but its men and women are not men and women of a play. By the naturalness of their conversation and behavior they seem to live and lay hold of our human sympathy more than the same characters on a stage could possibly do.”—The New York Times.

The Witch of Prague (Bohemia)

“A fantastic tale,” illustrated by W. J. Hennessy.

“The artistic skill with which this extraordinary story is constructed and carried out is admirable and delightful.… Mr. Crawford has scored a decided triumph, for the interest of the tale is sustained throughout.… A very remarkable, powerful, and interesting story.”—New York Tribune.

Paul Patoff (Constantinople)

“Mr. Crawford has a marked talent for assimilating local color, not to make mention of a broader historical sense. Even though he may adopt, as it is the romancer’s right to do, the extreme romantic view of history, it is always a living and moving picture that he evolves for us, varied and stirring.”—New York Evening Post.

Marietta (Venice)

“No living writer can surpass Mr. Crawford in the construction of a complicated plot and the skilful unravelling of the tangled skein.”—Chicago Record-Herald.

“He has gone back to the field of his earlier triumphs, and has, perhaps, scored the greatest triumph of them all.”—New York Herald.

In the binding of the new Uniform Edition, each, $1.50

Via Crucis. A Romance of the Second Crusade. Illustrated by Louis Loeb

“Via Crucis.… A tale of former days, possessing an air of reality and an absorbing interest such as few writers since Scott have been able to accomplish when dealing with historical characters.”—Boston Transcript.

In the Palace of the King (Spain)

“In the Palace of the King is a masterpiece; there is a picturesqueness, a sincerity which will catch all readers in an agreeable storm of emotion, and even leave a hardened reviewer impressed and delighted.”—Literature, London.

With the Immortals

“The strange central idea of the story could have occurred only to a writer whose mind was very sensitive to the current of modern thought and progress, while its execution, the setting it forth in proper literary clothing, could be successfully attempted only by one whose active literary ability should be fully equalled by his power of assimilative knowledge both literary and scientific, and no less by his courage and capacity for hard work. The book will be found to have a fascination entirely new for the habitual reader of novels. Indeed, Mr. Crawford has succeeded in taking his readers quite above the ordinary plane of novel interest.”—Boston Advertiser.

Children of the King (Calabria)

“One of the most artistic and exquisitely finished pieces of work that Crawford has produced. The picturesque setting, Calabria and its surroundings, the beautiful Sorrento and the Gulf of Salerno, with the bewitching accessories that climate, sea, and sky afford, give Mr. Crawford rich opportunities to show his rare descriptive powers. As a whole the book is strong and beautiful through its simplicity, and ranks among the choicest of the author’s many fine productions.”—Public Opinion.

A Cigarette Maker’s Romance (Munich) and Khaled, a Tale of Arabia

“Two gems of subtle analysis of human passion and motive.”—Times.

“The interest is unflagging throughout. Never has Mr. Crawford done more brilliant realistic work than here. But his realism is only the case and cover for those intense feelings which, placed under no matter what humble conditions, produce the most dramatic and the most tragic situations.… This is a secret of genius, to take the most coarse and common material, the meanest surroundings, the most sordid material prospects, and out of the vehement passions which sometimes dominate all human beings to build up with these poor elements, scenes and passages the dramatic and emotional power of which at once enforce attention and awaken the profoundest interest.”—New York Tribune.

Fair Margaret. A Portrait

“An exhilarating romance … alluring in its naturalness and grace.”—Boston Herald.

WITH SCENES LAID IN ENGLAND AND AMERICA

In the binding of the Uniform Edition

A Tale of a Lonely Parish

“It is a pleasure to have anything so perfect of its kind as this brief and vivid story.… It is doubly a success, being full of human sympathy, as well as thoroughly artistic in its nice balancing of the unusual with the commonplace, the clever juxtaposition of innocence and guilt, comedy and tragedy, simplicity and intrigue.”—Critic.

Dr. Claudius. A True Story

The scene changes from Heidelberg to New York, and much of the story develops during the ocean voyage.

“There is a satisfying quality in Mr. Crawford’s strong, vital, forceful stories.”—Boston Herald.

An American Politician. The scenes are laid in Boston

“It need scarcely be said that the story is skilfully and picturesquely written, portraying sharply individual characters in well-defined surroundings.”—New York Commercial Advertiser.

The Three Fates

“Mr. Crawford has manifestly brought his best qualities as a student of human nature and his finest resources as a master of an original and picturesque style to bear upon this story. Taken for all in all, it is one of the most pleasing of all his productions in fiction, and it affords a view of certain phases of American, or perhaps we should say of New York, life that have not hitherto been treated with anything like the same adequacy and felicity.”—Boston Beacon.

Marion Darche

“Full enough of incident to have furnished material for three or four stories.… A most interesting and engrossing book. Every page unfolds new possibilities, and the incidents multiply rapidly.”—Detroit Free Press.

“We are disposed to rank Marion Darche as the best of Mr. Crawford’s American stories.”—The Literary World.

Katharine Lauderdale

The Ralstons. A Sequel to “Katharine Lauderdale”

“Mr. Crawford at his best is a great novelist, and in Katharine Lauderdale we have him at his best.”—Boston Daily Advertiser.

“A most admirable novel, excellent in style, flashing with humor, and full of the ripest and wisest reflections upon men and women.”—The Westminster Gazette.

“It is the first time, we think, in American fiction that any such breadth of view has shown itself in the study of our social framework.”—Life.

Mr. WINSTON CHURCHILL’S NOVELS

Each, cloth, gilt tops and titles, $1.50

The Celebrity. An Episode

“No such piece of inimitable comedy in a literary way has appeared for years.… It is the purest, keenest fun.”—Chicago Inter-Ocean.

Richard Carvel Illustrated

“… In breadth of canvas, massing of dramatic effect, depth of feeling, and rare wholesomeness of spirit, it has seldom, if ever, been surpassed by an American romance.”—Chicago Tribune.

The Crossing Illustrated

“The Crossing is a thoroughly interesting book, packed with exciting adventure and sentimental incident, yet faithful to historical fact both in detail and in spirit.”—The Dial.

The Crisis Illustrated

“It is a charming love story, and never loses its interest.… The intense political bitterness, the intense patriotism of both parties, are shown understandingly.”—Evening Telegraph, Philadelphia.

Coniston Illustrated

“Coniston has a lighter, gayer spirit, and a deeper, tenderer touch than Mr. Churchill has ever achieved before.… It is one of the truest and finest transcripts of modern American life thus far achieved in our fiction.”—Chicago Record-Herald.

Mr. JAMES LANE ALLEN’S NOVELS

Each, cloth, 12mo, $1.50

The Choir Invisible

This can also be had in a special edition illustrated by Orson Lowell, $2.50

“One reads the story for the story’s sake, and then re-reads the book out of pure delight in its beauty. The story is American to the very core.… Mr. Allen stands to-day in the front rank of American novelists. The Choir Invisible will solidify a reputation already established and bring into clear light his rare gifts as an artist. For this latest story is as genuine a work of art as has come from an American hand.”—Hamilton Mabie in The Outlook.

The Reign of Law. A Tale of the Kentucky Hempfields

“Mr. Allen has a style as original and almost as perfectly finished as Hawthorne’s, and he has also Hawthorne’s fondness for spiritual suggestion that makes all his stories rich in the qualities that are lacking in so many novels of the period.… If read in the right way, it cannot fail to add to one’s spiritual possessions.”—San Francisco Chronicle.

Summer in Arcady. A Tale of Nature

“This story by James Lane Allen is one of the gems of the season. It is artistic in its setting, realistic and true to nature and life in its descriptions, dramatic, pathetic, tragic, in its incidents; indeed, a veritable masterpiece that must become classic. It is difficult to give an outline of the story; it is one of the stories which do not outline; it must be read.”—Boston Daily Advertiser.

The Mettle of the Pasture

“It may be that The Mettle of the Pasture will live and become a part of our literature; it certainly will live far beyond the allotted term of present-day fiction. Our principal concern is that it is a notable novel, that it ranks high in the range of American and English fiction, and that it is worth the reading, the re-reading, and the continuous appreciation of those who care for modern literature at its best.”—By E. F. E. in the Boston Transcript.

Shorter Stories. Each, $1.50

The Blue Grass Region of Kentucky

Flute and Violin, and Other Kentucky Tales

Each, illustrated, $1.00

A Kentucky Cardinal

Aftermath. A Sequel to “A Kentucky Cardinal”

Mr. OWEN WISTER’S NOVELS

Each, in decorated cloth cover, $1.50

The Virginian

“The vanished West is made to live again by Owen Wister in a manner which makes his book easily the best that deals with the cowboy and the cattle country.… It is picturesque, racy, and above all it is original.”—The Philadelphia Press.

Lady Baltimore

“After cowboy stories innumerable, The Virginian came as the last and definite word on that romantic subject in our fiction. Lady Baltimore will serve in much the same way as the most subtly drawn picture of the old-world dignity of the vanished South.”—The New York Evening Mail.

Mr. EDEN PHILPOTTS’S NOVELS

Each, in decorated cloth, $1.50

The American Prisoner Illustrated

“Intensely readable … perfectly admirable in its elemental humor and racy turns of speech.”—The Spectator, London.

The Secret Woman

“There cannot be two opinions as to the interest and the power of The Secret Woman. It is not only its author’s masterpiece, but it is far in advance of anything he has yet written—and that is to give it higher praise than almost any other comparison with contemporary fiction could afford.”—Times Saturday Review.

Knock at a Venture

Sketches of the rustic life of Devon, rich in racy, quaint, and humorous touches.

The Portreeve

Mr. ROBERT HERRICK’S NOVELS

Cloth, extra, gilt tops, each, $1.50

The Gospel of Freedom

“A novel that may truly be called the greatest study of social life, in a broad and very much up-to-date sense, that has ever been contributed to American fiction.”—Chicago Inter-Ocean.

The Web of Life

“It is strong in that it faithfully depicts many phases of American life, and uses them to strengthen a web of fiction, which is most artistically wrought out.”—Buffalo Express.

The Real World

“The title of the book has a subtle intention. It indicates, and is true to the verities in doing so, the strange dreamlike quality of life to the man who has not yet fought his own battles, or come into conscious possession of his will—only such battles bite into the consciousness.”—Chicago Tribune.

The Common Lot

“It grips the reader tremendously.… It is the drama of a human soul the reader watches … the finest study of human motive that has appeared for many a day.”—The World To-day.

The Memoirs of an American Citizen. Illustrated with about fifty drawings by F. B. Masters

“Mr. Herrick’s book is a book among many, and he comes nearer to reflecting a certain kind of recognizable, contemporaneous American spirit than anybody has yet done.”—New York Times.

“Intensely absorbing as a story, it is also a crisp, vigorous document of startling significance. More than any other writer to-day he is giving us the American novel.”—New York Globe.

Mr. JACK LONDON’S NOVELS, etc.

Each, in decorated cloth binding, $1.50

The Call of the Wild Illustrated in colors

“A big story in sober English, and with thorough art in the construction; a wonderfully perfect bit of work; a book that will be heard of long. The dog’s adventures are as exciting as any man’s exploits could be, and Mr. London’s workmanship is wholly satisfying.”—The New York Sun.

The Sea-Wolf Illustrated in colors

“Jack London’s The Sea-Wolf is marvellously truthful.… Reading it through at a sitting, we have found it poignantly interesting; … a superb piece of craftsmanship.”—The New York Tribune.

White Fang Illustrated in colors

“A thrilling story of adventure … stirring indeed … and it touches a chord of tenderness that is all too rare in Mr. London’s work.”—Record-Herald, Chicago.

Before Adam Illustrated in colors

“The story moves with a wonderful sequence of interesting and wholly credible events. The marvel of it all is not in the story itself, but in the audacity of the man who undertook such a task as the writing of it.… From an artistic standpoint the book is an undoubted success. And it is no less a success from the standpoint of the reader who seeks to be entertained.”—The Plain Dealer, Cleveland.

Shorter Stories

Children of the Frost

Faith of Men

Tales of the Fish Patrol

The Game

Moon Face

Love of Life

Mr. WILLIAM STEARNS DAVIS’S NOVELS

Each, in decorated cloth cover, $1.50

A Friend of CÆsar

“As a story … there can be no question of its success.… While the beautiful love of Cornelia and Drusus lies at the sound sweet heart of the story, to say so is to give a most meagre idea of the large sustained interest of the whole.… There are many incidents so vivid, so brilliant, that they fix themselves in the memory.”—Nancy Huston Banks in The Bookman.

“God Wills It.” A Tale of the First Crusade. Illustrated by Louis Betts

“Not since Sir Walter Scott cast his spell over us with Ivanhoe, Count Robert of Paris, and Quentin Durward have we been so completely captivated by a story as by ‘God Wills It’. It grips the attention of the reader in the first chapter and holds it till the last.”—Christian Endeavor World.

Falaise of the Blessed Voice. A Tale of the Youth of St. Louis, King of France

“In this tale of the youth of Louis, King of France and afterward saint in the calendar of the Catholic Church, Mr. Davis has fulfilled the promises contained in A Friend of CÆsar and ‘God Wills It’. The novel is not only interesting and written with skill in the scenes which are really dramatic, but it is convincing in its character drawing and its analysis of motives.”—Evening Post, New York.

A Victor of Salamis. A Tale of the Days of Xerxes, Leonidas, and Themistocles

“An altogether admirable picture of Hellenic life and Hellenic ideals. It is just such a book as will convey to the average reader what is the eternal value of Greek Life to the world … carried breathlessly along by a style which never poses, and yet is always strong and dignified.… This remarkable book takes its place with the best of historical fiction. Those who have made their acquaintance with the characters in the days of their youth will find delight in the remembrance. Those who would fain learn something of the golden days of Greece could not do better than use Mr. Davis for guide.”—The Daily Post, Liverpool.

“It is seldom that the London critics admit that an American may wear the mantle of Scott, but they are declaring that this book entitles Mr. Davis to a place among novelists not far below the author of The Talisman.”

MABEL OSGOOD WRIGHT’S NOVELS, etc.

(Published originally as by “Barbara,” the Commuter’s wife)

Each, in decorated cloth binding, $1.50

The Garden of a Commuter’s Wife. Illustrated from photographs

“Reading it is like having the entry into a home of the class that is the proudest product of our land, a home where love of books and love of nature go hand in hand with hearty simple love of ‘folks.’… It is a charming book.”—The Interior.

People of the Whirlpool Illustrated

“The whole book is delicious, with its wise and kindly humor, its just perspective of the true values of things, its clever pen pictures of people and customs, and its healthy optimism for the great world in general.”—Philadelphia Evening Telegraph.

The Woman Errant

“The book is worth reading. It will cause discussion. It is an interesting, fictional presentation of an important modern question, treated with fascinating feminine adroitness.”—Miss Jeannette Gilder in The Chicago Tribune.

At the Sign of the Fox

“Her little pictures of country life are fragrant with a genuine love of nature, and there is fun as genuine in her notes on rural character. A travelling pieman is one of her most lovable personages; another is Tatters, a dog, who is humanly winsome and wise, and will not soon be forgotten by the reader of this very entertaining book.”—New York Tribune.

The Garden, You and I

“This volume is simply the best she has yet put forth, and quite too deliciously torturing to the reviewer, whose only garden is in Spain.… The delightful humor which persuaded the earlier books, and without which Barbara would not be Barbara, has lost nothing of its poignancy, and would make The Garden, You and I pleasant reading even to the man who doesn’t know a pink from a phlox or a Daphne cneorum from a Cherokee rose.”—Congregationalist.

THE MERWIN-WEBSTER NOVELS

Each, in decorated cloth covers, $1.50

Calumet “K” Illustrated by Harry C. Edwards

“Calumet ‘K’ is a novel that is exciting and absorbing, but not the least bit sensational. It is the story of a rush.… The book is an unusually good story; one that shows the inner workings of the labor union, and portrays men who are the bone and sinew of the earth.”—The Toledo Blade.

The Short Line War

“A capital story of adventure in the field of railroading.”—Outlook.

Mr. MARK LEE LUTHER’S NOVELS

Each, in cloth, decorated covers, $1.50

The Henchman

“It wins admiration on almost every page by the cleverness of its inventions.”—Churchill Williams in The Bookman.

The Mastery

“A story of really notable power remarkable for its strength.”—Times.

Mr. and Mrs. CASTLE’S NOVELS

Each, in decorated cloth binding, $1.50

The Pride of Jennico

“This lively story has a half-historic flavor which adds to its interest … told with an intensity of style which almost takes away the breath of the reader.”—Boston Transcript.

If Youth But Knew

“They should be the most delightful of comrades, for their writing is so apt, so responsive, so joyous, so saturated with the promptings and the glamour of spring. It is because If Youth But Knew has all these adorable qualities that it is so fascinating.”—Cleveland Leader.

Mr. JOHN LUTHER LONG’S NOVELS, etc.

Each, in decorated cloth covers, $1.50

The Way of the Gods

“There can be no doubt as to the artistic quality of his story. It rings true with the golden ring of chivalry and of woman’s love, it rings true for all lovers of romance, wherever they be, … and is told with an art worthy of the idea.”—New York Mail.

Heimweh and Other Stories

“As in Madam Butterfly his subtle appreciation of love’s tender mystery creates an exquisite thrill of ‘the heavenly longing—for the love—the loved ones’ the one thing that through poverty and age can keep the door open to joy.”—New York Times.

Miss BEULAH MARIE DIX’S NOVELS, etc.

Each, in decorated cloth covers, $1.50

The Making of Christopher Ferringham

“In brilliancy, exciting interest, and verisimilitude, The Making of Christopher Ferringham is one of the best of the semi-historical novels of the day, and not unworthy of comparison with Maurice Hewlett’s best.”—Boston Advertiser.

The Life, Treason, and Death of James Blount of Breckenhow

“A novel that may fairly challenge comparison with the very best, telling the story of treason and a love, of many good fights, a few mistakes, and a good death at the last.”—The Boston Transcript.

The Fair Maid of Greystones

“The plot of The Fair Maid of Greystones is not unworthy of Weyman at his best. This is strong praise, but it is deserved. From the moment Jack Hetherington, the Cavalier volunteer, assumes the identity of his blackguard cousin, and thus escapes certain death to face the responsibility for his kinsman’s dark deeds, until the end, which is sanely happy, the adventure never flags. This is one of the few historical novels in whose favor an exception may well be made by those who long since lost interest in the school.”—New York Mail.

Mr. CHARLES MAJOR’S NOVELS

Each, in decorated cloth binding, $1.50

Dorothy Vernon of Haddon Hall. Illustrated by Howard Chandler Christy

“Dorothy is a splendid creation, a superb creature of brains, beauty, force, capacity, and passion, a riot of energy, love, and red blood. She is the fairest, fiercest, strongest, tenderest heroine that ever woke up a jaded novel reader and made him realize that life will be worth living so long as the writers of fiction create her like.… The story has brains, ‘go,’ virility, gumption, and originality.”—The Boston Herald.

A Forest Hearth. A Romance of Indiana in the Thirties. Illustrated

“This work is a novel full of charm and action, picturing the life and love of the fascinating indomitably adventurous men and women, boys and girls, who developed Indiana. It is a vigorous, breezy, outdoor book, with the especial intimate touch that is possible only when the subject is one which has long lain close to its author’s heart.”—Daily News.

Yolanda, Maid of Burgundy Illustrated

“Charles Major has done the best work of his life in Yolanda. The volume is a genuine romance … and after the reviewer has become surfeited with problem novels, it is like coming out into the sunlight to read the fresh, sweet story of her love for Max.”—The World To-day.

Mr. JOHN OXENHAM’S NOVEL

The Long Road With frontispiece

Cloth, decorated cover, $1.50

“Not since Robert Louis Stevenson has there appeared a writer of English who can so thoroughly serve his turn with simple Anglo-Saxon phrases … invested with sympathetic interest, convincing sincerity, and indefinable charm of romance.”—North American.

“It is original both in plot and in treatment, and its skilful mingling of idyllic beauty and tragedy plays curious tricks with one’s emotions … and leaves an impression of happiness and spiritual uplift. It is a story that any man or woman will be the better for reading.”—Record-Herald, Chicago.

Mr. MAURICE HEWLETT’S NOVELS

Each, in decorated cloth covers, $1.50

The Forest Lovers

“The book is a joy to read and to remember, a source of clean and pure delight to the spiritual sense, a triumph of romance reduced to the essentials, and interpreted with a mastery of expression that is well-nigh beyond praise.”—The Dial.

The Life and Death of Richard Yea-and-Nay

“Mr. Hewlett has done one of the most notable things in recent literature a thing to talk about with bated breath, as a bit of master-craftsmanship touched by the splendid dignity of real creation.”—The Interior.

The Queen’s Quair

“The Queen’s Quair is, from every point of view, a notable contribution to historical portraiture in its subtlety, its vividness of color, its consistency, and its fascination.… Above all, it is intensely interesting.”—The Outlook.

The Fool Errant

“It is full of excellent description, of amusing characters, and of picaresque adventure brilliantly related … with infinite humor and vivacity.”—The New York Herald.

Little Novels of Italy

“These singularly romantic stories are so true to their locality that they read almost like translations.”—New York Times.

New Canterbury Tales

“In the key and style of the author’s Little Novels of Italy, it shows again the brilliant qualities of that remarkable book; … daring but successful.”—New York Tribune.