The Yellow Book

Study of a Calf

By Henry Harland

Stacking Hay

By William Kennedy

The Harbour Light

By D. Martin

THIS is a true account of the Enchanted Stone, and of the
strange circumstances by which it came into my
possession.

The paper had been running eighteen months, when one
November morning, among the manuscripts that arrived by the
early post, I found one, written in a queer, square handwriting,
and redolent of a pungent Eastern perfume. It was unsigned,
but at the foot of the last page stood a symbol of irregular outline,
about the size of a two-shilling piece. The surface was wrinkled,
like the face of an old woman by Rembrandt, and also bore
three dark markings, in appearance somewhat akin to sun-spots,
seen through a powerful telescope. This disc was pierced by an
arrow an inch long, scrawled over by some mystic letters.
The manuscript, which was written in flowery language, began
with these words—” Om !! Salutation to the Revered and
Sublime White Queen, whose arms encircle the globe,” and ended
with this cryptic peroration—” I am not inconsiderate, like the
grass-eating animals. I will repay. The earth and the mountains
may be overthrown, but I, O Queen, will not rest till I regain the
Enchanted Stone.”

The body of the manuscript contained, so far as I gathered in a

                                                hurried

hurried perusal, a pious request that a certain gem which was about
to be presented to the Queen by the Raja of Pepperthala, should
be restored to the writer, who proclaimed himself the lineal
descendant of the rightful owner of the gem. The Raja of
Pepperthala, I concluded, was the broken-down ruler of a bank-
rupt feudatory state in Northern India. Further the communica-
tion stated that the writer would call upon me that afternoon at
four o’clock.

I was puzzling over this odd manuscript when the tape machine
that stands in the corner of my room began to tick. As it was
unusual for news to be sent through at such an early hour, I threw
down the anonymous effusion, and hastened toward the instru-
ment. The tape coiled from the machine, and I spelled out the
following :

” 10.30 a.m. Prince of Wales has just left Marlborough House to
call upon the Raja of Pepperthala, who is staying at Buckingham
Palace by Her Majesty’s invitation.”

That was a remarkable item of news in itself, to say nothing of
the coincidence. Our last Indian visitor, I knew, had lodged in
the Gloucester Road. Why then should the Raja of Pepperthala,
an insignificant chieftain, whose name was not even mentioned in
Griffith’s Indian Princes, be staying at Buckingham Palace by
Her Majesty’s invitation ? It being Press day, I had not time to
puzzle over the anomaly, so I sent the manuscript and the news
item to Mayfair, my friend and sub-editor, who worked in a room
at the end of the passage, asking him to investigate the affair and
let me know the result before four o’clock. Although Mayfair was
but twenty-one years of age, he was like certain of the children of
Israel, one in whom there was no blemish, well-favoured, and
skilful in all wisdom, cunning in knowledge, understanding many

                                                things,

things, who had easily brought himself into my favour and tender
love.

By this time it was eleven o’clock, the hour when the printer
began to send down pages to be passed for press. The strain
lasted well into the afternoon, and the mysterious manuscript had
been quite driven from my mind, when a card was brought to me
bearing nothing but a duplication of the symbol that sprawled at
the foot of the perfumed article. I looked at the clock. The
hands pointed to four.

I told the messenger to show the stranger into the ante-room,
and to ask Mr. Mayfair to come to me at once.

” Hush,” I whispered when Mayfair appeared. ” He’s in there,”
indicating the adjoining chamber. ” Will you sit at my desk ?
Pretend to be writing. Listen attentively, but do not speak
unless I address you.”

The clock struck four. I threw open the door of the ante-
room.

The man who came forward, lightly and noiselessly, with the
grace of a free animal, was yellow like a Mongolian, but his
features were finely chiselled, and in stature he was tall and slim.
He wore a long, frayed frock-coat buttoned high up around his
neck. The crown of his head resembled a yellow billiard ball. I
have never seen a man with less hair. His eyes were deep-set and
piercing, and, like the slight nostrils, and the thin quivering lips,
alive with intelligence.

” You have read my words ? ” he asked eagerly, and in excellent
English.

I nodded an affirmative.

” And you will publish my words in your paper ? “

I shrugged my shoulders. ” We are so crowded. Our space
is limited. Besides—”

                                                He

He strode to my side. ” I am some judge of character,” he
remarked, in a tone quite innocent of egoism, speaking as if he
were stating an incontrovertible fact. ” You believe in the good
and wise God ? ”

” Really,” I began.

” Yet,” he swept on, ” you will hinder the revelation He has
promised to mankind.”

” Do you refer to me, or to the paper ? ” I asked gently. It
was clear I had to deal with a religious fanatic.

” Yours is a great journal,” he continued, ignoring my question.
” You are the Editor ! You wield power ! You are not rich !
Procure for me the Enchanted Stone, and I will give you two,
three, five thousand pounds.”

With that he drew from an outer pocket a bundle of bank
notes, and flung them upon the table. They were for £1000
each, and undoubtedly genuine.

” Replace those, please,” I said. ” This is not a private enquiry
office. Now let us understand one another. I gather that a poor
old gentleman, the present Raja of Pepperthala, who is now lodging
at Buckingham Palace, by Her Majesty’s invitation, has in his
possession a valuable stone which you assert is your property, you
being the lineal descendant of the rightful owners, who centuries
past were Rajas of Pepperthala. You also state that this gem was
stolen some hundreds of years ago by a Mohammedan chief at the
time of the invasion of India ; that the said stone has brought
nothing but trouble and disaster to its various owners ; that the
present possessor has in a moment of generosity determined to
present this ill-omened and unlucky gem to Her Majesty, and that
he has travelled to England for that purpose. Further, you are
so anxious to get possession of the gem as to offer me a bribe of
£5000 if I succeed in restoring it to you. Now, before I move a

                                                step

step in this matter, I must ask you first to produce documents
satisfying me that the stone ever belonged to your ancestors, and,
secondly, to show proofs of your own identity ; in a word, make it
clear to me that you are the lineal descendant of the former Rajas
of Pepperthala. For all I know, the stone has been already handed
over to Her Majesty, and is at this moment lodged in the Tower
with the other Regalia. I m afraid I could not consent to steal
the Crown jewels even for a bribe of £5000.”

“To restore, not to steal,” he interposed, quickly.

I laughed a little contemptuously at the emendation. His
demeanour changed. He drew himself up to his full height, the
long lashes fell across his eyes, his head sunk upon his breast, and
he cried in a broken voice and with hands upraised : ” How long,
O Lord, how long ? I am as one standing upon the housetops,
trying to grasp the stars of heaven.”

His dejection was so poignant that my heart softened. ” Pro-
cure me the proofs,” I said, ” and I will see what can be done.
In the meantime we will insert a paragraph, non-committal, but
of a nature that may arouse public interest and, possibly, sym-
pathy.”

Having thus delivered myself I threw open the door of the
ante-room, as a hint that the interview was ended.

The chamber faced the west. The sky was clear, save for a
bank of heavy clouds along the horizon. The fog which hung
about the streets was of that wreathy, fantastic character that
makes potential mysteries of chimneypots, wayfarers, and telegraph
posts. As I threw open the door, a heavy cloud was just rolling
away from the setting sun. I paused in admiration—I had almost
written adoration—of the spectacle. For one moment the sun
glowed like a great angry eye, with a little feathery wing dancing
impishly over its surface ; then another cloud-bank swept up, like

                                                a puff

a puff of gun-fire from a distant coast. The good, round light
went out, and in its place came gloom and the shadows of night.
Then the cloud rolled away, and for a moment the sun shone
forth upon the world again in a blaze of good-night splendour.

What happened next was begun and ended in the space of three
seconds. A trill of low laughter fell upon my ears ; turning
swiftly, I observed Mayfair trying, with poor success, to preserve
his gravity. Seeking for the cause, I found it in the Yellow Man,
who had fallen upon his knees, with long arms raised reverently
towards the sun, that glowed full upon his ascetic face and head,
which bobbed in unison to a torrent of words, in some unknown
tongue, that broke from his lips. It was the back of the man’s
nodding head that moved Mayfair to mirth. Had he seen his face
as I saw it at that moment he would have felt no inclination to
laugh—so sad, so profound, was the look of passionate entreaty
that illumined his countenance. It moved me strangely, and
then, in a flash, my wonder was changed into horror—and I was
rushing across the room to where Mayfair sat still laughing, but
now in a desperate kind of way.

I caught the Yellow Man’s arm as the dagger gleamed down-
wards in a sharp, swift stroke, and so lessened the force of the
blow, but I was not in time to save the boy. Then blood spurted
from the wound, and Mayfair fell forward upon his face.

” You devil,” I cried, seizing the creature’s hand that still
gripped the dagger ; but he slipped from my grasp like an eel and
disappeared from the room, closing the door silently after him. I
let him go, for Mayfair had fainted and needed me. His
pretty white necktie—he always liked dainty clothing—was stained
with blood. I staunched the flow, bound up the wound as well
as I knew how, laid him down full length upon the floor, and
then considered. At all costs the affair must be hushed up. I

                                                wrote

wrote a note explaining the nature of the injury, then rang the
bell, and met the messenger outside the room.

” Take this letter to Doctor Eastern,” I said. ” Bring him
back with you.”

Then I locked the door and waited. My fears, I confess, were
selfish, but the dread of losing Mayfair was more than I dared
contemplate. In a little he moved, raising himself upon one
elbow.

” What—where—— ? “

” Be quiet, there’s a dear fellow,” I whispered.

” Oh, I remember,” he said, trembling at the sight of the red
bandages. ” I’m peppered, zounds, a dog, a cat, to scratch a man
to death ! a braggart—how does it go ? Oh—h ! ” He fainted
again.

By the time the doctor arrived I had decided upon my course
of action. ” You know my name,” I said. ” Well, this gentle-
man has been stabbed. It was a stupid quarrel. I take all
responsibility, you understand. It’s an unfortunate business, and
I want it to be kept quiet.”

The doctor was young and accommodating, and, after an ex-
amination of the injury, pronounced it to be nothing more than a
flesh-wound.

” Can he be moved ? ” I asked.

” Oh, yes.”

He dressed the wound and left, promising to call in the evening
at the address I should send.

In half an hour Mayfair was able to converse. I decided to
remove him at once, and, without attracting any particular atten-
tion, succeeded in getting him downstairs, and into a cab. I gave
the driver the address of my rooms.

” No, no,” he whispered, ” take me home.”

                                                ” To

” To your mother’s house ? ” I asked, in astonishment.

” No, no ; take me to my bride.”

” Your bride ? ” I gasped.

” Yes, my bride,” he repeated, petulantly, and called to the
cabman to drive to the Albert Embankment, opposite Lambeth
Palace.

He was very much in earnest, so I let him have his way, and
babbled of our next holiday, and green fields, of anything, in fact,
that might distract his mind. Arrived at our destination he
dismissed the cab, and, clinging to my arm, guided me towards
Lambeth pier. Bearing to the right we descended the steps that
lead down to the water s edge. A boat was waiting. I pushed
off, under his directions, and in another moment collided against
a raft. We landed, and picked our steps over the old boats and
the refuse of half a century scattered there. I heard the oily lap,
lap, of the waves against the raft, but could see little for the fog
that hung motionless in the still air—so wet and chill. With
each step my companion leant heavier upon my arm. A horrible
idea flashed into my mind. By his bride did he—could he mean
this unseen river oozing past in the dark like some huge prehistoric
reptile. I shuddered at the thought, and at that moment we
confronted the outline of a low log-hut at the eastern end of the
raft. Warm welcome light streamed from the little window.
My companion knocked at the door, which was immediately
thrown open by a young girl—pale, work -weary, and wistful, like
a Fillipino Lippi Madonna.

” I’m ill, Mary,” he said simply.

She gave a little start, and cried, ” Oh, my beloved.” The
voice was not the voice of a gentlewoman.

Then warm arms enfolded him, and he was carried within.

The door closed, and friendship s victim was left alone, with

                                                the

the fog above and fog around, and below the greasy planks sighing
and soughing as they collided in the movement of the water.

In the hurried journey back to the office, the events of the day
pattered through my brain, and the long fingers of Imagination
stretched before me, pointing to strange and fantastic develop-
ments. I heard nothing, saw nothing as we raced through the
lighted streets, except a nimble paper seller who flashed an eager
hatchet face through the cab window. I bought one, a halfpenny
sheet, I forget which—receiving a contemptuous comment because
I demanded the change from my penny. My eye had caught the
word Pepperthala on the front page.

When I arrived at the office I chipped a dark stain from the
woodwork of the chair in which Mayfair had been sitting, and
then carefully studied the prospect from the window. The
opposite houses were still wrapped in fog. Good ! The blood-
guiltiness of the Yellow Man remained our secret. No human
eye could have penetrated that dense envelope, which had grown
still more opaque since sunset ; I could not even distinguish the
outline of the stone parapet that ran in front of my window,
practically making a promenade round the building.

Turning away, the evening paper I had purchased caught
my eye. The front page contained half a column about
the visit of the Raja of Pepperthala. It was invertebrate
stuff, all pure conjecture, with an imaginative account of the
decay of the State of Pepperthala, and a disquisition on the present
parlous condition of its Chief. As to the reason of the Raja’s
visit to England the reporter was silent, but a paragraph and
a portrait at the end of the article roused my interest to the
meridian.

It was to the effect that the Raja had been accompanied to
England by Mr. Edward Kettle, ” so well known a few years back

                                                in

in connection with Colonial politics, who is now acting as cicerone
and interpreter to the Raja of Pepperthala.”

Now I knew something about Mr. Kettle—something not quite
creditable to that gentleman—in connection with a certain transfer
of Government land, which I had kept close in that sanctuary of
the memory reserved for the bad deeds of others. My forbearance
made me the victim of repeated offers of service from Kettle.
The opportunity had now arrived. I determined to go down at
once to Buckingham Palace, and claim from him a slight fulfil-
ment of his many promises. I remembered Kettle as a particularly
vulgar snob, unprincipled but clever, and always ready with word
or blow.

On presentation of my card with the name of the paper
engraved upon it, I found no difficulty in obtaining admittance
to the Palace. The porter was haughty at first, but I prevailed
over him, and he disappeared with my communication up a wide
staircase, leaving me to wait in a large room, where the furniture
was all covered up in brown holland. In a few minutes he
returned, even haughtier than before. Mr. Kettle was dressing
for dinner and could not see me. I wrote three words on a card,
slipped it into an envelope and induced the Royal emissary to
repeat his journey. . . . This time I was more successful. Mr.
Kettle would see me, and at once.

The Raja of Pepperthala occupied a suite of rooms on the first
floor. The night was too dark for me to locate the apartment
into which I was shown, but I imagine it looked out upon the
Palace gardens that stretch away to Grosvenor Place. Several
minutes passed. I grew impatient. Somebody moved in the
next room, then Kettle’s voice reached me giving instructions to
a servant. ” A plague on this man,” said I, and without more ado
threw open the door that separated us. Mr. Kettle was standing

                                                before

before the fire paring his nails. Oiled hair, curled moustache,
liquid eyes, short putty figure, a velvet collar to his dinner coat ;
he was the same hopeless, middle-aged dandy—unchanged,
unregenerate. I knew my man, and so came to the point at once.
” Kettle,” I said, ” I want to have some conversation with the
Raja of Pepperthala, and I should also be much obliged if you
would let me have a peep at a certain valuable known to fame as
‘the Enchanted Gem.’ ”

He looked up quickly, smiled in an embarrassed kind of way,
and flicked a crumb from his sleeve.

” Such an interview, my dear fellow, is quite ultra vires. I have
already refused some of the very smartest people in London. As
to what you call the Enchanted Gem I don’t know what you
mean. It’s caviare to me, quite caviare,” he repeated, fumbling
nervously with a gold toothpick.

I caught him by the arm (he reeked of patchouli) and whispered
something in his ear. I was not in a mood to bandy words with
the fellow, who rolled his foolish little foreign expressions round
his tongue like a bear with a piece of honeycomb. He shrunk
away from me, spreading his hands between us. ” All right,”
he stuttered, breaking back to the accent of other days. ” Play
fair ! ”

Observing the amusement I made no effort to conceal, he
quickly recovered himself.

” What you require is difficile,” he said sententiously. ” The old
fellow is mad with rum and disease. Really I daren’t present
him to a stranger. Stop ! I have an idea bien trouvé ! He is in
the next room alone. I’ll turn down the gas. You sit here on a
line with the door. I open it, inventing an excuse to speak to
him. That is your opportunity, n’cest ce pas ! But don’t utter
a sound. And if he catches sight of you make yourself

                                                scarce !

scarce ! Comprenez vous ? He’s like a tiger with that confounded
gem.”

I promised to remain perfectly still. Then he lowered the gas,
and cautiously opened the door.

I saw a broadly-built man with dusky face, long matted hair,
and a thick neck, upon which the skin folded itself in great
ridges. Over his shoulders a blanket was thrown. He was
fondling and patting a smooth, oval object, the size and shape of
a cocoa-nut, but the colour was the colour of gold. When the
door opened he grabbed the casket to his chest, and, by a rapid
movement of his broad shoulders, concealed the shining object
beneath the blanket. That was all I saw of the Raja of Pepper-
thala, but I never forgot the sight. His ancestors may, or may
not have been, bullies and bastards, but this poor tamed creature
had in his time been king of broad lands, with power to save or
kill, and in his hands the keys of palaces, and temples, and vaults
heaped high with treasure.

Kettle closed the door. He was quite pale.

” You have seen him,” he whispered, ” and I’m sure you ought
to be infernally obliged to me ; and, my boy, you’ve also seen the
case which contains the blessed stone. Oh, don’t ask me any-
thing further ! This Desire of the Nations, as they call it, is
driving me mad, absit omen. I’ll just tell you one thing,” he said,
mysteriously, ” and you may repeat it to whoever gets hold of the
blooming stone—caveat emptor. That’s what I say. Good
night.”

The adventures of the day had given me material for quite a
pretty little article. I walked briskly up Constitution Hill,
arranging the paragraphs in my mind, thence into Hyde Park,
and by the time I had travelled as far as the Marble Arch, and
back again to Hyde Park Corner, the article was clamouring to be

                                                written.

written. So I hastened down Grosvenor Place, purposing to take
the train at Victoria.

The fog had become so much denser during the last hour, that
I was quite glad to have the friendly wall of Buckingham Palace
Garden as a guide. With my left hand trailing against it, I
slowly and cautiously groped my way, till I drew near the spot
where Grosvenor Place turns sharply round to the left into Little
Grosvenor Place. There an adventure befell me. At this
point, where the pavement narrows, I was crouching under the
lee of the wall, to remove myself as far as possible from a brilliantly
lamped Parcels Post van that came rattling through the fog,
when suddenly a man dropped upon me from the top of the
wall. He doubled himself up as he fell, alighting gracefully
upon my head, enveloping me as if he were an extinguisher, and
I a candle. At the same time a metal vessel, escaping from his
hands by the violence of the shock, clanged upon the pavement,
while a smaller object struck sharply against my foot.

I tumbled incontinently upon the pavement, while my visitor,
recovering himself while I was still blinking, picked up the
metal vessel, which I observed had burst open, and disappeared
into the fog.

For a moment I sat motionless, unhurt, but confused with
amazement. The person who had dropped so indecorously over
the garden wall was my yellow friend of the afternoon, and the
metal object which had burst open as he fell was the case that
the Raja of Pepperthala had concealed beneath the blanket a few
hours before.

As I was considering the bearings of this new development
upon my article there fell upon the hushed air, from the direction
of the Palace, a wail, repeated three times, so eerie, so pregnant
with despair, that I felt almost as if something had cut into a

The Yellow Book—Vol. VIII. H

                                                tissue

tissue of my sensibility. Then I heard shouts in the garden, a
dog’s deep bay, and a voice crying : ” Quick ! Here’s the
ladder.”

That narrow slip of pavement, where I sat cross-legged like a
Buddha, was clearly no place for me. Mechanically I picked up
the object that had struck against my foot, slipped across the
road, and was soon out of earshot of the voices.

Upon examination, my find proved to be an oval case made of
very hard wood, similar in shape to the Raja of Pepperthala’s
stolen treasure, but smaller. On pressing a little deflection at
the extreme end the case flew open. It contained nothing but
an ordinary stone, in size and shape something like a hen’s
egg. When I arrived home I examined the stone minutely, but
although it was unlike other stones one might pick up in
Grosvenor Place, I could discover nothing remarkable about its
appearance. It bristled all over with little corrugations and
spikes. A space of about an inch square had been polished, and
on this shining surface I detected three vague nebulous markings ;
the colour was black, and the thing was moist to the touch.

I wrote the article, and soon after midnight retired to bed,
after emptying, according to habit, the contents of my pockets
upon a table that stands in the centre of my room. When I
awoke, considerably after my usual hour, the sun was shining
through the window, and I observed, in the drowsy, semi-con-
scious way we note things in the first moment of waking, that
soon the broad white beam of sunlight which streamed through
the window would fall upon the heterogeneous collection of
articles that I had thrown upon the table the night before. Then
I fell asleep again. When I re-awoke the articles lay full in the
glare of the sunshine—knife, keys, match-box, and, towering
above them all, the big stone, flanked by its ragged-edged shadow.

                                                I gazed

I gazed sleepily at them, too lazy even to turn my head away,
till gradually it dawned upon me that I had been mistaken in
supposing that the stone was black. Its colour was red. I
rubbed my eyes, and sat up in bed. Yes, the stone was certainly
red—a heavy dark red. And yet as I looked it became clear to
me that the stone was by no means a dark red. It was a living
red, the colour of blood. I jumped from my bed, and touched
the stone with my fore-finger. It burnt.

I am not a nervous man, but I confess to feeling startled and
troubled. Was I going blind ? Was I in for a serious illness ?
I had been working and worrying overmuch of late, and Nature,
I knew, sometimes sent her warnings through odd channels.
But then why should the stone burn ? I pulled myself to-
gether, bathed and dressed leisurely, concentrating my mind by a
great effort on other subjects. Half an hour passed. I then
looked again. The stone stood in the shade, and was quite black
—as black as a mourning hat-band.

Could . . . ? Could . . . ? I lifted the stone, it was now
cold and moist to the touch, and again placed it in the centre of
the beam of light, gazing intently with paper and pencil in my
hand to note exactly what happened.

The rays of the sun concentrated themselves upon its surface,
and, as the thing warmed, the deep black of its normal con-
dition gave place to a dull red. Presently the red grew into a
glow like a November sunset, then it hissed to a white heat, the
colour of a furnace fire, and there before me was the thing
palpitating and panting as if it were alive. With the point of my
penknife I pushed it still further into the light, and even as I
looked—it moved.

Methodically and carefully I cut two thin strips of paper, and
placed them upon the table at either side of the stone. Then I

                                                closed

closed my eyes. When I opened them again one of the strips of
paper was untouched. The other was gone—burnt. Its charred
ends were curled up an inch behind the stone.

What did it mean ?—A stone that glowed, and pulsed, and moved
when placed in a beam of light. A stone that the sun had power
to vivify. What did it mean ?

The Sun ! ! The events of yesterday swept back to me—the
Yellow Man—his mysterious words—his anxiety to procure the
gem, his adoration of the setting sun. The sun again ! !

I pressed my hands to my head. The voice of a paper seller in
the streets below struck into my thoughts—” Robbery at Bucking-
ham Palace. Strange Rumours.”

I ran to the window. A cab drew up at my door. In another
moment, Mayfair, paler than pallor itself, burst, or rather staggered
into the room.

” Madman,” I cried, ” to leave your bed.”

With a ripple of laughter he placed his hand upon my shoulder,
” I’m. the madman am I ? ” he murmured, gazing at me, his blue
eyes shining with merriment and admiration, ” and you, what
about you ? Oh, my friend, my friend ! Don’t speak. Let me
laugh before you explain. You-you-you Napoleon ! Oh ! Oh !
Oh ! They’re after you,” he added. ” You haven’t heard ?
The Raja and Kettle were found gagged and bound, and
the gentle Kettle accuses you of the robbery—protests you were his
only visitor during the evening. It was you, wasn’t it ? Say
it was you, do ! ”

As the words fell from his lips he reeled against me, and would
have fallen had I not caught him in my arms. He was so weak,
he looked so fragile, the collapse after the excitement of the morn-
ing was so complete and so sudden that I determined to keep him
under my roof, and after a deal of persuasion I induced him to

                                                undress,

undress, and get into bed, where I left him in charge of
my housekeeper, promising to telegraph immediately to his wife.
I then dropped the stone, not without a shudder, into my pocket
and started for the office. Before I had gone a hundred yards
it became clear to me that I must be rid of the thing at any cost.
The placard bills of the evening papers blazoned the words
” Robbery—Buckingham Palace—Strange Rumours ” from every
street corner. There would be the very devil to pay if the stone
were found in my possession. My head ached with attempts to
devise schemes of getting rid of it. The obvious plan was to
drop it down a sewer or over Westminster Bridge—back staircase
schemes all of them, I decided, and outside consideration.

Restore it to the Raja ! I dare not. Who would believe my
yarn that the thing had fallen at my feet from the clouds on a
foggy night in Grosvenor Place ? If only I could hand it to
the Yellow Man, and earn the £5000 ! Impossible. Oh, quite
impossible.

As I drew near the office I found the lamps lighted, and the
streets enveloped in a fog denser even than that of the
previous day. A furtive look played over the hall porter’s face,
and the messenger boys were beaming with suppressed excitement.
When I reached my room I found that every drawer and cupboard
had been ransacked. The hall porter, a faithful creature, entered
the room without knocking, crept timorously towards me, and
whispered in my ear : ” ‘Scuse me, sir, but two men from Scot-
land Yard have been a searching here. Gone to your house now,
sir, and one of them give me the tip, sir, that they would be back
here soon.”

I thanked him, locked the door, turned down the gas, and threw
myself upon the sofa. What on earth was I to do with the stone ?
Some sort of decision must be arrived at immediately. The room

                                                was

was in semi-darkness. Fog lurked in the corners. The leaping
fire threw fantastic reflections upon the windo pane. That was
not the sole illumination.

As I lay there thinking, thinking, a sound came to me through
the darkness like a cat scratching upon glass. Raising myself
upon my elbow, I looked hard at the window whence the noise
proceeded, and as I stared, a face, a thin, ascetic face, yellow, like
a Mongolian’s, with deep, searching eyes, and a restless mouth,
shaped itself out of the surrounding gloom.

For a moment we stared at one another, and then an idea leapt
into my mind. Slowly I arose from the sofa, lifted the stone
from my coat pocket, and placed it upon the table within a foot
from the window.

The thin scratch, scratch of a diamond cutting through glass fell
upon my ear, then a pane was softly withdrawn from its frame,
and through the opening a long yellow hand extended itself
towards the stone, seized it, and disappeared back into the fog. I
waited breathlessly for the pane to be replaced, but instead five
bank notes fluttered through the opening, and fell upon the table.
Then the glass returned noislessly into position, and the face
disappeared from behind the window.

*****

The above is a true account of the strange chance that brought
the Enchanted Stone into my possession, and the expedient by
which I got rid of it. What I did with the £5000, together with
the wonderful and fruitful adventures that befell the Enchanted
Stone, and all those who became associated with it, I may
perhaps tell at some future time.

Under the Moon

By F. H. Newbury

A Captain of Salvation

By John Buchan

NOR is it any matter of sorrow to us that the gods of the Pagans
are no more. For whatsoever virtue was theirs is embodied
in our most blessed faith. For whereas Apollo was the most noble of
men in appearance and seemed to his devotees the incarnation (if I may
use so sacred a word in a profane sense} of the beauty of the male, we
have learned to apprehend a higher beauty of the Spirit, as in our
blessed Saints. And whereas Jupiter was the king of the world, we
have another and more excellent King, even God the Father, the holy
Trinity. And whereas Mars was the god of war, the strongest and
most warlike of beings, we have the great soldier of our cause, even the
Captain of our Salvation. And whereas the most lovely of women
was Venus, she whom all men worshipped, to us there is one greater
and. better, beautiful alike in spirit and body, to wit our Blessed Lady.
So it is seen that whatever delights are carnal and of the flesh, such
are met by greater delights of Christ and His Church. “—An Extract
from the writings of Donisarius, a Monk of Padua.

The Salvation Captain sat in his room at the close of a windy
March day. It had been a time of storm and sun, blustering
showers and flying scuds of wind. The spring was at the thresh-
old with its unrest and promise ; it was the season of turmoil and

                                                disquietude

disquietude in Nature, and turmoil and disquietude in those whose
ears are open to her piping. Even there, in a three-pair back, in
the odoriferous lands of Limehouse, the spring penetrated with
scarcely diminished vigour. Dust had been whistling in the
narrow streets ; the leaden sky, filled with vanishing spaces of
blue, had made the dull brick seem doubly sordid ; and the sudden
fresh gusts had caused the heavy sickening smells of stale food
and unwholesome lodging to seem by contrast more hateful than
words.

The Captain was a man of some forty years, tall, with a face
deeply marked with weather and evil living. An air of super-
induced gravity served only to accentuate the original. His
countenance was a sort of epitome of life, full of traces of passion
and nobler impulse, with now and then a shadow of refinement
and a passing glimpse of breeding. His history had been of that
kind which we would call striking, were it not so common. A
gentleman born, a scholar after a fashion, with a full experience of
the better side of civilisation, he had begun life as well as one can
nowadays. For some time things had gone well ; then came the
utter and irretrievable ruin. A temptation which meets many
men in their career met him, and he was overthrown. His name
disappeared from the books of his clubs, people spoke of him in a
whisper, his friends were crushed with shame. As for the man
himself, he took it otherwise. He simply went under, disappeared
from the ranks of life into the seething, struggling, disordered
crowd below. He, if anything, rather enjoyed the change, for
there was in him something of that brutality which is a necessary
part of the natures of great leaders of men and great scoundrels.
The accidents of his environment had made him the latter ; he
had almost the power of proving the former, for in his masterful
brow and firm mouth there were hints of extraordinary strength.

                                                His

His history after his downfall was as picturesque a record as needs
be. Years of wandering and fighting, sin and cruelty, generosity
and meanness followed. There were few trades and few parts of
the earth in which he had not tried his luck. Then there had
come a violent change. Somewhere on the face of the globe he
had met a man and heard words ; and the direction of his life
veered round of a sudden to the opposite. Culture, family ties,
social bonds had been of no avail to wean him from his headstrong
impulses. An ignorant man, speaking plainly some strong
sentences which are unintelligible to three-fourths of the world,
had worked the change ; and spring found him already two years
a servant in that body of men and women who had first sought to
teach him the way of life.

These two years had been years of struggle, which only a man
who has lived such a life can hope to enter upon. A nature
which has run riot for two decades is not cabined and confined at
a moment s notice. He had been a wanderer like Cain, and the
very dwelling in houses had its hardships for him. But in this
matter even his former vice came to aid him. He had been
proud and self-willed before in his conflict with virtue. He would
be proud and self-willed now in his fight with evil. To his com-
rades and to himself he said that only the grace of God kept him
from wrong ; in his inmost heart he felt that the grace of God
was only an elegant name for his own pride of will.

As he sat now in that unlovely place, he felt sick of his
surroundings and unnaturally restive. The day had been a trying
one for him. In the morning he had gone West on some money-
collecting errand, one which his soul loathed, performed only as an
exercise in resignation. It was a bitter experience for him to pass
along Piccadilly in his shabby uniform, the badge in the eyes of
most people of half-crazy weakness. He had passed restaurants

                                                and

and eating-houses, and his hunger had pained him, for at home he
lived on the barest. He had seen crowds of well-dressed men and
women, some of whom he dimly recognised, who had no time
even to glance at the insignificant wayfarer. Old ungodly
longings after luxury had come to disturb him. He had striven to
banish them from his mind, and had muttered to himself many
texts of Scripture and spoken many catchword prayers, for the fiend
was hard to exorcise.

The afternoon had been something worse, for he had been
deputed to go to a little meeting in Poplar, a gathering of factory-
girls and mechanics who met there to talk of the furtherance of
Christ’s kingdom. On his way the spirit of spring had been at
work in him. The whistling of the wind among the crazy
chimneys, the occasional sharp gust from the river, the strong
smell of a tanyard, even the rough working-dress of the men he
passed, recalled to him the roughness and vigour of his old life. In
the forenoon his memories had been of the fashion and luxury of
his youth ; in the afternoon they were of his world-wide wander-
ings, their hardships and delights. When he came to the stuffy
upper-room where the meeting was held, his state of mind was far
from the meek resignation which he sought to cultivate. A sort
of angry unrest held him, which he struggled with till his whole
nature was in a ferment. The meeting did not tend to soothe
him. Brother followed sister in aimless remarks, seething with
false sentiment and sickly enthusiasm, till the strong man was near
to disgust. The things which he thought he loved most dearly, of
a sudden became loathsome. The hysterical fervours of the girls,
which only yesterday he would have been ready to call ” love for
the Lord,” seemed now perilously near absurdity. The loud
” Amens ” and ” Hallelujahs ” of the men jarred, not on his good
taste (that had long gone under), but on his sense of the ludicrous.

                                                He

He found himself more than once admitting the unregenerate
thought, ” What wretched nonsense is this ? When men are
living and dying, fighting and making love all around, when the
glorious earth is calling with a hundred voices, what fools and
children they are to babble in this way ! ” But this ordeal went
by. He was able to make some conventional remarks at the end,
which his hearers treasured as ” precious and true,” and he left the
place with the shamefaced feeling that for the first time in his new
life he had acted a part.

It was about five in the evening ere he reached his room and
sat down to his meal. There was half a stale loaf, a pot of cheap
tea, and some of that extraordinary compound which the humorous
grocers of the East call butter. He was hungry and ate without
difficulty, but such fragments of aesthetic liking as he still
possessed rose against it. He looked around his room. The table
was common deal, supported by three legs and a bit of an old
clothes-prop. On the horsehair sofa among the dusty tidies was
his Bible, one or two publications of the Army, two bundles of the
War Cry, some hymn-books, and—strange relic of the past—a
tattered Gaboriau. On the mantelpiece was a little Burmese idol,
which acted as a watch-stand, some hideous photographs framed in
black, and a china Duke of Wellington. Near it was his bed,
ill-made and dingy, and at the bottom an old sea-trunk. On the
top lay one relic of gentility, which had escaped the wreck of his
fortunes, a silver-backed hair-brush.

The place filled him with violent repugnance. A smell of rich,
greasy fish came upstairs to his nostrils ; outside a woman was
crying ; and two children sprawled and giggled beside his door.
This certainly was a wretched hole, and his life was hard almost
beyond words. He solemnly reviewed his recent existence. On
the one side he set down the evils—bad pay, severe and painful

The Yellow Book—Vol. VIII. I

                                                work,

work, poor lodgings, poor food and dismal company. Something
stopped him just as he was about to set down the other. ” Oh,”
he cried, ” is the love of Jesus nothing that I think like that ? “
And he began to pray rapidly, ” Lord, I believe, forgive my
unbelief.”

For a little he sat in his chair looking straight before him. It
would be impossible to put down in words the peculiar hardness of
his struggle. For he had to fight with his memory and his
inclinations, both of which are to a certain extent independent of
the will ; and he did this not by sheer strength of resolution, but
by fixing his thought upon an abstraction and attempting to clothe
it in warm, lovable attributes. He thought upon the countless
mercies of God towards him, as his creed showed them ; and so
strong was the man that in a little he had gotten the victory.

By-and-by he got up and put on his overcoat, thin and patched,
and called so only by courtesy. He suddenly remembered his
work, how he was engaged that night to lead a crusade through
some of the worst streets by the river. Such a crusade was the
romantic description by certain imaginative Salvationists of a pro-
cession of some dozen men and women with tambourines and
concertinas, singing hymns, and sowing the good seed broadcast
in the shape of vociferous invitations to mercy and pardon. He
hailed it as a sort of anodyne to his pain. There was small time
for morbid recollection and introspection if one were engaged in
leading a crew of excited followers in places where they were by
no means sure of a favourable reception.

There was a noise without on the stairs, then a rap at the door,
and Brother Leather entered, whom Whitechapel and the Mile-
End Road knew for the most vigilant of soldiers and violent of
exhorters.

” Are you strong in the Lord, Captain ?” he asked. “For to-night

                                                we’re

we’re goin’ to the stronghold of Satan. It haint no use a invitin’
and invitin’ . It haint no good ‘nless you compel them to come
in. And by the ‘elp of God we ‘opes to do it. Sister Stokes, she
has her tamb’rine, and there’s five concertinies from Gray Street,
and Brother Clover’s been prayin’ all day for a great outpourin’
of blessin’ . ‘The fields are wite unto th’ ‘arvest,’ ” he quoted.

The Captain rose hastily. ” Then hadn’t we better be going ? ”
he said. ” We’re to start at seven, and it’s half-past six already.”

“Let’s have a word of prayer fust,” said the other ; and straight-
way, in defiance of all supposed rules of precedence, this strange
private soldier flopped on his knees beside the sofa and poured forth
entreaties to his Master. This done he arose, and along with the
Captain went down the dingy stairway to the door, and out into
the narrow darkening street. The newly-lit gas lamps sent a flicker
on the men’s faces—the one flabby, soft and weak, but with eyes
like coals of fire ; the other as strong as steel, but listless and
uneager. As they passed, a few ragged street-boys cried the old
phrase of derision, ” I love Jesus,” at the sight of the caps and the
red-banded coats. Here again the one smiled as if he had heard
the highest praise, while the other glanced angrily through the
gloom as if he would fain rend the urchins, as the bears did the
children who mocked Elisha.

At last they turned down a stone-paved passage and came into
a little room lined with texts which represented the headquarters
of the Army in the district. Sitting on the benches or leaning
against the wall were a dozen or so of men and women, all wearing
the familiar badge, save one man who had come in his working
corduroys, and one girl in a black waterproof. The faces of the
men were thin and eager, telling of many sacrifices cheerfully made
for their cause, of spare dinners, and nights spent out o’ bed, of
heart-searchings and painful self-communings, of fervent praying

                                                and

and violent speaking. Thin were the women too, thin and weary,
with eyes in which utter lassitude strove against enthusiasm,
and backs which ached as they rested. They had come from their
labours, as seamstresses and milliners, as shop-girls and laundry-
maids, and, instead of enjoying a well-won rest, were devoting
their few hours of freedom to the furtherance of an ideal which
many clever men have derided. Verily it is well for the world
that abstract truth is not the measure of right and wrong, of joy
and sorrow.

The Captain gave a few directions to the band and then pro-
ceeded to business. They were silent men and women in private
life. The world was far too grave a matter for them to talk idly.
It was only in the streets that speech came thick and fast ; here
they were as silent as sphinxes—sphinxes a little tired, not with
sitting but with going to and fro on the earth.

” Where are we going ? ” asked one woman.

The Captain considered for a minute ere he replied. ” Down
by the Modern Wharves,” he said, ” then up Blind Street and
Gray Alley to Juke’s Buildings, where we can stop and speak.
You know the place, friend Leather ? ”

” Do I know my own dwellin’ ? ” asked the man thus addressed
in a. surprised tone. ” Wy, I’ve lived there off an’ on for twenty
year, and I could tell some tyles o’ the plyce as would make yer
that keen you couldn’t wait a minute but must be off doin’ Christ’s
work.”

” We’ll be off now,” said the Captain, who had no desire for his
assistant’s reminiscences. ” I’ll go first with the flag and the rest
of you can come in rank. See that you sing out well, for the
Lord has much need of singing in these barren lands.” The
desultory band clattered down the wooden stair into the street.

Once here the Captain raised the hymn. It was ” Oh, haven’t

                                                I been

I been happy since I met the Lord ? ” some rhapsodical words set
to a popular music-hall air. To the chance hearer who hailed
from more civilised places the thing must have seemed little better
than a blasphemous parody. But all element of farce was absent
from the hearts of the grim-faced men and women ; and the scene
as it lay, the squalid street with its filth stirred by the March wind,
the high shifting sky overhead, the flicker and glare of the street
lamps as each gust jostled them, the irregular singing, the marching
amid the laughs or silent scorn of the bystanders—all this formed
a picture which had in it more of the elements of the tragic or the
noble than the ludicrous.

And the heart of the man at the head of the little procession
was the stage of a drama which had little of the comic about it.
The street, the open air, had inflamed again the old longings.
Something of the enthusiasm of his following had entered into his
blood ; but it was a perverted feeling, and instead of desiring
earnestly the success of his mission, he longed madly, fiercely for
forbidden things. In the short encounter in his room he had
come off the victor ; but it had only been a forced peace, and
now the adversary was at him tooth and nail once more. The
meeting with the others had roused in him a deep disgust. Heaven
above, was it possible that he, the cock of his troop, the man
whom all had respected after a fashion, as men will respect a
strong man, should be a bear-leader to fools ! The shame of it
took him of a sudden, and as he shouted the more loudly he felt
his heart growing hot within him at the thought. But, strangely
enough, his very pride came once more to help him. At the
thought, ” Have I really come to care what men say and think
about me ? ” the strong pride within him rose in revolt and restored v him to himself.

But the quiet was to be of short duration. A hateful, bitter

                                                thought

thought began to rise in him—” What am I in the world but a
man of no importance ? And I might have been—oh, I might
have been anything I chose ! I made a mess of it at the begin-
ning, but is it not possible for a man to right himself again with
the world ? Have I ever tried it ? Instead of setting manfully
to the task, I let myself drift, and this is what I have become.
And I might have been so different. I might have been back at
my old clubs with my old friends, married, maybe, to a pretty
wife, with a house near the Park, and a place in the country with
shooting and riding to hounds, and a devilish fine time of it. And
here I must go on slaving and gabbling, doing a fool’s work at a
drainer’s pay.” Then came a burst of sharp mental anguish,
remorse, hate, evil craving. But it passed, and a flood of counter-
thoughts came to oppose it. The Captain was still unregenerate
in nature, as the phrase goes, but the leaven was working in him.
The thought of all that he had gained—God’s mercy, pardon for
his sins, a sure hope of happiness hereafter, and a glorified ideal to
live by—made him stop short in his regrets.

The hymn had just dragged itself out to its quavering close.
Wheeling round, he turned a burning eye on his followers. ” Let
us raise another, friends,” he cried ; and began, ” The Devil and
me we can’t agree “—which the rest heartily joined in.

And now the little procession reached a new stage in its journey.
The narrow street had grown still more restricted. Gin palaces
poured broad splashes of garish light across the pavement. Slat-
ternly women and brutal men lined the footpath, and in the
kennels filthy little urchins grinned and quarrelled. Every now
and then some well-dressed, rakish artiste, or lady of the half-world,
pushed her way through the crowds, or a policeman, tall and silent,
stalked among the disorderly. Vanity Fair and its denizens were
everywhere,from the chattering hucksters to the leering blackguards

                                                and

and sleek traffickers in iniquity. If anything on earth can bring a
ray of decency into such a place, then in God’s name let it come,
whether it be called sense or rant by stay-at-home philosophers.

The hymn-singing added one more element to the discordant
noise. But there was in it a suggestion of better things, which
was absent from the song of the streets. The obvious chords of
the music in that place acquired an adventitious beauty, just as
the song of a humble hedge-linnet is lovely amid the croaking of
ravens and hooting of owls. The people on the pavement looked
on with varying interest. To most it was an everyday exhibition
of the unaccountable. Women laughed, and shrieked coarse
railleries ; some of the men threatened, others looked on in
amused scorn ; but there was no impulse to active violence. The
thing was tolerated as yonder seller of cheap watchguards was
borne ; for it is an unwritten law in the slums, that folk may do
their own pleasure, as long as they cease from interfering offen-
sively with the enjoyment of others.

” ‘Oo’s the cove wi’ the flag, Bill ? ” asked one woman. ” ‘E
haint so bad as the rest. Most loikely ‘e’s taken up the job to
dodge the nick.”

” Dodge the nick yersel’ , Lizer,” said the man addressed.
” Wy, it’s the chap’s wye o’ making his livin’ , a roarin’ and a
preachin’ like that. S’help me, I’d rather cry ‘Welks’ any dye
than go about wi’ sich a crew.”

A woman, garishly adorned, with a handsome flushed face,
looked up at the Captain.

” Why, it’s Jack,” she cried. ” Bless me if it ain’t Jack.
Jack, Jack, what are you after now, not coming to speak to me.
Don’t you mind Sal, your little Sal. I’m coming to yer, I ain’t
forgotten yer.” And she began to push her way into mid-street.

The Captain looked to the side, and his glance rested upon her

                                                faces

face. It was as if the Devil and all his angels were upon him
that night. Evil memories of his past life thronged thick and fast
upon him. He had already met and resisted the world, and now
the flesh had come to torment him. But here his armour was
true and fast. This was a temptation which he had choked at
the very outset of his reformation. He looked for one moment at
her, and in the utter loathing and repugnance of that look, she
fell back ; and the next instant was left behind.

The little streets, which radiate from the wharf known as
Mordon’s, are so interlaced and crooked that to find one’s way in
them is more a matter of chance than good guiding even to the
initiated. The houses are small and close, the residence of the
very sweepings of the population ; the shops are ship-chandlers
and low eating-houses, pawnshops, emporia of cheap jewellery,
and remnant drapers. At this hour of the night there is a blaze
of dull gas-light on either side, and the proprietors of the places of
custom stand at their doors inviting the bystanders to inspect
their goods. This is the hotbed of legalised crime, the rendezvous
of half the wickedness of the earth. Lascars, Spaniards, French-
men jostle Irishmen, and Scotsmen, and the true-born Englishmen
in these narrow purlieus. If a man disappears utterly from view
you may be sure to find him somewhere in that network of alleys,
for there it would be hard for the law to penetrate incolis invitis.
It is a sort of Cave of Adullam on the one hand, to which the
morally halt and maimed of all nations resort ; and, on the other,
a nursery of young vice and unformed devilry. Sailors straddled
about the pavement, or stood in knots telling their tales in loud
voices and plentiful oaths ; every beershop was continually dis-
charging its stream of filthy occupants, filthy and prosperous.
The element of squalor and misery was here far less in evidence.
All the inhabitants seemed gorged and well clad, but their faces

                                                were

were stained with vice so horrible that poverty and tatters would
have been a welcome relief.

The Salvation band penetrated into this Sodom with fear in the
heart of each member. It was hard for the Gospel to strive with
such seared and branded consciences. The repulsive, self-satisfied
faces of the men, the smug countenances of the women, made
that little band seem hopeless and Quixotic in the extreme. The
Captain felt it, too ; but in him there was mingled another feeling.
He thought of himself as a combatant entering the arena. He
felt dimly that some great struggle was impending, some monstrous
temptation, some subtle wile of the Evil One. The thought made
him the more earnest. ” Sing up, men,” he cried, ” the Devil is
strong in this place.”

It was the truth, and the proof awaited him. A man stepped
out from among the bystanders and slapped his shoulder. The
Captain started and looked. It was the Devil in person.

” Hullo, Jack ! ” said the new-comer. ” Good God, who’d have
thought of seeing you here ? Have you gone off your head
now ? ”

The Captain shivered. He knew the speaker for one of his
comrades of the old days, the most daring and jovial of them all.
The two had been hand and glove in all manner of evil. They
had loved each other like brothers, till the great change came over
the one, which fixed a gulf between them for ever.

” You don’t mean to tell me you’ve taken up with this infernal
nonsense, Jack ? No, I won’t believe it. It’s just another of
your larks. You were always the one for originality.”

” Go away, Hilton,” said the Captain hoarsely, ” go away. I’ve
done with you. I can’t see you any more.”

” What the deuce has come over you, Jack ? Not speak to
me any more ! Why, what foolery is this ? You’ve gone and

                                                turned

turned a regular old wife, bless me if you haven’t. Oh, man,
give it up. It’s not worth it. Don’t you remember the fun
we’ve had in our time ? Gad, Jack, when you and I stood behind
yon big tree in Kaffraria with twenty yelling devils wanting our
blood ; don’t you remember how I fell and you got over me, and,
though you were bleeding like a pig, you kept them off till the
Cape troopers came up ? And when we were lost, doing picket-
ing up in the Drakenberg, you mind how we chummed together
for our last meal ? And heavens ! it was near our last. I feel
that infernal giddiness still. And yet you tell me to go away.”

” Oh, Hilton,” said the Captain, ” come and be one of us.
The Lord’s willing to receive you, if you’ll only come. I’ve got
the blessing, and there’s one waiting for you if you’ll only take
it.”

” Blessing be damned ! ” said the other with a laugh. ” What
do I want with your blessing when there’s life and the world to
see ? What’s the good of poking round here, and crying about
the love of Jesus and singing twaddle, and seeing nobody but old
wives and white-faced shopmen, when you might be out on the
open road, with the wind and the stars and the sun, and meet
with men, and have your fling like a man. Don’t you remember
the days at Port Said, when the old Frenchman twanged his banjo
and the girls danced and—hang it, don’t you feel the smell of the
sand and the heat in your nostrils, you old fool ? :

” Oh, my God ! ” said the Captain, ” I do. Go away, Hilton.
For God’s sake, go away and leave me ! ”

” Can’t you think,” went on the other, ” of the long nights
when we dropped down the Irrawaddy, of the whistle of the wind
in the white sails, and the singing of the boatmen, and the sick-
suck of the alligators among the reeds ; and how we went ashore
at the little village and got arrack from the natives, and made a

                                                holy

holy sight of the place in the morning ? It was worth it, though
we got the sack for it, old man.”

The Captain made no answer. He was muttering some-
thing to himself. It might have been a prayer.

* And then there was that time when we were up country in
Queensland, sugar farming in the bush, thinking a billy of tea the
best thing on earth, and like to faint with the work and the heat.
But, Jove, wasn’t it fine to head off the cattle when you knew you
might have a big bull’s horn in your side every minute ? And then
at night to sit outside the huts and smoke pig-tail and tell stories
that would make your hair rise ! We were a queer lot, Jack, but
we were men, men, do you hear ? ”

A flood of recollection came over the Captain, vehement, all-
powerful. He felt the magic of the East, the wonder of the South,
the glory of the North burning in his heart. The old wild voices
were calling him, voices of land and sea, the tongues of the moon
and the stars and the beasts of the field, the halcyon voices of
paganism and nature which are still strong in the earth. Behind
him rose the irregular notes of the hymn ; at his side was the
tempter, and in his own heart was the prince of the world, the
master of pleasure, the great juggler of pain. In that man there
was being fought the old fight, which began in the Garden, and
will never end, the struggle between the hateful right and the
delicious wrong.

” Oh man, come with me,” cried Hilton, ” I’ve got a berth down
there in a ship which sails to-morrow, and we’ll go out to our old
place, where they’ll be glad to get us, and we’ll have a devilish good
time. I can’t be staying here, with muggy stinks, and white-
faced people, and preaching and praying, and sloppy weather.
Come on, and in a month we’ll be seeing the old Coal-sack above
us, and smelling the palms and the sea-water ; and then, after that,

                                                there’ll

there’ll be the Bush, the pines and the gum-trees and the blue-sky,
and the hot, clear air, and rough-riding and adventure ; and by
God we’ll live like gentlemen and fine fellows, and never come
back to this cursed hole any more. Come on, and leave the psalm-
singing.”

A spasm of convulsive pain, of exquisite agony, of heart-break-
ing struggle came over the Captain’s face, stayed a moment, and
passed. He turned round to his followers. ” Sing louder, lads,” he
cried, ” we’re fighting a good fight.” And then his voice broke
down, and he stumbled blindly on, still clutching the flag.

Georg Brandes
A Silhouette