THE LADY OF THE SHROUD

by Bram Stoker

FROM “THE JOURNAL OF OCCULTISM”

MID-JANUARY, 1907.

A strange story comes from the Adriatic. It appears that on the

night of the 9th, as the Italia Steamship Company’s vessel

“Victorine” was passing a little before midnight the point known as

“the Spear of Ivan,” on the coast of the Blue Mountains, the

attention of the Captain, then on the bridge, was called by the lookout man to a tiny floating light close inshore. It is the custom of

some South-going ships to run close to the Spear of Ivan in fine

weather, as the water is deep, and there is no settled current; also

there are no outlying rocks. Indeed, some years ago the local

steamers had become accustomed to hug the shore here so closely that

an intimation was sent from Lloyd’s that any mischance under the

circumstances would not be included in ordinary sea risks. Captain

Mirolani is one of those who insist on a wholesome distance from the

promontory being kept; but on his attention having been called to the

circumstance reported, he thought it well to investigate it, as it

might be some case of personal distress. Accordingly, he had the

engines slowed down, and edged cautiously in towards shore. He was

joined on the bridge by two of his officers, Signori Falamano and

Destilia, and by one passenger on board, Mr. Peter Caulfield, whose

reports of Spiritual Phenomena in remote places are well known to the

readers of “The Journal of Occultism.” The following account of the

strange occurrence written by him, and attested by the signatures of

Captain Mirolani and the other gentleman named, has been sent to us.

” … It was eleven minutes before twelve midnight on Saturday, the

9th day of January, 1907, when I saw the strange sight off the

headland known as the Spear of Ivan on the coast of the Land of the

Blue Mountains. It was a fine night, and I stood right on the bows

of the ship, where there was nothing to obstruct my view. We were

some distance from the Spear of Ivan, passing from northern to

southern point of the wide bay into which it projects. Captain

Mirolani, the Master, is a very careful seaman, and gives on his

journeys a wide berth to the bay which is tabooed by Lloyd’s. But

when he saw in the moonlight, though far off, a tiny white figure of

a woman drifting on some strange current in a small boat, on the prow

of which rested a faint light (to me it looked like a corpse-candle!), he thought it might be some person in distress, and began

to cautiously edge towards it. Two of his officers were with him on

the bridge—Signori Falamano and Destilia. All these three, as well

as myself, saw It. The rest of the crew and passengers were below.

As we got close the true inwardness of It became apparent to me; but

the mariners did not seem to realize till the very last. This is,

after all, not strange, for none of them had either knowledge or

experience in Occult matters, whereas for over thirty years I have

made a special study of this subject, and have gone to and fro over

the earth investigating to the nth all records of Spiritual

Phenomena. As I could see from their movements that the officers did

not comprehend that which was so apparent to myself, I took care not

to enlighten them, lest such should result in the changing of the

vessel’s course before I should be near enough to make accurate

observation. All turned out as I wished—at least, nearly so—as

shall be seen. Being in the bow, I had, of course, a better view

than from the bridge. Presently I made out that the boat, which had

all along seemed to be of a queer shape, was none other than a

Coffin, and that the woman standing up in it was clothed in a shroud.

Her back was towards us, and she had evidently not heard our

approach. As we were creeping along slowly, the engines were almost

noiseless, and there was hardly a ripple as our fore-foot cut the

dark water. Suddenly there was a wild cry from the bridge—Italians

are certainly very excitable; hoarse commands were given to the

Quartermaster at the wheel; the engine-room bell clanged. On the

instant, as it seemed, the ship’s head began to swing round to

starboard; full steam ahead was in action, and before one could

understand, the Apparition was fading in the distance. The last

thing I saw was the flash of a white face with dark, burning eyes as

the figure sank down into the coffin—just as mist or smoke

disappears under a breeze.”

BOOK I: THE WILL OF ROGER MELTON

THE READING OF THE WILL OF ROGER MELTON AND ALL THAT FOLLOWED

Record made by Ernest Roger Halbard Melton, law-student of the Inner

Temple, eldest son of Ernest Halbard Melton, eldest son of Ernest

Melton, elder brother of the said Roger Melton and his next of kin.

I consider it at least useful—perhaps necessary—to have a complete

and accurate record of all pertaining to the Will of my late grand-uncle Roger Melton.

To which end let me put down the various members of his family, and

explain some of their occupations and idiosyncrasies. My father,

Ernest Halbard Melton, was the only son of Ernest Melton, eldest son

of Sir Geoffrey Halbard Melton of Humcroft, in the shire of Salop, a

Justice of the Peace, and at one time Sheriff. My great-grandfather,

Sir Geoffrey, had inherited a small estate from his father, Roger

Melton. In his time, by the way, the name was spelled Milton; but my

great-great-grandfather changed the spelling to the later form, as he

was a practical man not given to sentiment, and feared lest he should

in the public eye be confused with others belonging to the family of

a Radical person called Milton, who wrote poetry and was some sort of

official in the time of Cromwell, whilst we are Conservatives. The

same practical spirit which originated the change in the spelling of

the family name inclined him to go into business. So he became,

whilst still young, a tanner and leather-dresser. He utilized for

the purpose the ponds and streams, and also the oak-woods on his

estate—Torraby in Suffolk. He made a fine business, and accumulated

a considerable fortune, with a part of which he purchased the

Shropshire estate, which he entailed, and to which I am therefore

heir-apparent.

Sir Geoffrey had, in addition to my grandfather, three sons and a

daughter, the latter being born twenty years after her youngest

brother. These sons were: Geoffrey, who died without issue, having

been killed in the Indian Mutiny at Meerut in 1857, at which he took

up a sword, though a civilian, to fight for his life; Roger (to whom

I shall refer presently); and John—the latter, like Geoffrey, dying

unmarried. Out of Sir Geoffrey’s family of five, therefore, only

three have to be considered: My grandfather, who had three children,

two of whom, a son and a daughter, died young, leaving only my

father, Roger and Patience. Patience, who was born in 1858, married

an Irishman of the name of Sellenger—which was the usual way of

pronouncing the name of St. Leger, or, as they spelled it, Sent

Leger—restored by later generations to the still older form. He was

a reckless, dare-devil sort of fellow, then a Captain in the Lancers,

a man not without the quality of bravery—he won the Victoria Cross

at the Battle of Amoaful in the Ashantee Campaign. But I fear he

lacked the seriousness and steadfast strenuous purpose which my

father always says marks the character of our own family. He ran

through nearly all of his patrimony—never a very large one; and had

it not been for my grand-aunt’s little fortune, his days, had he

lived, must have ended in comparative poverty. Comparative, not

actual; for the Meltons, who are persons of considerable pride, would

not have tolerated a poverty-stricken branch of the family. We don’t

think much of that lot—any of us.

Fortunately, my great-aunt Patience had only one child, and the

premature decease of Captain St. Leger (as I prefer to call the name)

did not allow of the possibility of her having more. She did not

marry again, though my grandmother tried several times to arrange an

alliance for her. She was, I am told, always a stiff, uppish person,

who would not yield herself to the wisdom of her superiors. Her own

child was a son, who seemed to take his character rather from his

father’s family than from my own. He was a wastrel and a rolling

stone, always in scrapes at school, and always wanting to do

ridiculous things. My father, as Head of the House and his own

senior by eighteen years, tried often to admonish him; but his

perversity of spirit and his truculence were such that he had to

desist. Indeed, I have heard my father say that he sometimes

threatened his life. A desperate character he was, and almost devoid

of reverence. No one, not even my father, had any influence—good

influence, of course, I mean—over him, except his mother, who was of

my family; and also a woman who lived with her—a sort of governess—

aunt, he called her. The way of it was this: Captain St. Leger had

a younger brother, who made an improvident marriage with a Scotch

girl when they were both very young. They had nothing to live on

except what the reckless Lancer gave them, for he had next to nothing

himself, and she was “bare”—which is, I understand, the indelicate

Scottish way of expressing lack of fortune. She was, however, I

understand, of an old and somewhat good family, though broken in

fortune—to use an expression which, however, could hardly be used

precisely in regard to a family or a person who never had fortune to

be broken in! It was so far well that the MacKelpies—that was the

maiden name of Mrs. St. Leger—were reputable—so far as fighting was

concerned. It would have been too humiliating to have allied to our

family, even on the distaff side, a family both poor and of no

account. Fighting alone does not make a family, I think. Soldiers

are not everything, though they think they are. We have had in our

family men who fought; but I never heard of any of them who fought

because they WANTED to. Mrs. St. Leger had a sister; fortunately

there were only those two children in the family, or else they would

all have had to be supported by the money of my family.

Mr. St. Leger, who was only a subaltern, was killed at Maiwand; and

his wife was left a beggar. Fortunately, however, she died—her

sister spread a story that it was from the shock and grief—before

the child which she expected was born. This all happened when my

cousin—or, rather, my father’s cousin, my first-cousin-once-removed,

to be accurate—was still a very small child. His mother then sent

for Miss MacKelpie, her brother-in-law’s sister-in-law, to come and

live with her, which she did—beggars can’t be choosers; and she

helped to bring up young St. Leger.

I remember once my father giving me a sovereign for making a witty

remark about her. I was quite a boy then, not more than thirteen;

but our family were always clever from the very beginning of life,

and father was telling me about the St. Leger family. My family

hadn’t, of course, seen anything of them since Captain St. Leger

died—the circle to which we belong don’t care for poor relations—

and was explaining where Miss MacKelpie came in. She must have been

a sort of nursery governess, for Mrs. St. Leger once told him that

she helped her to educate the child.

“Then, father,” I said, “if she helped to educate the child she ought

to have been called Miss MacSkelpie!”

When my first-cousin-once-removed, Rupert, was twelve years old, his

mother died, and he was in the dolefuls about it for more than a

year. Miss MacKelpie kept on living with him all the same. Catch

her quitting! That sort don’t go into the poor-house when they can

keep out! My father, being Head of the Family, was, of course, one

of the trustees, and his uncle Roger, brother of the testator,

another. The third was General MacKelpie, a poverty-stricken Scotch

laird who had a lot of valueless land at Croom, in Ross-shire. I

remember father gave me a new ten-pound note when I interrupted him

whilst he was telling me of the incident of young St. Leger’s

improvidence by remarking that he was in error as to the land. From

what I had heard of MacKelpie’s estate, it was productive of one

thing; when he asked me “What?” I answered “Mortgages!” Father, I

knew, had bought, not long before, a lot of them at what a college

friend of mine from Chicago used to call “cut-throat” price. When I

remonstrated with my father for buying them at all, and so injuring

the family estate which I was to inherit, he gave me an answer, the

astuteness of which I have never forgotten.

“I did it so that I might keep my hand on the bold General, in case

he should ever prove troublesome. And if the worst should ever come

to the worst, Croom is a good country for grouse and stags!” My

father can see as far as most men!

When my cousin—I shall call him cousin henceforth in this record,

lest it might seem to any unkind person who might hereafter read it

that I wished to taunt Rupert St. Leger with his somewhat obscure

position, in reiterating his real distance in kinship with my family-

-when my cousin, Rupert St. Leger, wished to commit a certain idiotic

act of financial folly, he approached my father on the subject,

arriving at our estate, Humcroft, at an inconvenient time, without

permission, not having had even the decent courtesy to say he was

coming. I was then a little chap of six years old, but I could not

help noticing his mean appearance. He was all dusty and dishevelled.

When my father saw him—I came into the study with him—he said in a

horrified voice:

“Good God!” He was further shocked when the boy brusquely

acknowledged, in reply to my father’s greeting, that he had travelled

third class. Of course, none of my family ever go anything but first

class; even the servants go second. My father was really angry when

he said he had walked up from the station.

“A nice spectacle for my tenants and my tradesmen! To see my—my—a

kinsman of my house, howsoever remote, trudging like a tramp on the

road to my estate! Why, my avenue is two miles and a perch! No

wonder you are filthy and insolent!” Rupert—really, I cannot call

him cousin here—was exceedingly impertinent to my father.

“I walked, sir, because I had no money; but I assure you I did not

mean to be insolent. I simply came here because I wished to ask your

advice and assistance, not because you are an important person, and

have a long avenue—as I know to my cost—but simply because you are

one of my trustees.”

“YOUR trustees, sirrah!” said my father, interrupting him. “Your

trustees?”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said, quite quietly. “I meant the

trustees of my dear mother’s will.”

“And what, may I ask you,” said father, “do you want in the way of

advice from one of the trustees of your dear mother’s will?” Rupert

got very red, and was going to say something rude—I knew it from his

look—but he stopped, and said in the same gentle way:

“I want your advice, sir, as to the best way of doing something which

I wish to do, and, as I am under age, cannot do myself. It must be

done through the trustees of my mother’s will.”

“And the assistance for which you wish?” said father, putting his

hand in his pocket. I know what that action means when I am talking

to him.

“The assistance I want,” said Rupert, getting redder than ever, “is

from my—the trustee also. To carry out what I want to do.”

“And what may that be?” asked my father. “I would like, sir, to make

over to my Aunt Janet—” My father interrupted him by asking—he had

evidently remembered my jest:

“Miss MacSkelpie?” Rupert got still redder, and I turned away; I

didn’t quite wish that he should see me laughing. He went on

quietly:

“MACKELPIE, sir! Miss Janet MacKelpie, my aunt, who has always been

so kind to me, and whom my mother loved—I want to have made over to

her the money which my dear mother left to me.” Father doubtless

wished to have the matter take a less serious turn, for Rupert’s eyes

were all shiny with tears which had not fallen; so after a little

pause he said, with indignation, which I knew was simulated:

“Have you forgotten your mother so soon, Rupert, that you wish to

give away the very last gift which she bestowed on you?” Rupert was

sitting, but he jumped up and stood opposite my father with his fist

clenched. He was quite pale now, and his eyes looked so fierce that

I thought he would do my father an injury. He spoke in a voice which

did not seem like his own, it was so strong and deep.

“Sir!” he roared out. I suppose, if I was a writer, which, thank

God, I am not—I have no need to follow a menial occupation—I would

call it “thundered.” “Thundered” is a longer word than “roared,” and

would, of course, help to gain the penny which a writer gets for a

line. Father got pale too, and stood quite still. Rupert looked at

him steadily for quite half a minute—it seemed longer at the time—

and suddenly smiled and said, as he sat down again:

“Sorry. But, of course, you don’t understand such things.” Then he

went on talking before father had time to say a word.

“Let us get back to business. As you do not seem to follow me, let

me explain that it is BECAUSE I do not forget that I wish to do this.

I remember my dear mother’s wish to make Aunt Janet happy, and would

like to do as she did.”

“AUNT Janet?” said father, very properly sneering at his ignorance.

“She is not your aunt. Why, even her sister, who was married to your

uncle, was only your aunt by courtesy.” I could not help feeling

that Rupert meant to be rude to my father, though his words were

quite polite. If I had been as much bigger than him as he was than

me, I should have flown at him; but he was a very big boy for his

age. I am myself rather thin. Mother says thinness is an “appanage

of birth.”

“My Aunt Janet, sir, is an aunt by love. Courtesy is a small word to

use in connection with such devotion as she has given to us. But I

needn’t trouble you with such things, sir. I take it that my

relations on the side of my own house do not affect you. I am a Sent

Leger!” Father looked quite taken aback. He sat quite still before

he spoke.

“Well, Mr. St. Leger, I shall think over the matter for a while, and

shall presently let you know my decision. In the meantime, would you

like something to eat? I take it that as you must have started very

early, you have not had any breakfast?” Rupert smiled quite

genially:

“That is true, sir. I haven’t broken bread since dinner last night,

and I am ravenously hungry.” Father rang the bell, and told the

footman who answered it to send the housekeeper. When she came,

father said to her:

“Mrs. Martindale, take this boy to your room and give him some

breakfast.” Rupert stood very still for some seconds. His face had

got red again after his paleness. Then he bowed to my father, and

followed Mrs. Martindale, who had moved to the door.

Nearly an hour afterwards my father sent a servant to tell him to

come to the study. My mother was there, too, and I had gone back

with her. The man came back and said:

“Mrs. Martindale, sir, wishes to know, with her respectful service,

if she may have a word with you.” Before father could reply mother

told him to bring her. The housekeeper could not have been far off—

that kind are generally near a keyhole—for she came at once. When

she came in, she stood at the door curtseying and looking pale.

Father said:

“Well?”

“I thought, sir and ma’am, that I had better come and tell you about

Master Sent Leger. I would have come at once, but I feared to

disturb you.”

“Well?” Father had a stern way with servants. When I’m head of the

family I’ll tread them under my feet. That’s the way to get real

devotion from servants!

“If you please, sir, I took the young gentleman into my room and

ordered a nice breakfast for him, for I could see he was half

famished—a growing boy like him, and so tall! Presently it came

along. It was a good breakfast, too! The very smell of it made even

me hungry. There were eggs and frizzled ham, and grilled kidneys,

and coffee, and buttered toast, and bloater-paste—”

“That will do as to the menu,” said mother. “Go on!”

“When it was all ready, and the maid had gone, I put a chair to the

table and said, ‘Now, sir, your breakfast is ready!’ He stood up and

said, ‘Thank you, madam; you are very kind!’ and he bowed to me quite

nicely, just as if I was a lady, ma’am!”

“Go on,” said mother.

“Then, sir, he held out his hand and said, ‘Good-bye, and thank you,’

and he took up his cap.

“‘But aren’t you going to have any breakfast, sir?’ I says.

“‘No, thank you, madam,’ he said; ‘I couldn’t eat here … in this

house, I mean!’ Well, ma’am, he looked so lonely that I felt my

heart melting, and I ventured to ask him if there was any mortal

thing I could do for him. ‘Do tell me, dear,’ I ventured to say. ‘I

am an old woman, and you, sir, are only a boy, though it’s a fine man

you will be—like your dear, splendid father, which I remember so

well, and gentle like your poor dear mother.’

“‘You’re a dear!’ he says; and with that I took up his hand and

kissed it, for I remember his poor dear mother so well, that was dead

only a year. Well, with that he turned his head away, and when I

took him by the shoulders and turned him round—he is only a young

boy, ma’am, for all he is so big—I saw that the tears were rolling

down his cheeks. With that I laid his head on my breast—I’ve had

children of my own, ma’am, as you know, though they’re all gone. He

came willing enough, and sobbed for a little bit. Then he

straightened himself up, and I stood respectfully beside him.

“‘Tell Mr. Melton,’ he said, ‘that I shall not trouble him about the

trustee business.’

“‘But won’t you tell him yourself, sir, when you see him?’ I says.

“‘I shall not see him again,’ he says; ‘I am going back now!’

“Well, ma’am, I knew he’d had no breakfast, though he was hungry, and

that he would walk as he come, so I ventured to say: ‘If you won’t

take it a liberty, sir, may I do anything to make your going easier?

Have you sufficient money, sir? If not, may I give, or lend, you

some? I shall be very proud if you will allow me to.’

“‘Yes,’ he says quite hearty. ‘If you will, you might lend me a

shilling, as I have no money. I shall not forget it.’ He said, as

he took the coin: ‘I shall return the amount, though I never can the

kindness. I shall keep the coin.’ He took the shilling, sir—he

wouldn’t take any more—and then he said good-bye. At the door he

turned and walked back to me, and put his arms round me like a real

boy does, and gave me a hug, and says he:

“‘Thank you a thousand times, Mrs. Martindale, for your goodness to

me, for your sympathy, and for the way you have spoken of my father

and mother. You have seen me cry, Mrs. Martindale,’ he said; ‘I

don’t often cry: the last time was when I came back to the lonely

house after my poor dear was laid to rest. But you nor any other

shall ever see a tear of mine again.’ And with that he straightened

out his big back and held up his fine proud head, and walked out. I

saw him from the window striding down the avenue. My! but he is a

proud boy, sir—an honour to your family, sir, say I respectfully.

And there, the proud child has gone away hungry, and he won’t, I

know, ever use that shilling to buy food!”

Father was not going to have that, you know, so he said to her:

“He does not belong to my family, I would have you to know. True, he

is allied to us through the female side; but we do not count him or

his in my family.” He turned away and began to read a book. It was

a decided snub to her.

But mother had a word to say before Mrs. Martindale was done with.

Mother has a pride of her own, and doesn’t brook insolence from

inferiors; and the housekeeper’s conduct seemed to be rather

presuming. Mother, of course, isn’t quite our class, though her folk

are quite worthy and enormously rich. She is one of the

Dalmallingtons, the salt people, one of whom got a peerage when the

Conservatives went out. She said to the housekeeper:

“I think, Mrs. Martindale, that I shall not require your services

after this day month! And as I don’t keep servants in my employment

when I dismiss them, here is your month’s wages due on the 25th of

this month, and another month in lieu of notice. Sign this receipt.”

She was writing a receipt as she spoke. The other signed it without

a word, and handed it to her. She seemed quite flabbergasted.

Mother got up and sailed—that is the way that mother moves when she

is in a wax—out of the room.

Lest I should forget it, let me say here that the dismissed

housekeeper was engaged the very next day by the Countess of Salop.

I may say in explanation that the Earl of Salop, K.G., who is Lord-Lieutenant of the County, is jealous of father’s position and his

growing influence. Father is going to contest the next election on

the Conservative side, and is sure to be made a Baronet before long.

Letter from Major-General Sir Colin Alexander MacKelpie, V.C.,

K.C.B., of Croom, Ross, N.B., to Rupert Sent Leger, Esq., 14, Newland

Park, Dulwich, London, S.E.

July 4, 1892.

MY DEAR GODSON,

I am truly sorry I am unable to agree with your request that I should

acquiesce in your desire to transfer to Miss Janet MacKelpie the

property bequeathed to you by your mother, of which property I am a

trustee. Let me say at once that, had it been possible to me to do

so, I should have held it a privilege to further such a wish—not

because the beneficiare whom you would create is a near kinswoman of

my own. That, in truth, is my real difficulty. I have undertaken a

trust made by an honourable lady on behalf of her only son—son of a

man of stainless honour, and a dear friend of my own, and whose son

has a rich heritage of honour from both parents, and who will, I am

sure, like to look back on his whole life as worthy of his parents,

and of those whom his parents trusted. You will see, I am sure, that

whatsoever I might grant regarding anyone else, my hands are tied in

this matter.

And now let me say, my dear boy, that your letter has given me the

most intense pleasure. It is an unspeakable delight to me to find in

the son of your father—a man whom I loved, and a boy whom I love—

the same generosity of spirit which endeared your father to all his

comrades, old as well as young. Come what may, I shall always be

proud of you; and if the sword of an old soldier—it is all I have—

can ever serve you in any way, it and its master’s life are, and

shall be, whilst life remains to him, yours.

It grieves me to think that Janet cannot, through my act, be given

that ease and tranquillity of spirit which come from competence.

But, my dear Rupert, you will be of full age in seven years more.

Then, if you are in the same mind—and I am sure you will not change-

-you, being your own master, can do freely as you will. In the

meantime, to secure, so far as I can, my dear Janet against any

malign stroke of fortune, I have given orders to my factor to remit

semi-annually to Janet one full half of such income as may be derived

in any form from my estate of Croom. It is, I am sorry to say,

heavily mortgaged; but of such as is—or may be, free from such

charge as the mortgage entails—something at least will, I trust,

remain to her. And, my dear boy, I can frankly say that it is to me

a real pleasure that you and I can be linked in one more bond in this

association of purpose. I have always held you in my heart as though

you were my own son. Let me tell you now that you have acted as I

should have liked a son of my own, had I been blessed with one, to

have acted. God bless you, my dear.

Yours ever,

COLIN ALEX. MACKELPIE.

Letter from Roger Melton, of Openshaw Grange, to Rupert Sent Leger,

Esq., 14, Newland Park, Dulwich, London, S.E.

July 1, 1892.

MY DEAR NEPHEW,

Your letter of the 30th ult. received. Have carefully considered

matter stated, and have come to the conclusion that my duty as a

trustee would not allow me to give full consent, as you wish. Let me

explain. The testator, in making her will, intended that such

fortune as she had at disposal should be used to supply to you her

son such benefits as its annual product should procure. To this end,

and to provide against wastefulness or foolishness on your part, or,

indeed, against any generosity, howsoever worthy, which might

impoverish you and so defeat her benevolent intentions regarding your

education, comfort, and future good, she did not place the estate

directly in your hands, leaving you to do as you might feel inclined

about it. But, on the contrary, she entrusted the corpus of it in

the hands of men whom she believed should be resolute enough and

strong enough to carry out her intent, even against any cajolements

or pressure which might be employed to the contrary. It being her

intention, then, that such trustees as she appointed would use for

your benefit the interest accruing annually from the capital at

command, AND THAT ONLY (as specifically directed in the will), so

that on your arriving at full age the capital entrusted to us should

be handed over to you intact, I find a hard-and-fast duty in the

matter of adhering exactly to the directions given. I have no doubt

that my co-trustees regard the matter in exactly the same light.

Under the circumstances, therefore, we, the trustees, have not only a

single and united duty towards you as the object of the testator’s

wishes, but towards each other as regards the manner of the carrying

out of that duty. I take it, therefore, that it would not be

consonant with the spirit of the trust or of our own ideas in

accepting it that any of us should take a course pleasant to himself

which would or might involve a stern opposition on the part of other

of the co-trustees. We have each of us to do the unpleasant part of

this duty without fear or favour. You understand, of course, that

the time which must elapse before you come into absolute possession

of your estate is a limited one. As by the terms of the will we are

to hand over our trust when you have reached the age of twenty-one,

there are only seven years to expire. But till then, though I should

gladly meet your wishes if I could, I must adhere to the duty which I

have undertaken. At the expiration of that period you will be quite

free to divest yourself of your estate without protest or comment of

any man.

Having now expressed as clearly as I can the limitations by which I

am bound with regard to the corpus of your estate, let me say that in

any other way which is in my power or discretion I shall be most

happy to see your wishes carried out so far as rests with me.

Indeed, I shall undertake to use what influence I may possess with my

co-trustees to induce them to take a similar view of your wishes. In

my own thinking you are quite free to use your own property in your

own way. But as, until you shall have attained your majority, you

have only life-user in your mother’s bequest, you are only at liberty

to deal with the annual increment. On our part as trustees we have a

first charge on that increment to be used for purposes of your

maintenance, clothes, and education. As to what may remain over each

half-year, you will be free to deal with it as you choose. On

receiving from you a written authorization to your trustees, if you

desire the whole sum or any part of it to be paid over to Miss Janet

MacKelpie, I shall see that it is effected. Believe me, that our

duty is to protect the corpus of the estate, and to this end we may

not act on any instruction to imperil it. But there our warranty

stops. We can deal during our trusteeship with the corpus only.

Further, lest there should arise any error on your part, we can deal

with any general instruction for only so long as it may remain

unrevoked. You are, and must be, free to alter your instructions or

authorizations at any time. Thus your latest document must be used

for our guidance.

As to the general principle involved in your wish I make no comment.

You are at liberty to deal with your own how you will. I quite

understand that your impulse is a generous one, and I fully believe

that it is in consonance with what had always been the wishes of my

sister. Had she been happily alive and had to give judgment of your

intent, I am convinced that she would have approved. Therefore, my

dear nephew, should you so wish, I shall be happy for her sake as

well as your own to pay over on your account (as a confidential

matter between you and me), but from my own pocket, a sum equal to

that which you wish transferred to Miss Janet MacKelpie. On hearing

from you I shall know how to act in the matter. With all good

wishes,

Believe me to be,

Your affectionate uncle,

ROGER MELTON.

TO RUPERT SENT LEGER, ESQ.

Letter from Rupert Sent Leger to Roger Melton,

July 5, 1892.

MY DEAR UNCLE,

Thank you heartily for your kind letter. I quite understand, and now

see that I should not have asked you as a trustee, such a thing. I

see your duty clearly, and agree with your view of it. I enclose a

letter directed to my trustees, asking them to pay over annually till

further direction to Miss Janet MacKelpie at this address whatever

sum may remain over from the interest of my mother’s bequest after

deduction of such expenses as you may deem fit for my maintenance,

clothing, and education, together with a sum of one pound sterling

per month, which was the amount my dear mother always gave me for my

personal use—“pocket-money,” she called it.

With regard to your most kind and generous offer to give to my dear

Aunt Janet the sum which I would have given myself, had such been in

my power, I thank you most truly and sincerely, both for my dear aunt

(to whom, of course, I shall not mention the matter unless you

specially authorize me) and myself. But, indeed, I think it will be

better not to offer it. Aunt Janet is very proud, and would not

accept any benefit. With me, of course, it is different, for since I

was a wee child she has been like another mother to me, and I love

her very much. Since my mother died—and she, of course, was all-inall to me—there has been no other. And in such a love as ours pride

has no place. Thank you again, dear uncle, and God bless you.

Your loving nephew,

RUPERT SENT LEGER.

ERNEST ROGER HALBARD MELTON’S RECORD—Continued,

And now re the remaining one of Sir Geoffrey’s children, Roger. He

was the third child and third son, the only daughter, Patience,

having been born twenty years after the last of the four sons.

Concerning Roger, I shall put down all I have heard of him from my

father and grandfather. From my grand-aunt I heard nothing, I was a

very small kid when she died; but I remember seeing her, but only

once. A very tall, handsome woman of a little over thirty, with very

dark hair and light-coloured eyes. I think they were either grey or

blue, but I can’t remember which. She looked very proud and haughty,

but I am bound to say that she was very nice to me. I remember

feeling very jealous of Rupert because his mother looked so

distinguished. Rupert was eight years older than me, and I was

afraid he would beat me if I said anything he did not like. So I was

silent except when I forgot to be, and Rupert said very unkindly, and

I think very unfairly, that I was “A sulky little beast.” I haven’t

forgot that, and I don’t mean to. However, it doesn’t matter much

what he said or thought. There he is—if he is at all—where no one

can find him, with no money or nothing, for what little he had he

settled when he came of age, on the MacSkelpie. He wanted to give it

to her when his mother died, but father, who was a trustee, refused;

and Uncle Roger, as I call him, who is another, thought the trustees

had no power to allow Rupert to throw away his matrimony, as I called

it, making a joke to father when he called it patrimony. Old Sir

Colin MacSkelpie, who is the third, said he couldn’t take any part in

such a permission, as the MacSkelpie was his niece. He is a rude old

man, that. I remember when, not remembering his relationship, I

spoke of the MacSkelpie, he caught me a clip on the ear that sent me

across the room. His Scotch is very broad. I can hear him say, “Hae

some attempt at even Soothern manners, and dinna misca’ yer betters,

ye young puddock, or I’ll wring yer snoot!” Father was, I could see,

very much offended, but he didn’t say anything. He remembered, I

think, that the General is a V.C. man, and was fond of fighting

duels. But to show that the fault was not his, HE wrung MY ear—and

the same ear too! I suppose he thought that was justice! But it’s

only right to say that he made up for it afterwards. When the

General had gone he gave me a five-pound note.

I don’t think Uncle Roger was very pleased with the way Rupert

behaved about the legacy, for I don’t think he ever saw him from that

day to this. Perhaps, of course, it was because Rupert ran away

shortly afterwards; but I shall tell about that when I come to him.

After all, why should my uncle bother about him? He is not a Melton

at all, and I am to be Head of the House—of course, when the Lord

thinks right to take father to Himself! Uncle Roger has tons of

money, and he never married, so if he wants to leave it in the right

direction he needn’t have any trouble. He made his money in what he

calls “the Eastern Trade.” This, so far as I can gather, takes in

the Levant and all east of it. I know he has what they call in trade

“houses” in all sorts of places—Turkey, and Greece, and all round

them, Morocco, Egypt, and Southern Russia, and the Holy Land; then on

to Persia, India, and all round it; the Chersonese, China, Japan, and

the Pacific Islands. It is not to be expected that we landowners can

know much about trade, but my uncle covers—or alas! I must say

“covered”—a lot of ground, I can tell you. Uncle Roger was a very

grim sort of man, and only that I was brought up to try and be kind

to him I shouldn’t ever have dared to speak to him. But when was a

child father and mother—especially mother—forced me to go and see

him and be affectionate to him. He wasn’t ever even civil to me,

that I can remember—grumpy old bear! But, then, he never saw Rupert

at all, so that I take it Master R-is out of the running altogether

for testamentary honours. The last time I saw him myself he was

distinctly rude. He treated me as a boy, though I was getting on for

eighteen years of age. I came into his office without knocking; and

without looking up from his desk, where he was writing, he said:

“Get out! Why do you venture to disturb me when I’m busy? Get out,

and be damned to you!” I waited where I was, ready to transfix him

with my eye when he should look up, for I cannot forget that when my

father dies I shall be Head of my House. But when he did there was

no transfixing possible. He said quite coolly:

“Oh, it’s you, is it? I thought it was one of my office boys. Sit

down, if you want to see me, and wait till I am ready.” So I sat

down and waited. Father always said that I should try to conciliate

and please my uncle. Father is a very shrewd man, and Uncle Roger is

a very rich one.

But I don’t think Uncle R-is as shrewd as he thinks he is. He

sometimes makes awful mistakes in business. For instance, some years

ago he bought an enormous estate on the Adriatic, in the country they

call the “Land of Blue Mountains.” At least, he says he bought it.

He told father so in confidence. But he didn’t show any title-deeds,

and I’m greatly afraid he was “had.” A bad job for me that he was,

for father believes he paid an enormous sum for it, and as I am his

natural heir, it reduces his available estate to so much less.

And now about Rupert. As I have said, he ran away when he was about

fourteen, and we did not hear about him for years. When we—or,

rather, my father—did hear of him, it was no good that he heard. He

had gone as a cabin-boy on a sailing ship round the Horn. Then he

joined an exploring party through the centre of Patagonia, and then

another up in Alaska, and a third to the Aleutian Islands. After

that he went through Central America, and then to Western Africa, the

Pacific Islands, India, and a lot of places. We all know the wisdom

of the adage that “A rolling stone gathers no moss”; and certainly,

if there be any value in moss, Cousin Rupert will die a poor man.

Indeed, nothing will stand his idiotic, boastful wastefulness. Look

at the way in which, when he came of age, he made over all his

mother’s little fortune to the MacSkelpie! I am sure that, though

Uncle Roger made no comment to my father, who, as Head of our House,

should, of course, have been informed, he was not pleased. My

mother, who has a good fortune in her own right, and has had the

sense to keep it in her own control—as I am to inherit it, and it is

not in the entail, I am therefore quite impartial—I can approve of

her spirited conduct in the matter. We never did think much of

Rupert, anyhow; but now, since he is in the way to be a pauper, and

therefore a dangerous nuisance, we look on him as quite an outsider.

We know what he really is. For my own part, I loathe and despise

him. Just now we are irritated with him, for we are all kept on

tenterhooks regarding my dear Uncle Roger’s Will. For Mr. Trent, the

attorney who regulated my dear uncle’s affairs and has possession of

the Will, says it is necessary to know where every possible

beneficiary is to be found before making the Will public, so we all

have to wait. It is especially hard on me, who am the natural heir.

It is very thoughtless indeed of Rupert to keep away like that. I

wrote to old MacSkelpie about it, but he didn’t seem to understand or

to be at all anxious—he is not the heir! He said that probably

Rupert Sent Leger—he, too, keeps to the old spelling—did not know

of his uncle’s death, or he would have taken steps to relieve our

anxiety. Our anxiety, forsooth! We are not anxious; we only wish to

KNOW. And if we—and especially me—who have all the annoyance of

thinking of the detestable and unfair death-duties, are anxious, we

should be so. Well, anyhow, he’ll get a properly bitter

disappointment and set down when he does turn up and discovers that

he is a pauper without hope!

To-day we (father and I) had letters from Mr. Trent, telling us that

the whereabouts of “Mr. Rupert Sent Leger” had been discovered, and

that a letter disclosing the fact of poor Uncle Roger’s death had

been sent to him. He was at Titicaca when last heard of. So

goodness only knows when he may get the letter, which “asks him to

come home at once, but only gives to him such information about the

Will as has already been given to every member of the testator’s

family.” And that is nil. I dare say we shall be kept waiting for

months before we get hold of the estate which is ours. It is too

bad!

Letter from Edward Bingham Trent to Ernest Roger Halbard Melton.

176, LINCOLN’S INN FIELDS,

December 28, 1906.

DEAR SIR,

I am glad to be able to inform you that I have just heard by letter

from Mr. Rupert St. Leger that he intended leaving Rio de Janeiro by

the S.S. Amazon, of the Royal Mail Company, on December 15. He

further stated that he would cable just before leaving Rio de

Janeiro, to say on what day the ship was expected to arrive in

London. As all the others possibly interested in the Will of the

late Roger Melton, and whose names are given to me in his

instructions regarding the reading of the Will, have been advised,

and have expressed their intention of being present at that event on

being apprised of the time and place, I now beg to inform you that by

cable message received the date scheduled for arrival at the Port of

London was January 1 prox. I therefore beg to notify you, subject to

postponement due to the non-arrival of the Amazon, the reading of the

Will of the late Roger Melton, Esq., will take place in my office on

Thursday, January 3 prox., at eleven o’clock a.m.

I have the honour to be, sir,

Yours faithfully,

EDWARD BINGHAM TRENT.

TO ERNEST ROGER HALBARD MELTON, ESQ., HUMCROFT, SALOP.

Cable: Rupert Sent Leger to Edward Bingham Trent. Amazon arrives

London January 1. SENT LEGER.

Telegram (per Lloyd’s): Rupert Sent Leger to Edward Bingham Trent.

THE LIZARD,

December 31.

Amazon arrives London to-morrow morning. All well.—LEGER.

Telegram: Edward Bingham Trent to Ernest Roger Halbard Mellon.

Rupert Sent Leger arrived. Reading Will takes place as arranged.—

TRENT.

ERNEST ROGER HALBARD MELTON’S RECORD.

January 4, 1907.

The reading of Uncle Roger’s Will is over. Father got a duplicate of

Mr. Trent’s letter to me, and of the cable and two telegrams pasted

into this Record. We both waited patiently till the third—that is,

we did not say anything. The only impatient member of our family was

my mother. She DID say things, and if old Trent had been here his

ears would have been red. She said what ridiculous nonsense it was

delaying the reading of the Will, and keeping the Heir waiting for

the arrival of an obscure person who wasn’t even a member of the

family, inasmuch as he didn’t bear the name. I don’t think it’s

quite respectful to one who is some day to be Head of the House! I

thought father was weakening in his patience when he said: “True, my

dear—true!” and got up and left the room. Some time afterwards when

I passed the library I heard him walking up and down.

Father and I went up to town on the afternoon of Wednesday, January

2. We stayed, of course, at Claridge’s, where we always stay when we

go to town. Mother wanted to come, too, but father thought it better

not. She would not agree to stay at home till we both promised to

send her separate telegrams after the reading.

At five minutes to eleven we entered Mr. Trent’s office. Father

would not go a moment earlier, as he said it was bad form to seem

eager at any time, but most of all at the reading of a will. It was

a rotten grind, for we had to be walking all over the neighbourhood

for half an hour before it was time, not to be too early.

When we went into the room we found there General Sir Colin MacKelpie

and a big man, very bronzed, whom I took to be Rupert St. Leger—not

a very creditable connection to look at, I thought! He and old

MacKelpie took care to be in time! Rather low, I thought it. Mr.

St. Leger was reading a letter. He had evidently come in but lately,

for though he seemed to be eager about it, he was only at the first

page, and I could see that there were many sheets. He did not look

up when we came in, or till he had finished the letter; and you may

be sure that neither I nor my father (who, as Head of the House,

should have had more respect from him) took the trouble to go to him.

After all, he is a pauper and a wastrel, and he has not the honour of

bearing our Name. The General, however, came forward and greeted us

both cordially. He evidently had forgotten—or pretended to have—

the discourteous way he once treated me, for he spoke to me quite in

a friendly way—I thought more warmly than he did to father. I was

pleased to be spoken to so nicely, for, after all, whatever his

manners may be, he is a distinguished man—has won the V.C. and a

Baronetcy. He got the latter not long ago, after the Frontier War in

India. I was not, however, led away into cordiality myself. I had

not forgotten his rudeness, and I thought that he might be sucking up

to me. I knew that when I had my dear Uncle Roger’s many millions I

should be a rather important person; and, of course, he knew it too.

So I got even with him for his former impudence. When he held out

his hand I put one finger in it, and said, “How do?” He got very red

and turned away. Father and he had ended by glaring at each other,

so neither of us was sorry to be done with him. All the time Mr. St.

Leger did not seem to see or hear anything, but went on reading his

letter. I thought the old MacSkelpie was going to bring him into the

matter between us, for as he turned away I heard him say something

under his breath. It sounded like “Help!” but Mr. S— did not hear.

He certainly no notice of it.

As the MacS— and Mr. S— sat quite silent, neither looking at us,

and as father was sitting on the other side of the room with his chin

in his hand, and as I wanted to show that I was indifferent to the

two S’s, I took out this notebook, and went on with the Record,

bringing it up to this moment.

THE RECORD—Continued.

When I had finished writing I looked over at Rupert.

When he saw us, he jumped up and went over to father and shook his

hand quite warmly. Father took him very coolly. Rupert, however,

did not seem to see it, but came towards me heartily. I happened to

be doing something else at the moment, and at first I did not see his

hand; but just as I was looking at it the clock struck eleven.

Whilst it was striking Mr. Trent came into the room. Close behind

him came his clerk, carrying a locked tin box. There were two other

men also. He bowed to us all in turn, beginning with me. I was

standing opposite the door; the others were scattered about. Father

sat still, but Sir Colin and Mr. St. Leger rose. Mr. Trent not did

shake hands with any of us—not even me. Nothing but his respectful

bow. That is the etiquette for an attorney, I understand, on such

formal occasions.

He sat down at the end of the big table in the centre of the room,

and asked us to sit round. Father, of course, as Head of the Family,

took the seat at his right hand. Sir Colin and St. Leger went to the

other side, the former taking the seat next to the attorney. The

General knows, of course, that a Baronet takes precedence at a

ceremony. I may be a Baronet some day myself, and have to know these

things.

The clerk took the key which his master handed to him, opened the tin

box, and took from it a bundle of papers tied with red tape. This he

placed before the attorney, and put the empty box behind him on the

floor. Then he and the other man sat at the far end of the table;

the latter took out a big notebook and several pencils, and put them

before him. He was evidently a shorthand-writer. Mr. Trent removed

the tape from the bundle of papers, which he placed a little distance

in front of him. He took a sealed envelope from the top, broke the

seal, opened the envelope, and from it took a parchment, in the folds

of which were some sealed envelopes, which he laid in a heap in front

of the other paper. Then he unfolded the parchment, and laid it

before him with the outside page up. He fixed his glasses, and said:

“Gentlemen, the sealed envelope which you have seen me open is

endorsed ‘My Last Will and Testament—ROGER MELTON, June, 1906.’

This document”—holding it up—“is as follows:

“‘I Roger Melton of Openshaw Grange in the County of Dorset; of

number one hundred and twenty-three Berkeley Square London; and of

the Castle of Vissarion in the Land of the Blue Mountains, being of

sound mind do make this my Last Will and Testament on this day Monday

the eleventh day of the month of June in the year of Our Lord one

thousand nine hundred and six at the office of my old friend and

Attorney Edward Bingham Trent in number one hundred and seventy-six

Lincoln’s Inn Fields London hereby revoking all other wills that I

may have formerly made and giving this as my sole and last Will

making dispositions of my property as follows:

“‘1. To my kinsman and nephew Ernest Halbard Melton Esquire, justice

of the Peace, Humcroft the County of Salop, for his sole use and

benefit the sum of twenty thousand pounds sterling free of all Duties

Taxes and charges whatever to be paid out of my Five per centum Bonds

of the City of Montreal, Canada.

“‘2. To my respected friend and colleague as co-trustee to the Will

of my late sister Patience late widow of the late Captain Rupert Sent

Leger who predeceased her, Major-General Sir Colin Alexander

MacKelpie, Baronet, holder of the Victoria Cross, Knight Commander of

the Order of the Bath, of Croom in the county of Ross Scotland a sum

of Twenty thousand pounds sterling free of all Taxes and charges

whatsoever; to be paid out of my Five per centum Bonds of the City of

Toronto, Canada.

“‘3. To Miss Janet MacKelpie presently residing at Croom in the

County of Ross Scotland the sum of Twenty thousand pounds sterling

free of all Duties Taxes and Charges whatsoever, to be paid out of my

Five per centum Bonds of the London County Council.

“‘4. To the various persons charities and Trustees named in the

schedule attached to this Will and marked A. the various sums

mentioned therein, all free of Duties and Taxes and charges

whatsoever.’”

Here Mr. Trent read out the list here following, and announced for

our immediate understanding of the situation the total amount as two

hundred and fifty thousand pounds. Many of the beneficiaries were

old friends, comrades, dependents, and servants, some of them being

left quite large sums of money and specific objects, such as curios

and pictures.

“‘5. To my kinsman and nephew Ernest Roger Halbard Melton presently

living in the house of his father at Humcroft Salop the sum of Ten

thousand pounds sterling.

“‘6. To my old and valued friend Edward Bingham Trent of one hundred

and seventy-six Lincoln’s Inn Fields sum of Twenty thousand pounds

sterling free from all Duties Taxes and Charges whatsoever to be paid

out of my Five per centum Bonds of the city of Manchester England.

“‘7. To my dear nephew Rupert Sent Leger only son of my dear sister

Patience Melton by her marriage with Captain Rupert Sent Leger the

sum of one thousand pounds sterling. I also bequeath to the said

Rupert Sent Leger a further sum conditional upon his acceptance of

the terms of a letter addressed to him marked B, and left in the

custody of the above Edward Bingham Trent and which letter is an

integral part of this my Will. In case of the non-acceptance of the

conditions of such letter, I devise and bequeath the whole of the

sums and properties reserved therein to the executors herein

appointed Colin Alexander MacKelpie and Edward Bingham Trent in trust

to distribute the same in accordance with the terms of the letter in

the present custody of Edward Bingham Trent marked C, and now

deposited sealed with my seal in the sealed envelope containing my

last Will to be kept in the custody of the said Edward Bingham Trent

and which said letter C is also an integral part of my Will. And in

case any doubt should arise as to my ultimate intention as to the

disposal of my property the above-mentioned Executors are to have

full power to arrange and dispose all such matters as may seem best

to them without further appeal. And if any beneficiary under this

Will shall challenge the same or any part of it, or dispute the

validity thereof, he shall forfeit to the general estate the bequest

made herein to him, and any such bequest shall cease and be void to

all intents and purposes whatsoever.

“‘8. For proper compliance with laws and duties connected with

testamentary proceedings and to keep my secret trusts secret I direct

my Executors to pay all Death, Estate, Settlement, Legacy,

Succession, or other duties charges impositions and assessments

whatever on the residue of my estate beyond the bequests already

named, at the scale charged in the case of most distant relatives or

strangers in blood.

“‘9. I hereby appoint as my Executors Major-General Sir Colin

Alexander MacKelpie, Baronet, of Croom in the County of Ross, and

Edward Bingham Trent Attorney at Law of one hundred and seventy-six

Lincoln’s Inn Fields London West Central with full power to exercise

their discretion in any circumstance which may arise in the carrying

out my wishes as expressed in this Will. As reward for their

services in this capacity as Executors they are to receive each out

of the general estate a sum of one hundred thousand pounds sterling

free of all Duties and impositions whatsoever.

“12. The two Memoranda contained in the letters marked B and C are

Integral Parts of this my Last Will are ultimately at the Probate of

the Will to be taken as Clauses 10 and 11 of it. The envelopes are

marked B and C on both envelope and contents and the contents of each

is headed thus: B to be read as Clause 10 of my Will and the other C

to be read as Clause 11 of my Will.

“13. Should either of the above-mentioned Executors die before the

completion of the above year and a half from the date of the Reading

of my Will or before the Conditions rehearsed in Letter C the

remaining Executor shall have all and several the Rights and Duties

entrusted by my Will to both. And if both Executors should die then

the matter of interpretation and execution of all matters in

connection with this my Last Will shall rest with the Lord Chancellor

of England for the time being or with whomsoever he may appoint for

the purpose.

“‘This my Last Will is given by me on the first day of January in the

year of Our Lord one thousand nine hundred and seven.

“‘ROGER MELTON.

“We Andrew Rossiter and John Colson here in the presence of each

other and of the Testator have seen the Testator Roger Melton sign

and seal this document. In witness thereof we hereby set our names

“‘ANDREW ROSSITER clerk of 9 Primrose Avenue London W.C.

“‘JOHN COLSON caretaker of 176 Lincoln’s Inn Fields and Verger of St.

Tabitha’s Church Clerkenwell London.’”

When Mr. Trent had finished the reading he put all the papers

together, and tied them up in a bundle again with the red tape.

Holding the bundle in his hand, he stood up, saying as he did so:

“That is all, gentlemen, unless any of you wish to ask me any

questions; in which case I shall answer, of course, to the best of my

power. I shall ask you, Sir Colin, to remain with me, as we have to

deal with some matters, or to arrange a time when we may meet to do

so. And you also, Mr. Sent Leger, as there is this letter to submit

to you. It is necessary that you should open it in the presence of

the executors, but there is no necessity that anyone else should be

present.”

The first to speak was my father. Of course, as a county gentleman

of position and estate, who is sometimes asked to take the chair at

Sessions—of course, when there is not anyone with a title present—

he found himself under the duty of expressing himself first. Old

MacKelpie has superior rank; but this was a family affair, in which

my father is Head of the House, whilst old MacKelpie is only an

outsider brought into it—and then only to the distaff side, by the

wife of a younger brother of the man who married into our family.

Father spoke with the same look on his face as when he asks important

questions of witnesses at Quarter Sessions.

“I should like some points elucidated.” The attorney bowed (he gets

his 120 thou’, any way, so he can afford to be oily—suave, I suppose

he would call it); so father looked at a slip of paper in his hand

and asked:

“How much is the amount of the whole estate?”

The attorney answered quickly, and I thought rather rudely. He was

red in the face, and didn’t bow this time; I suppose a man of his

class hasn’t more than a very limited stock of manners:

“That, sir, I am not at liberty to tell you. And I may say that I

would not if I could.”

“Is it a million?” said father again. He was angry this time, and

even redder than the old attorney. The attorney said in answer, very

quietly this time:

“Ah, that’s cross-examining. Let me say, sir, that no one can know

that until the accountants to be appointed for the purpose have

examined the affairs of the testator up to date.”

Mr. Rupert St. Leger, who was looking all this time angrier than even

the attorney or my father—though at what he had to be angry about I

can’t imagine—struck his fist on the table and rose up as if to

speak, but as he caught sight of both old MacKelpie and the attorney

he sat down again. Mem.—Those three seem to agree too well. I must

keep a sharp eye on them. I didn’t think of this part any more at

the time, for father asked another question which interested me much:

“May I ask why the other matters of the Will are not shown to us?”

The attorney wiped his spectacles carefully with a big silk bandanna

handkerchief before he answered:

“Simply because each of the two letters marked ‘B’ and ‘C’ is

enclosed with instructions regarding their opening and the keeping

secret of their contents. I shall call your attention to the fact

that both envelopes are sealed, and that the testator and both

witnesses have signed their names across the flap of each envelope.

I shall read them. The letter marked ‘B,’ directed to ‘Rupert Sent

Leger,’ is thus endorsed:

“‘This letter is to be given to Rupert Sent Leger by the Trustees and

is to be opened by him in their presence. He is to take such copy or

make such notes as he may wish and is then to hand the letter with

envelope to the Executors who are at once to read it, each of them

being entitled to make copy or notes if desirous of so doing. The

letter is then to be replaced in its envelope and letter and envelope

are to be placed in another envelope to be endorsed on outside as to

its contents and to be signed across the flap by both the Executors

and by the said Rupert Sent Leger.

”’(Signed) ROGER MELTON 1/6/‘06.

“The letter marked ‘C,’ directed to ‘Edward Bingham Trent,’ is thus

endorsed:

“‘This letter directed to Edward Bingham Trent is to be kept by him

unopened for a term of two years after the reading of my Last Will

unless said period is earlier terminated by either the acceptance or

refusal of Rupert Sent Leger to accept the conditions mentioned in my

letter to him marked ‘B’ which he is to receive and read in the

presence of my Executors at the same meeting as but subsequent to the

Reading of the clauses (except those to be ultimately numbers ten and

eleven) of my Last Will. This letter contains instructions as to

what both the Executors and the said Rupert Sent Leger are to do when

such acceptance or refusal of the said Rupert Sent Leger has been

made known, or if he omit or refuse to make any such acceptance or

refusal, at the end of two years next after my decease.

”’(Signed) ROGER MELTON 1/6/‘06.’”

When the attorney had finished reading the last letter he put it

carefully in his pocket. Then he took the other letter in his hand,

and stood up. “Mr. Rupert Sent Leger,” he said, “please to open this

letter, and in such a way that all present may see that the

memorandum at top of the contents is given as -

“‘B. To be read as clause ten of my Will.’”

St. Leger rolled up his sleeves and cuffs just as if he was going to

perform some sort of prestidigitation—it was very theatrical and

ridiculous—then, his wrists being quite bare, he opened the envelope

and took out the letter. We all saw it quite well. It was folded

with the first page outward, and on the top was written a line just

as the attorney said. In obedience to a request from the attorney,

he laid both letter and envelope on the table in front of him. The

clerk then rose up, and, after handing a piece of paper to the

attorney, went back to his seat. Mr. Trent, having written something

on the paper, asked us all who were present, even the clerk and the

shorthand man, to look at the memorandum on the letter and what was

written on the envelope, and to sign the paper, which ran:

“We the signatories of this paper hereby declare that we have seen

the sealed letter marked B and enclosed in the Will of Roger Melton

opened in the presence of us all including Mr. Edward Bingham Trent

and Sir Colin Alexander MacKelpie and we declare that the paper

therein contained was headed ‘B. To be read as clause ten of my

Will’ and that there were no other contents in the envelope. In

attestation of which we in the presence of each other append our

signatures.”

The attorney motioned to my father to begin. Father is a cautious

man, and he asked for a magnifying-glass, which was shortly brought

to him by a clerk for whom the clerk in the room called. Father

examined the envelope all over very carefully, and also the

memorandum at top of the paper. Then, without a word, he signed the

paper. Father is a just man. Then we all signed. The attorney

folded the paper and put it in an envelope. Before closing it he

passed it round, and we all saw that it had not been tampered with.

Father took it out and read it, and then put it back. Then the

attorney asked us all to sign it across the flap, which we did. Then

he put the sealing-wax on it and asked father to seal it with his own

seal. He did so. Then he and MacKelpie sealed it also with their

own seals, Then he put it in another envelope, which he sealed

himself, and he and MacKelpie signed it across the flap.

Then father stood up, and so did I. So did the two men—the clerk

and the shorthand writer. Father did not say a word till we got out

into the street. We walked along, and presently we passed an open

gate into the fields. He turned back, saying to me:

“Come in here. There is no one about, and we can be quiet. I want

to speak to you.” When we sat down on a seat with none other near

it, father said:

“You are a student of the law. What does all that mean?” I thought

it a good occasion for an epigram, so I said one word:

“Bilk!”

“H’m!” said father; “that is so far as you and I are concerned. You

with a beggarly ten thousand, and I with twenty. But what is, or

will be, the effect of those secret trusts?”

“Oh, that,” I said, “will, I dare say, be all right. Uncle Roger

evidently did not intend the older generation to benefit too much by

his death. But he only gave Rupert St. Leger one thousand pounds,

whilst he gave me ten. That looks as if he had more regard for the

direct line. Of course—” Father interrupted me:

“But what was the meaning of a further sum?”

“I don’t know, father. There was evidently some condition which he

was to fulfil; but he evidently didn’t expect that he would. Why,

otherwise, did he leave a second trust to Mr. Trent?”

“True!” said father. Then he went on: “I wonder why he left those

enormous sums to Trent and old MacKelpie. They seem out of all

proportion as executors’ fees, unless—”

“Unless what, father?”

“Unless the fortune he has left is an enormous one. That is why I

asked.”

“And that,” I laughed, “is why he refused to answer.”

“Why, Ernest, it must run into big figures.”

“Right-ho, father. The death-duties will be annoying. What a

beastly swindle the death-duties are! Why, I shall suffer even on

your own little estate … “

“That will do!” he said curtly. Father is so ridiculously touchy.

One would think he expects to live for ever. Presently he spoke

again:

“I wonder what are the conditions of that trust. They are as

important—almost—as the amount of the bequest—whatever it is. By

the way, there seems to be no mention in the will of a residuary

legatee. Ernest, my boy, we may have to fight over that.”

“How do you make that out, father?” I asked. He had been very rude

over the matter of the death-duties of his own estate, though it is

entailed and I MUST inherit. So I determined to let him see that I

know a good deal more than he does—of law, at any rate. “I fear

that when we come to look into it closely that dog won’t fight. In

the first place, that may be all arranged in the letter to St. Leger,

which is a part of the Will. And if that letter should be

inoperative by his refusal of the conditions (whatever they may be),

then the letter to the attorney begins to work. What it is we don’t

know, and perhaps even he doesn’t—I looked at it as well as I could-

-and we law men are trained to observation. But even if the

instructions mentioned as being in Letter C fail, then the corpus of

the Will gives full power to Trent to act just as he darn pleases.

He can give the whole thing to himself if he likes, and no one can

say a word. In fact, he is himself the final court of appeal.”

“H’m!” said father to himself. “It is a queer kind of will, I take

it, that can override the Court of Chancery. We shall perhaps have

to try it before we are done with this!” With that he rose, and we

walked home together—without saying another word.

My mother was very inquisitive about the whole thing—women always

are. Father and I between us told her all it was necessary for her

to know. I think we were both afraid that, woman-like, she would

make trouble for us by saying or doing something injudicious.

Indeed, she manifested such hostility towards Rupert St. Leger that

it is quite on the cards that she may try to injure him in some way.

So when father said that he would have to go out shortly again, as he

wished to consult his solicitor, I jumped up and said I would go with

him, as I, too, should take advice as to how I stood in the matter.

The Contents of Letter marked “B” attached as an Integral Part to the

Last Will of Roger Melton.

June 11, 1907.

“This letter an integral part of my Last Will regards the entire

residue of my estate beyond the specific bequests made in the body of

my Will. It is to appoint as Residuary Legatee of such Will—in case

he may accept in due form the Conditions herein laid down—my dear

Nephew Rupert Sent Leger only son of my sister Patience Melton now

deceased by her marriage with Captain Rupert Sent Leger also now

deceased. On his acceptance of the Conditions and the fulfilment of

the first of them the Entire residue of my estate after payments of

all specific Legacies and of all my debts and other obligations is to

become his absolute property to be dealt with or disposed of as he

may desire. The following are the conditions.

“1. He is to accept provisionally by letter addressed to my

Executors a sum of nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand pounds

sterling free of all Duties Taxes or other imposts. This he will

hold for a period of six months from the date of the Reading of my

Last Will and have user of the accruements thereto calculated at the

rate of ten per centum per annum which amount he shall under no

circumstances be required to replace. At the end of said six months

he must express in writing directed to the Executors of my Will his

acceptance or refusal of the other conditions herein to follow. But

if he may so choose he shall be free to declare in writing to the

Executors within one week from the time of the Reading of the Will

his wish to accept or to withdraw altogether from the responsibility

of this Trust. In case of withdrawal he is to retain absolutely and

for his own use the above-mentioned sum of nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand pounds sterling free of all Duties Taxes and imposts

whatsoever making with the specific bequest of one thousand pounds a

clear sum of one million pounds sterling free of all imposts. And he

will from the moment of the delivery of such written withdrawal cease

to have any right or interest whatsoever in the further disposition

of my estate under this instrument. Should such written withdrawal

be received by my Executors they shall have possession of such

residue of my estate as shall remain after the payment of the above

sum of nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand pounds sterling and the

payment of all Duties Taxes assessments or Imposts as may be entailed

by law by its conveyance to the said Rupert Sent Leger and these my

Executors shall hold the same for the further disposal of it

according to the instructions given in the letter marked C and which

is also an integral part of my Last Will and Testament.

“2. If at or before the expiration of the six months above-mentioned

the said Rupert Sent Leger shall have accepted the further conditions

herein stated, he is to have user of the entire income produced by

such residue of my estate the said income being paid to him Quarterly

on the usual Quarter Days by the aforesaid Executors to wit Major

General Sir Colin Alexander MacKelpie Bart. and Edward Bingham Trent

to be used by him in accordance with the terms and conditions

hereinafter mentioned.

“3. The said Rupert Sent Leger is to reside for a period of at least

six months to begin not later than three months from the reading of

my Will in the Castle of Vissarion in the Land of the Blue Mountains.

And if he fulfil the Conditions imposed on him and shall thereby

become possessed of the residue of my estate he is to continue to

reside there in part for a period of one year. He is not to change

his British Nationality except by a formal consent of the Privy

Council of Great Britain.

“At the end of a year and a half from the Reading of my Will he is to

report in person to my Executors of the expenditure of amounts paid

or due by him in the carrying out of the Trust and if they are

satisfied that same are in general accord with the conditions named

in above-mentioned letter marked C and which is an integral part of

my Will they are to record their approval on such Will which can then

go for final Probate and Taxation. On the Completion of which the

said Rupert Sent Leger shall become possessed absolutely and without

further act or need of the entire residue of my estate. In witness

whereof, etc.

“(Signed) ROGER MELTON.”

This document is attested by the witnesses to the Will on the same

date.

(Personal and Confidential.)

MEMORANDA MADE BY EDWARD BINGHAM TRENT IN CONNECTION WITH THE WILL OF

ROGER MELTON.

January 3, 1907.

The interests and issues of all concerned in the Will and estate of

the late Roger Melton of Openshaw Grange are so vast that in case any

litigation should take place regarding the same, I, as the solicitor,

having the carriage of the testator’s wishes, think it well to make

certain memoranda of events, conversations, etc., not covered by

documentary evidence. I make the first memorandum immediately after

the event, whilst every detail of act and conversation is still fresh

in my mind. I shall also try to make such comments thereon as may

serve to refresh my memory hereafter, and which in case of my death

may perhaps afford as opinions contemporaneously recorded some

guiding light to other or others who may later on have to continue

and complete the tasks entrusted to me.

I.

CONCERNING THE READING OF THE WILL OF ROGER MELTON.

When, beginning at 11 o’clock a.m. on this the forenoon of Thursday,

the 3rd day of January, 1907, I opened the Will and read it in full,

except the clauses contained in the letters marked “B” and “C”; there

were present in addition to myself, the following:

1. Ernest Halbard Melton, J.P, nephew of the testator.

2. Ernest Roger Halbard Melton, son of the above.

3. Rupert Sent Leger, nephew of the testator.

4. Major-General Sir Colin Alexander MacKelpie, Bart., co-executor

with myself of the Will.

5. Andrew Rossiter, my clerk, one of the witnesses of the testator’s

Will.

6. Alfred Nugent, stenographer (of Messrs. Castle’s office, 21,

Bream’s Buildings, W.C.).

When the Will had been read, Mr. E. H. Melton asked the value of the

estate left by the testator, which query I did not feel empowered or

otherwise able to answer; and a further query, as to why those

present were not shown the secret clauses of the Will. I answered by

reading the instructions endorsed on the envelopes of the two letters

marked “B” and “C,” which were sufficiently explanatory.

But, lest any question should hereafter arise as to the fact that the

memoranda in letters marked “B” and “C,” which were to be read as

clauses 10 and 11 of the Will, I caused Rupert Sent Leger to open the

envelope marked “B” in the presence of all in the room. These all

signed a paper which I had already prepared, to the effect that they

had seen the envelope opened, and that the memorandum marked “B. To

be read as clause ten of my Will,” was contained in the envelope, of

which it was to be the sole contents. Mr. Ernest Halbard Melton,

J.P., before signing, carefully examined with a magnifying-glass, for

which he had asked, both the envelope and the heading of the

memorandum enclosed in the letter. He was about to turn the folded

paper which was lying on the table over, by which he might have been

able to read the matter of the memorandum had he so desired. I at

once advised him that the memorandum he was to sign dealt only with

the heading of the page, and not with the matter. He looked very

angry, but said nothing, and after a second scrutiny signed. I put

the memorandum in an envelope, which we all signed across the flap.

Before signing, Mr Ernest Halbard Melton took out the paper and

verified it. I then asked him to close it, which he did, and when

the sealing-wax was on it he sealed it with his own seal. Sir Colin

A. MacKelpie and I also appended our own seals. I put the envelope

in another, which I sealed with my own seal, and my co-executor and I

signed it across the flap and added the date. I took charge of this.

When the others present had taken their departure, my co-executor and

I, together with Mr. Rupert Sent Leger, who had remained at my

request, went into my private room.

Here Mr. Rupert Sent Leger read the memorandum marked “B,” which is

to be read as clause 10 of the Will. He is evidently a man of

considerable nerve, for his face was quite impassive as he read the

document, which conveyed to him (subject to the conditions laid down)

a fortune which has no equal in amount in Europe, even, so far as I

know, amongst the crowned heads. When he had read it over a second

time he stood up and said:

“I wish I had known my uncle better. He must have had the heart of a

king. I never heard of such generosity as he has shown me. Mr.

Trent, I see, from the conditions of this memorandum, or codicil, or

whatever it is, that I am to declare within a week as to whether I

accept the conditions imposed on me. Now, I want you to tell me

this: must I wait a week to declare?” In answer, I told him that

the testator’s intention was manifestly to see that he had full time

to consider fully every point before making formal decision and

declaration. But, in answer to the specific question, I could answer

that he might make declaration when he would, provided it was WITHIN,

or rather not after, the week named. I added:

“But I strongly advise you not to act hurriedly. So enormous a sum

is involved that you may be sure that all possible efforts will be

made by someone or other to dispossess you of your inheritance, and

it will be well that everything shall be done, not only in perfect

order, but with such manifest care and deliberation that there can be

no question as to your intention.”

“Thank you, sir,” he answered; “I shall do as you shall kindly advise

me in this as in other things. But I may tell you now—and you, too,

my dear Sir Colin—that I not only accept my Uncle Roger’s conditions

in this, but that when the time comes in the other matters I shall

accept every condition that he had in his mind—and that I may know

of—in everything.” He looked exceedingly in earnest, and it gave me

much pleasure to see and hear him. It was just what a young man

should do who had seen so generously treated. As the time had now

come, I gave him the bulky letter addressed to him, marked “D” which

I had in my safe. As I fulfilled my obligation in the matter, I

said:

“You need not read the letter here. You can take it away with you,

and read it by yourself at leisure. It is your own property, without

any obligation whatever attached to it. By the way, perhaps it would

be well if you knew. I have a copy sealed up in an envelope, and

endorsed, ‘To be opened if occasion should arise,’ but not otherwise.

Will you see me to-morrow, or, better still, dine with me alone here

to-night? I should like to have a talk with you, and you may wish to

ask me some questions.” He answered me cordially. I actually felt

touched by the way he said good-bye before he went away. Sir Colin

MacKelpie went with him, as Sent Leger was to drop him at the Reform.

Letter from Roger Melton to Rupert Sent Leger, endorsed “D. re Rupert

Sent Leger. To be given to him by Edward Bingham Trent if and as

soon as he has declared (formally or informally) his intention of

accepting the conditions named in Letter B., forming Clause 10 in my

Will. R. M., 1/1/‘07.

“Mem.—Copy (sealed) left in custody of E. B. Trent, to be opened if

necessary, as directed.”

June 11, 1906.

MY DEAR NEPHEW,

When (if ever) you receive this you will know that (with the

exception of some definite bequests) I have left to you, under

certain conditions, the entire bulk of my fortune—a fortune so great

that by its aid as a help, a man of courage and ability may carve out

for himself a name and place in history. The specific conditions

contained in Clause 10 of my Will have to be observed, for such I

deem to be of service to your own fortune; but herein I give my

advice, which you are at liberty to follow or not as you will, and my

wishes, which I shall try to explain fully and clearly, so that you

may be in possession of my views in case you should desire to carry

them out, or, at least, to so endeavour that the results I hope for

may be ultimately achieved. First let me explain—for your

understanding and your guidance—that the power, or perhaps it had

better be called the pressure, behind the accumulation of my fortune

has been ambition. In obedience to its compulsion, I toiled early

and late until I had so arranged matters that, subject to broad

supervision, my ideas could be carried out by men whom I had selected

and tested, and not found wanting. This was for years to the

satisfaction, and ultimately to the accumulation by these men of

fortune commensurate in some measure to their own worth and their

importance to my designs. Thus I had accumulated, whilst still a

young man, a considerable fortune. This I have for over forty years

used sparingly as regards my personal needs, daringly with regard to

speculative investments. With the latter I took such very great

care, studying the conditions surrounding them so thoroughly, that

even now my schedule of bad debts or unsuccessful investments is

almost a blank. Perhaps by such means things flourished with me, and

wealth piled in so fast that at times I could hardly use it to

advantage. This was all done as the forerunner of ambition, but I

was over fifty years of age when the horizon of ambition itself

opened up to me. I speak thus freely, my dear Rupert, as when you

read it I shall have passed away, and not ambition nor the fear of

misunderstanding, nor even of scorn can touch me. My ventures in

commerce and finance covered not only the Far East, but every foot of

the way to it, so that the Mediterranean and all its opening seas

were familiar to me. In my journeyings up and down the Adriatic I

was always struck by the great beauty and seeming richness—native

richness—of the Land of the Blue Mountains. At last Chance took me

into that delectable region. When the “Balkan Struggle” of ‘90 was

on, one of the great Voivodes came to me in secret to arrange a large

loan for national purposes. It was known in financial circles of

both Europe and Asia that I took an active part in the haute

politique of national treasuries, and the Voivode Vissarion came to

me as to one able and willing to carry out his wishes. After

confidential pour-parlers, he explained to me that his nation was in

the throes of a great crisis. As you perhaps know, the gallant

little Nation in the Land of the Blue Mountains has had a strange

history. For more than a thousand years—ever since its settlement

after the disaster of Rossoro—it had maintained its national

independence under several forms of Government. At first it had a

King whose successors became so despotic that they were dethroned.

Then it was governed by its Voivodes, with the combining influence of

a Vladika somewhat similar in power and function to the Prince-Bishops of Montenegro; afterwards by a Prince; or, as at present, by

an irregular elective Council, influenced in a modified form by the

Vladika, who was then supposed to exercise a purely spiritual

function. Such a Council in a small, poor nation did not have

sufficient funds for armaments, which were not immediately and

imperatively necessary; and therefore the Voivode Vissarion, who had

vast estates in his own possession, and who was the present

representative a family which of old had been leaders in the land,

found it a duty to do on his own account that which the State could

not do. For security as to the loan which he wished to get, and

which was indeed a vast one, he offered to sell me his whole estate

if I would secure to him a right to repurchase it within a given time

(a time which I may say has some time ago expired). He made it a

condition that the sale and agreement should remain a strict secret

between us, as a widespread knowledge that his estate had changed

hands would in all probability result in my death and his own at the

hands of the mountaineers, who are beyond everything loyal, and were

jealous to the last degree. An attack by Turkey was feared, and new

armaments were required; and the patriotic Voivode was sacrificing

his own great fortune for the public good. What a sacrifice this was

he well knew, for in all discussions regarding a possible change in

the Constitution of the Blue Mountains it was always taken for

granted that if the principles of the Constitution should change to a

more personal rule, his own family should be regarded as the Most

Noble. It had ever been on the side of freedom in olden time; before

the establishment of the Council, or even during the rule of the

Voivodes, the Vissarion had every now and again stood out against the

King or challenged the Princedom. The very name stood for freedom,

for nationality, against foreign oppression; and the bold

mountaineers were devoted to it, as in other free countries men

follow the flag.

Such loyalty was a power and a help in the land, for it knew danger

in every form; and anything which aided the cohesion of its integers

was a natural asset. On every side other powers, great and small,

pressed the land, anxious to acquire its suzerainty by any means—

fraud or force. Greece, Turkey, Austria, Russia, Italy, France, had

all tried in vain. Russia, often hurled back, was waiting an

opportunity to attack. Austria and Greece, although united by no

common purpose or design, were ready to throw in their forces with

whomsoever might seem most likely to be victor. Other Balkan States,

too, were not lacking in desire to add the little territory of the

Blue Mountains to their more ample possessions. Albania, Dalmatia,

Herzegovina, Servia, Bulgaria, looked with lustful eyes on the land,

which was in itself a vast natural fortress, having close under its

shelter perhaps the finest harbour between Gibraltar and the

Dardanelles.

But the fierce, hardy mountaineers were unconquerable. For centuries

they had fought, with a fervour and fury that nothing could withstand

or abate, attacks on their independence. Time after time, century

after century, they had opposed with dauntless front invading armies

sent against them. This unquenchable fire of freedom had had its

effect. One and all, the great Powers knew that to conquer that

little nation would be no mean task, but rather that of a tireless

giant. Over and over again had they fought with units against

hundreds, never ceasing until they had either wiped out their foes

entirely or seen them retreat across the frontier in diminished

numbers.

For many years past, however, the Land of the Blue Mountains had

remained unassailable, for all the Powers and States had feared lest

the others should unite against the one who should begin the attack.

At the time I speak of there was a feeling throughout the Blue

Mountains—and, indeed, elsewhere—that Turkey was preparing for a

war of offence. The objective of her attack was not known anywhere,

but here there was evidence that the Turkish “Bureau of Spies” was in

active exercise towards their sturdy little neighbour. To prepare

for this, the Voivode Peter Vissarion approached me in order to

obtain the necessary “sinews of war.”

The situation was complicated by the fact that the Elective Council

was at present largely held together by the old Greek Church, which

was the religion of the people, and which had had since the beginning

its destinies linked in a large degree with theirs. Thus it was

possible that if a war should break out, it might easily become—

whatever might have been its cause or beginnings—a war of creeds.

This in the Balkans must be largely one of races, the end of which no

mind could diagnose or even guess at.

I had now for some time had knowledge of the country and its people,

and had come to love them both. The nobility of Vissarion’s self-sacrifice at once appealed to me, and I felt that I, too, should like

to have a hand in the upholding of such a land and such a people.

They both deserved freedom. When Vissarion handed me the completed

deed of sale I was going to tear it up; but he somehow recognized my

intention, and forestalled it. He held up his hand arrestingly as he

said:

“I recognize your purpose, and, believe me, I honour you for it from

the very depths of my soul. But, my friend, it must not be. Our

mountaineers are proud beyond belief. Though they would allow me—

who am one of themselves, and whose fathers have been in some way

leaders and spokesmen amongst them for many centuries—to do all that

is in my power to do—and what, each and all, they would be glad to

do were the call to them—they would not accept aid from one outside

themselves. My good friend, they would resent it, and might show to

you, who wish us all so well, active hostility, which might end in

danger, or even death. That was why, my friend, I asked to put a

clause in our agreement, that I might have right to repurchase my

estate, regarding which you would fain act so generously.”

Thus it is, my dear nephew Rupert, only son of my dear sister, that I

hereby charge you solemnly as you value me—as you value yourself—as

you value honour, that, should it ever become known that that noble

Voivode, Peter Vissarion, imperilled himself for his country’s good,

and if it be of danger or evil repute to him that even for such a

purpose he sold his heritage, you shall at once and to the knowledge

of the mountaineers—though not necessarily to others—reconvey to

him or his heirs the freehold that he was willing to part with—and

that he has de facto parted with by the effluxion of the time during

which his right of repurchase existed. This is a secret trust and

duty which is between thee and me alone in the first instance; a duty

which I have undertaken on behalf of my heirs, and which must be

carried out, at whatsoever cost may ensue. You must not take it that

it is from any mistrust of you or belief that you will fail that I

have taken another measure to insure that this my cherished idea is

borne out. Indeed, it is that the law may, in case of need—for no

man can know what may happen after his own hand be taken from the

plough—be complied with, that I have in another letter written for

the guidance of others, directed that in case of any failure to carry

out this trust—death or other—the direction become a clause or

codicil to my Will. But in the meantime I wish that this be kept a

secret between us two. To show you the full extent of my confidence,

let me here tell you that the letter alluded to above is marked “C,”

and directed to my solicitor and co-executor, Edward Bingham Trent,

which is finally to be regarded as clause eleven of my Will. To

which end he has my instructions and also a copy of this letter,

which is, in case of need, and that only, to be opened, and is to be

a guide to my wishes as to the carrying out by you of the conditions

on which you inherit.

And now, my dear nephew, let me change to another subject more dear

to me—yourself. When you read this I shall have passed away, so

that I need not be hampered now by that reserve which I feel has

grown upon me through a long and self-contained life. Your mother

was very dear to me. As you know, she was twenty years younger than

her youngest brother, who was two years younger than me. So we were

all young men when she was a baby, and, I need not say, a pet amongst

us—almost like our own child to each of us, as well as our sister.

You knew her sweetness and high quality, so I need say nothing of

these; but I should like you to understand that she was very dear to

me. When she and your father came to know and love each other I was

far away, opening up a new branch of business in the interior of

China, and it was not for several months that I got home news. When

I first heard of him they had already been married. I was delighted

to find that they were very happy. They needed nothing that I could

give. When he died so suddenly I tried to comfort her, and all I had

was at her disposal, did she want it. She was a proud woman—though

not with me. She had come to understand that, though I seemed cold

and hard (and perhaps was so generally), I was not so to her. But

she would not have help of any kind. When I pressed her, she told me

that she had enough for your keep and education and her own

sustenance for the time she must still live; that your father and she

had agreed that you should be brought up to a healthy and strenuous

life rather than to one of luxury; and she thought that it would be

better for the development of your character that you should learn to

be self-reliant and to be content with what your dear father had left

you. She had always been a wise and thoughtful girl, and now all her

wisdom and thought were for you, your father’s and her child. When

she spoke of you and your future, she said many things which I

thought memorable. One of them I remember to this day. It was

apropos of my saying that there is a danger of its own kind in

extreme poverty. A young man might know too much want. She answered

me: “True! That is so! But there is a danger that overrides it;”

and after a time went on:

“It is better not to know wants than not to know want!” I tell you,

boy, that is a great truth, and I hope you will remember it for

yourself as well as a part of the wisdom of your mother. And here

let me say something else which is a sort of corollary of that wise

utterance:

I dare say you thought me very hard and unsympathetic that time I

would not, as one of your trustees, agree to your transferring your

little fortune to Miss MacKelpie. I dare say you bear a grudge

towards me about it up to this day. Well, if you have any of that

remaining, put it aside when you know the truth. That request of

yours was an unspeakable delight to me. It was like your mother

coming back from the dead. That little letter of yours made me wish

for the first time that I had a son—and that he should be like you.

I fell into a sort of reverie, thinking if I were yet too old to

marry, so that a son might be with me in my declining years—if such

were to ever be for me. But I concluded that this might not be.

There was no woman whom I knew or had ever met with that I could love

as your mother loved your father and as he loved her. So I resigned

myself to my fate. I must go my lonely road on to the end. And then

came a ray of light into my darkness: there was you. Though you

might not feel like a son to me—I could not expect it when the

memory of that sweet relationship was more worthily filled. But I

could feel like a father to you. Nothing could prevent that or

interfere with it, for I would keep it as my secret in the very holy

of holies of my heart, where had been for thirty years the image of a

sweet little child—your mother. My boy, when in your future life

you shall have happiness and honour and power, I hope you will

sometimes give a thought to the lonely old man whose later years your

very existence seemed to brighten.

The thought of your mother recalled me to my duty. I had undertaken

for her a sacred task: to carry out her wishes regarding her son. I

knew how she would have acted. It might—would—have been to her a

struggle of inclination and duty; and duty would have won. And so I

carried out my duty, though I tell you it was a harsh and bitter task

to me at the time. But I may tell you that I have since been glad

when I think of the result. I tried, as you may perhaps remember, to

carry out your wishes in another way, but your letter put the

difficulty of doing so so clearly before me that I had to give it up.

And let me tell you that that letter endeared you to me more than

ever.

I need not tell you that thenceforth I followed your life very

closely. When you ran away to sea, I used in secret every part of

the mechanism of commerce to find out what had become of you. Then,

until you had reached your majority, I had a constant watch kept upon

you—not to interfere with you in any way, but so that I might be

able to find you should need arise. When in due course I heard of

your first act on coming of age I was satisfied. I had to know of

the carrying out of your original intention towards Janet Mac Kelpie,

for the securities had to be transferred.

From that time on I watched—of course through other eyes—your chief

doings. It would have been a pleasure to me to have been able to

help in carrying out any hope or ambition of yours, but I realized

that in the years intervening between your coming of age and the

present moment you were fulfilling your ideas and ambitions in your

own way, and, as I shall try to explain to you presently, my

ambitions also. You were of so adventurous a nature that even my own

widely-spread machinery of acquiring information—what I may call my

private “intelligence department”—was inadequate. My machinery was

fairly adequate for the East—in great part, at all events. But you

went North and South, and West also, and, in addition, you essayed

realms where commerce and purely real affairs have no foothold—

worlds of thought, of spiritual import, of psychic phenomena—

speaking generally, of mysteries. As now and again I was baffled in

my inquiries, I had to enlarge my mechanism, and to this end started-

-not in my own name, of course—some new magazines devoted to certain

branches of inquiry and adventure. Should you ever care to know more

of these things, Mr. Trent, in whose name the stock is left, will be

delighted to give you all details. Indeed, these stocks, like all

else I have, shall be yours when the time comes, if you care to ask

for them. By means of The Journal of Adventure, The Magazine of

Mystery, Occultism, Balloon and Aeroplane, The Submarine, Jungle and

Pampas, The Ghost World, The Explorer, Forest and Island, Ocean and

Creek, I was often kept informed when I should otherwise have been

ignorant of your whereabouts and designs. For instance, when you had

disappeared into the Forest of the Incas, I got the first whisper of

your strange adventures and discoveries in the buried cities of

Eudori from a correspondent of The Journal of Adventure long before

the details given in The Times of the rock-temple of the primeval

savages, where only remained the little dragon serpents, whose giant

ancestors were rudely sculptured on the sacrificial altar. I well

remember how I thrilled at even that meagre account of your going in

alone into that veritable hell. It was from Occultism that I learned

how you had made a stay alone in the haunted catacombs of Elora, in

the far recesses of the Himalayas, and of the fearful experiences

which, when you came out shuddering and ghastly, overcame to almost

epileptic fear those who had banded themselves together to go as far

as the rock-cut approach to the hidden temple.

All such things I read with rejoicing. You were shaping yourself for

a wider and loftier adventure, which would crown more worthily your

matured manhood. When I read of you in a description of Mihask, in

Madagascar, and the devil-worship there rarely held, I felt I had

only to wait for your home-coming in order to broach the enterprise I

had so long contemplated. This was what I read:

“He is a man to whom no adventure is too wild or too daring. His

reckless bravery is a byword amongst many savage peoples and amongst

many others not savages, whose fears are not of material things, but

of the world of mysteries in and beyond the grave. He dares not only

wild animals and savage men; but has tackled African magic and Indian

mysticism. The Psychical Research Society has long exploited his

deeds of valiance, and looked upon him as perhaps their most trusted

agent or source of discovery. He is in the very prime of life, of

almost giant stature and strength, trained to the use of all arms of

all countries, inured to every kind of hardship, subtle-minded and

resourceful, understanding human nature from its elemental form up.

To say that he is fearless would be inadequate. In a word, he is a

man whose strength and daring fit him for any enterprise of any kind.

He would dare and do anything in the world or out of it, on the earth

or under it, in the sea or—in the air, fearing nothing material or

unseen, not man or ghost, nor God nor Devil.”

If you ever care to think of it, I carried that cutting in my pocket-book from that hour I read it till now.

Remember, again, I say, that I never interfered in the slightest way

in any of your adventures. I wanted you to “dree your own weird,” as

the Scotch say; and I wanted to know of it—that was all. Now, as I

hold you fully equipped for greater enterprise, I want to set your

feet on the road and to provide you with the most potent weapon—

beyond personal qualities—for the winning of great honour—a gain,

my dear nephew, which, I am right sure, does and will appeal to you

as it has ever done to me. I have worked for it for more than fifty

years; but now that the time has come when the torch is slipping from

my old hands, I look to you, my dearest kinsman, to lift it and carry

it on.

The little nation of the Blue Mountains has from the first appealed

to me. It is poor and proud and brave. Its people are well worth

winning, and I would advise you to throw in your lot with them. You

may find them hard to win, for when peoples, like individuals, are

poor and proud, these qualities are apt to react on each other to an

endless degree. These men are untamable, and no one can ever succeed

with them unless he is with them in all-in-all, and is a leader

recognized. But if you can win them they are loyal to death. If you

are ambitious—and I know you are—there may be a field for you in

such a country. With your qualifications, fortified by the fortune

which I am happy enough to be able to leave you, you may dare much

and go far. Should I be alive when you return from your exploration

in Northern South America, I may have the happiness of helping you to

this or any other ambition, and I shall deem it a privilege to share

it with you; but time is going on. I am in my seventy-second year .

. . the years of man are three-score and ten—I suppose you

understand; I do … Let me point out this: For ambitious projects

the great nationalities are impossible to a stranger—and in our own

we are limited by loyalty (and common-sense). It is only in a small

nation that great ambitions can be achieved. If you share my own

views and wishes, the Blue .Mountains is your ground. I hoped at one

time that I might yet become a Voivode—even a great one. But age

has dulled my personal ambitions as it has cramped my powers. I no

longer dream of such honour for myself, though I do look on it as a

possibility for you if you care for it. Through my Will you will

have a great position and a great estate, and though you may have to

yield up the latter in accordance with my wish, as already expressed

in this letter, the very doing so will give you an even greater hold

than this possession in the hearts of the mountaineers, should they

ever come to know it. Should it be that at the time you inherit from

me the Voivode Vissarion should not be alive, it may serve or aid you

to know that in such case you would be absolved from any conditions

of mine, though I trust you would in that, as in all other matters,

hold obligation enforced by your own honour as to my wishes.

Therefore the matter stands thus: If Vissarion lives, you will

relinquish the estates. Should such not be the case, you will act as

you believe that I would wish you to. In either case the

mountaineers should not know from you in any way of the secret

contracts between Vissarion and myself. Enlightenment of the many

should (if ever) come from others than yourself. And unless such

take place, you would leave the estates without any quid pro quo

whatever. This you need not mind, for the fortune you will inherit

will leave you free and able to purchase other estates in the Blue

Mountains or elsewhere that you may select in the world.

If others attack, attack them, and quicker and harder than they can,

if such be a possibility. Should it ever be that you inherit the

Castle of Vissarion on the Spear of Ivan, remember that I had it

secretly fortified and armed against attack. There are not only

massive grilles, but doors of chilled bronze where such be needed.

My adherent Rooke, who has faithfully served me for nearly forty

years, and has gone on my behalf on many perilous expeditions, will,

I trust, serve you in the same way. Treat him well for my sake, if

not for your own. I have left him provision for a life of ease; but

he would rather take a part in dangerous enterprises. He is silent

as the grave and as bold as a lion. He knows every detail of the

fortification and of the secret means of defence. A word in your

ear—he was once a pirate. He was then in his extreme youth, and

long since changed his ways in this respect; but from this fact you

can understand his nature. You will find him useful should occasion

ever arise. Should you accept the conditions of my letter, you are

to make the Blue Mountains—in part, at least—your home, living

there a part of the year, if only for a week, as in England men of

many estates share the time amongst them. To this you are not bound,

and no one shall have power to compel you or interfere with you. I

only express a hope. But one thing I do more than hope—I desire, if

you will honour my wishes, that, come what may, you are to keep your

British nationality, unless by special arrangement with and consent

of the Privy Council. Such arrangement to be formally made by my

friend, Edward Bingham Trent, or whomsoever he may appoint by deed or

will to act in the matter, and made in such a way that no act save

that alone of Parliament in all its estates, and endorsed by the

King, may or can prevail against it.

My last word to you is, Be bold and honest, and fear not. Most

things—even kingship—SOMEWHERE may now and again be won by the

sword. A brave heart and a strong arm may go far. But whatever is

so won cannot be held merely by the sword. Justice alone can hold in

the long run. Where men trust they will follow, and the rank and

file of people want to follow, not to lead. If it be your fortune to

lead, be bold. Be wary, if you will; exercise any other faculties

that may aid or guard. Shrink from nothing. Avoid nothing that is

honourable in itself. Take responsibility when such presents itself.

What others shrink from, accept. That is to be great in what world,

little or big, you move. Fear nothing, no matter of what kind danger

may be or whence it come. The only real way to meet danger is to

despise it—except with your brains. Meet it in the gate, not the

hall.

My kinsman, the name of my race and your own, worthily mingled in

your own person, now rests with you!

Letter from Rupert Sent Leger, 32 Bodmin Street, Victoria, S.W., to

Miss Janet MacKelpie, Croom, Ross-shire.

January 3, 1907.

MY DEAREST AUNT JANET,

You will, I know, be rejoiced to hear of the great good-fortune which

has come to me through the Will of Uncle Roger. Perhaps Sir Colin

will have written to you, as he is one of the executors, and there is

a bequest to you, so I must not spoil his pleasure of telling you of

that part himself. Unfortunately, I am not free to speak fully of my

own legacy yet, but I want you to know that at worst I am to receive

an amount many times more than I ever dreamt of possessing through

any possible stroke of fortune. So soon as I can leave London—

where, of course, I must remain until things are settled—I am coming

up to Croom to see you, and I hope I shall by then be able to let you

know so much that you will be able to guess at the extraordinary

change that has come to my circumstances. It is all like an

impossible dream: there is nothing like it in the “Arabian Nights.”

However, the details must wait, I am pledged to secrecy for the

present. And you must be pledged too. You won’t mind, dear, will

you? What I want to do at present is merely to tell you of my own

good-fortune, and that I shall be going presently to live for a while

at Vissarion. Won’t you come with me, Aunt Janet? We shall talk

more of this when I come to Croom; but I want you to keep the subject

in your mind.

Your loving

RUPERT.

From Rupert Sent Leger’s Journal.

January 4, 1907.

Things have been humming about me so fast that I have had hardly time

to think. But some of the things have been so important, and have so

changed my entire outlook on life, that it may be well to keep some

personal record of them. I may some day want to remember some

detail—perhaps the sequence of events, or something like that—and

it may be useful. It ought to be, if there is any justice in things,

for it will be an awful swot to write it when I have so many things

to think of now. Aunt Janet, I suppose, will like to keep it locked

up for me, as she does with all my journals and papers. That is one

good thing about Aunt Janet amongst many: she has no curiosity, or

else she has some other quality which keeps her from prying as other

women would. It would seem that she has not so much as opened the

cover of one of my journals ever in her life, and that she would not

without my permission. So this can in time go to her also.

I dined last night with Mr. Trent, by his special desire. The dinner

was in his own rooms. Dinner sent in from the hotel. He would not

have any waiters at all, but made them send in the dinner all at

once, and we helped ourselves. As we were quite alone, we could talk

freely, and we got over a lot of ground while we were dining. He

began to tell me about Uncle Roger. I was glad of that, for, of

course, I wanted to know all I could of him, and the fact was I had

seen very little of him. Of course, when I was a small kid he was

often in our house, for he was very fond of mother, and she of him.

But I fancy that a small boy was rather a nuisance to him. And then

I was at school, and he was away in the East. And then poor mother

died while he was living in the Blue Mountains, and I never saw him

again. When I wrote to him about Aunt Janet he answered me very

kindly but he was so very just in the matter that I got afraid of

him. And after that I ran away, and have been roaming ever since; so

there was never a chance of our meeting. But that letter of his has

opened my eyes. To think of him following me that way all over the

world, waiting to hold out a helping hand if I should want it, I only

wish I had known, or even suspected, the sort of man he was, and how

he cared for me, and I would sometimes have come back to see him, if

I had to come half round the world. Well, all I can do now is to

carry out his wishes; that will be my expiation for my neglect. He

knew what he wanted exactly, and I suppose I shall come in time to

know it all and understand it, too.

I was thinking something like this when Mr. Trent began to talk, so

that all he said fitted exactly into my own thought. The two men

were evidently great friends—I should have gathered that, anyhow,

from the Will—and the letters—so I was not surprised when Mr. Trent

told me that they had been to school together, Uncle Roger being a

senior when he was a junior; and had then and ever after shared each

other’s confidence. Mr. Trent, I gathered, had from the very first

been in love with my mother, even when she was a little girl; but he

was poor and shy, and did not like to speak. When he had made up his

mind to do so, he found that she had by then met my father, and could

not help seeing that they loved each other. So he was silent. He

told me he had never said a word about it to anyone—not even to my

Uncle Roger, though he knew from one thing and another, though he

never spoke of it, that he would like it. I could not help seeing

that the dear old man regarded me in a sort of parental way—I have

heard of such romantic attachments being transferred to the later

generation. I was not displeased with it; on the contrary, I liked

him better for it. I love my mother so much—I always think of her

in the present—that I cannot think of her as dead. There is a tie

between anyone else who loved her and myself. I tried to let Mr.

Trent see that I liked him, and it pleased him so much that I could

see his liking for me growing greater. Before we parted he told me

that he was going to give up business. He must have understood how

disappointed I was—for how could I ever get along at all without

him?—for he said, as he laid a hand quite affectionately, I thought-

-on my shoulder:

“I shall have one client, though, whose business I always hope to

keep, and for whom I shall be always whilst I live glad to act—if he

will have me.” I did not care to speak as I took his hand. He

squeezed mine, too, and said very earnestly:

“I served your uncle’s interests to the very best of my ability for

nearly fifty years. He had full confidence in me, and I was proud of

his trust. I can honestly say, Rupert—you won’t mind me using that

familiarity, will you?—that, though the interests which I guarded

were so vast that without abusing my trust I could often have used my

knowledge to my personal advantage, I never once, in little matters

or big, abused that trust—no, not even rubbed the bloom off it. And

now that he has remembered me in his Will so generously that I need

work no more, it will be a very genuine pleasure and pride to me to

carry out as well as I can the wishes that I partly knew, and now

realize more fully towards you, his nephew.”

In the long chat which we had, and which lasted till midnight, he

told me many very interesting things about Uncle Roger. When, in the

course of conversation, he mentioned that the fortune Uncle Roger

left must be well over a hundred millions, I was so surprised that I

said out loud—I did not mean to ask a question:

“How on earth could a man beginning with nothing realize such a

gigantic fortune?”

“By all honest ways,” he answered, “and his clever human insight. He

knew one half of the world, and so kept abreast of all public and

national movements that he knew the critical moment to advance money

required. He was always generous, and always on the side of freedom.

There are nations at this moment only now entering on the

consolidation of their liberty, who owe all to him, who knew when and

how to help. No wonder that in some lands they will drink to his

memory on great occasions as they used to drink his health.”

“As you and I shall do now, sir!” I said, as I filled my glass and

stood up. We drank it in bumpers. We did not say a word, either of

us; but the old gentleman held out his hand, and I took it. And so,

holding hands, we drank in silence. It made me feel quite choky; and

I could see that he, too, was moved.

From E. B. Trent’s Memoranda.

January 4, 1907.

I asked Mr. Rupert Sent Leger to dine with me at my office alone, as

I wished to have a chat with him. To-morrow Sir Colin and I will

have a formal meeting with him for the settlement of affairs, but I

thought it best to have an informal talk with him alone first, as I

wished to tell him certain matters which will make our meeting to-morrow more productive of utility, as he can now have more full

understanding of the subjects which we have to discuss. Sir Colin is

all that can be in manhood, and I could wish no better colleague in

the executorship of this phenomenal Will; but he has not had the

privilege of a lifelong friendship with the testator as I have had.

And as Rupert Sent Leger had to learn intimate details regarding his

uncle, I could best make my confidences alone. To-morrow we shall

have plenty of formality. I was delighted with Rupert. He is just

what I could have wished his mother’s boy to be—or a son of my own

to be, had I had the good-fortune to have been a father. But this is

not for me. I remember long, long ago reading a passage in Lamb’s

Essays which hangs in my mind: “The children of Alice call Bartrum

father.” Some of my old friends would laugh to see ME write this,

but these memoranda are for my eyes alone, and no one shall see them

till after my death, unless by my own permission. The boy takes some

qualities after his father; he has a daring that is disturbing to an

old dryasdust lawyer like me. But somehow I like him more than I

ever liked anyone—any man—in my life—more even than his uncle, my

old friend, Roger Melton; and Lord knows I had much cause to like

him. I have more than ever now. It was quite delightful to see the

way the young adventurer was touched by his uncle’s thought of him.

He is a truly gallant fellow, but venturesome exploits have not

affected the goodness of heart. It is a pleasure to me to think that

Roger and Colin came together apropos of the boy’s thoughtful

generosity towards Miss MacKelpie. The old soldier will be a good

friend to him, or I am much mistaken. With an old lawyer like me,

and an old soldier like him, and a real old gentlewoman like Miss

MacKelpie, who loves the very ground he walks on, to look after him,

together with all his own fine qualities and his marvellous

experience of the world, and the gigantic wealth that will surely be

his, that young man will go far.

Letter from Rupert Sent Leger to Miss Janet MacKelpie, Croom.

January 5, 1907.

MY DEAREST AUNT JANET,

It is all over—the first stage of it; and that is as far as I can

get at present. I shall have to wait for a few days—or it may be

weeks—in London for the doing of certain things now necessitated by

my acceptance of Uncle Roger’s bequest. But as soon as I can, dear,

I shall come down to Croom and spend with you as many days as

possible. I shall then tell you all I am at liberty to tell, and I

shall thank you personally for your consent to come with me to

Vissarion. Oh, how I wish my dear mother had lived to be with us!

It would have made her happy, I know, to have come; and then we three

who shared together the old dear, hard days would have shared in the

same way the new splendour. I would try to show all my love and

gratitude to you both … You must take the whole burden of it now,

dear, for you and I are alone. No, not alone, as we used to be, for

I have now two old friends who are already dear to me. One is so to

you already. Sir Colin is simply splendid, and so, in his own way,

is Mr. Trent. I am lucky, Aunt Janet, to have two such men to think

of affairs for me. Am I not? I shall send you a wire as soon as

ever I can see my way to get through my work; and I want you to think

over all the things you ever wished for in your life, so that I may—

if there is any mortal way of doing so—get them for you. You will

not stand in the way of my having this great pleasure, will you,

dear? Good-bye.

Your loving

RUPERT.

E. B. Trent’s Memoranda.

January 6, 1907.

The formal meeting of Sir Colin and myself with Rupert Sent Leger

went off quite satisfactorily. From what he had said yesterday, and

again last night, I had almost come to expect an unreserved

acceptance of everything stated or implied in Roger Melton’s Will;

but when we had sat round the table—this appeared, by the way, to be

a formality for which we were all prepared, for we sat down as if by

instinct—the very first words he said were:

“As I suppose I must go through this formality, I may as well say at

once that I accept every possible condition which was in the mind of

Uncle Roger; and to this end I am prepared to sign, seal, and

deliver—or whatever is the ritual—whatever document you, sir”—

turning to me—“may think necessary or advisable, and of which you

both approve.” He stood up and walked about the room for a few

moments, Sir Colin and I sitting quite still, silent. He came back

to his seat, and after a few seconds of nervousness—a rare thing

with him, I fancy—said: “I hope you both understand—of course, I

know you do; I only speak because this is an occasion for formality—

that I am willing to accept, and at once! I do so, believe me, not

to get possession of this vast fortune, but because of him who has

given it. The man who was fond of me, and who trusted me, and yet

had strength to keep his own feelings in check—who followed me in

spirit to far lands and desperate adventures, and who, though he

might be across the world from me, was ready to put out a hand to

save or help me, was no common man; and his care of my mother’s son

meant no common love for my dear mother. And so she and I together

accept his trust, come of it what may. I have been thinking it over

all night, and all the time I could not get out of the idea that

mother was somewhere near me. The only thought that could debar me

from doing as I wished to do—and intend to do—would be that she

would not approve. Now that I am satisfied she would approve, I

accept. Whatever may result or happen, I shall go on following the

course that he has set for me. So help me, God!” Sir Colin stood

up, and I must say a more martial figure I never saw. He was in full

uniform, for he was going on to the King’s levee after our business.

He drew his sword from the scabbard and laid it naked on the table

before Rupert, and said:

“You are going, sir, into a strange and danger country—I have been

reading about it since we met—and you will be largely alone amongst

fierce mountaineers who resent the very presence of a stranger, and

to whom you are, and must be, one. If you should ever be in any

trouble and want a man to stand back to back with you, I hope you

will give me the honour!” As he said this pointed to his sword.

Rupert and I were also standing now—one cannot sit down in the

presence of such an act as that. “You are, I am proud to say, allied

with my family: and I only wish to God it was closer to myself.”

Rupert took him by the hand and bent his head before him as answered:

“The honour is mine, Sir Colin; and no greater can come to any man

than that which you have just done me. The best way I can show how I

value it will be to call on you if I am ever in such a tight place.

By Jove, sir, this is history repeating itself. Aunt Janet used to

tell me when I was a youngster how MacKelpie of Croom laid his sword

before Prince Charlie. I hope I may tell her of this; it would make

her so proud and happy. Don’t imagine, sir, that I am thinking

myself a Charles Edward. It is only that Aunt Janet is so good to me

that I might well think I was.”

Sir Colin bowed grandly:

“Rupert Sent Leger, my dear niece is a woman of great discretion and

discernment. And, moreover, I am thinking she has in her some of the

gift of Second Sight that has been a heritage of our blood. And I am

one with my niece—in everything!” The whole thing was quite regal

in manner; it seemed to take me back to the days of the Pretender.

It was not, however, a time for sentiment, but for action—we had met

regarding the future, not the past; so I produced the short document

I had already prepared. On the strength of his steadfast declaration

that he would accept the terms of the Will and the secret letters, I

had got ready a formal acceptance. When I had once again formally

asked Mr. Sent Leger’s wishes, and he had declared his wish to

accept, I got in a couple of my clerks as witnesses.

Then, having again asked him in their presence if it was his wish to

declare acceptance of the conditions, the document was signed and

witnessed, Sir Colin and I both appending our signatures to the

Attestation.

And so the first stage of Rupert Sent Leger’s inheritance is

completed. The next step will not have to be undertaken on my part

until the expiration of six months from his entry on his estate at

Vissarion. As he announces his intention of going within a

fortnight, this will mean practically a little over six months from

now.

BOOK II: VISSARION

Letter from Rupert Sent Leger, Castle of Vissarion, the Spear of

Ivan, Land of the Blue Mountains, to Miss Janet MacKelpie, Croom

Castle, Ross-shire, N.B.

January 23, 1907.

MY DEAREST AUNT JANET,

As you see, I am here at last. Having got my formal duty done, as

you made me promise—my letters reporting arrival to Sir Colin and

Mr. Trent are lying sealed in front of me ready to post (for nothing

shall go before yours)—I am free to speak to you.

This is a most lovely place, and I hope you will like it. I am quite

sure you will. We passed it in the steamer coming from Trieste to

Durazzo. I knew the locality from the chart, and it was pointed out

to me by one of the officers with whom I had become quite friendly,

and who kindly showed me interesting places whenever we got within

sight of shore. The Spear of Ivan, on which the Castle stands, is a

headland running well out into the sea. It is quite a peculiar

place—a sort of headland on a headland, jutting out into a deep,

wide bay, so that, though it is a promontory, it is as far away from

the traffic of coast life as anything you can conceive. The main

promontory is the end of a range of mountains, and looms up vast,

towering over everything, a mass of sapphire blue. I can well

understand how the country came to be called the “Land of the Blue

Mountains,” for it is all mountains, and they are all blue! The

coast-line is magnificent—what is called “iron-bound”—being all

rocky; sometimes great frowning precipices; sometimes jutting spurs

of rock; again little rocky islets, now and again clad with trees and

verdure, at other places stark and bare. Elsewhere are little rocky

bays and indentations—always rock, and often with long, interesting

caves. Some of the shores of the bays are sandy, or else ridges of

beautiful pebbles, where the waves make endless murmur.

But of all the places I have seen—in this land or any other—the

most absolutely beautiful is Vissarion. It stands at the ultimate

point of the promontory—I mean the little, or, rather, lesser

promontory—that continues on the spur of the mountain range. For

the lesser promontory or extension of the mountain is in reality

vast; the lowest bit of cliff along the sea-front is not less than a

couple of hundred feet high. That point of rock is really very

peculiar. I think Dame Nature must, in the early days of her

housekeeping—or, rather, house-BUILDING—have intended to give her

little child, man, a rudimentary lesson in self-protection. It is

just a natural bastion such as a titanic Vauban might have designed

in primeval times. So far as the Castle is concerned, it is alone

visible from the sea. Any enemy approaching could see only that

frowning wall of black rock, of vast height and perpendicular

steepness. Even the old fortifications which crown it are not built,

but cut in the solid rock. A long narrow creek of very deep water,

walled in by high, steep cliffs, runs in behind the Castle, bending

north and west, making safe and secret anchorage. Into the creek

falls over a precipice a mountain-stream, which never fails in volume

of water. On the western shore of that creek is the Castle, a huge

pile of buildings of every style of architecture, from the Twelfth

century to where such things seemed to stop in this dear old-world

land—about the time of Queen Elizabeth. So it is pretty

picturesque. I can tell you. When we got the first glimpse of the

place from the steamer the officer, with whom I was on the bridge,

pointed towards it and said:

“That is where we saw the dead woman floating in a coffin.” That was

rather interesting, so I asked him all about it. He took from his

pocket-book a cutting from an Italian paper, which he handed to me.

As I can read and speak Italian fairly well, it was all right; but as

you, my dear Aunt Janet, are not skilled in languages, and as I doubt

if there is any assistance of the kind to be had at Croom, I do not

send it. But as I have heard that the item has been produced in the

last number of The Journal of Occultism, you will be easily able to

get it. As he handed me the cutting he said: “I am Destilia!” His

story was so strange that I asked him a good many questions about it.

He answered me quite frankly on every point, but always adhering

stoutly to the main point—namely, that it was no phantom or mirage,

no dream or imperfect vision in a fog. “We were four in all who saw

it,” he said—“three from the bridge and the Englishman, Caulfield—

from the bows—whose account exactly agreed with what we saw.

Captain Mirolani and Falamano and I were all awake and in good trim.

We looked with our night-glasses, which are more than usually

powerful. You know, we need good glasses for the east shore of the

Adriatic and for among the islands to the south. There was a full

moon and a brilliant light. Of course we were a little way off, for

though the Spear of Ivan is in deep water, one has to be careful of

currents, for it is in just such places that the dangerous currents

run.” The agent of Lloyd’s told me only a few weeks ago that it was

only after a prolonged investigation of the tidal and sea currents

that the house decided to except from ordinary sea risks losses due

to a too close course by the Spear of Ivan. When I tried to get a

little more definite account of the coffin-boat and the dead lady

that is given in The Journal of Occultism he simply shrugged his

shoulders. “Signor, it is all,” he said. “That Englishman wrote

everything after endless questioning.”

So you see, my dear, that our new home is not without superstitious

interests of its own. It is rather a nice idea, is it not, to have a

dead woman cruising round our promontory in a coffin? I doubt if

even at Croom you can beat that. “Makes the place kind of homey,” as

an American would say. When you come, Aunt Janet, you will not feel

lonesome, at any rate, and it will save us the trouble of importing

some of your Highland ghosts to make you feel at home in the new

land. I don’t know, but we might ask the stiff to come to tea with

us. Of course, it would be a late tea. Somewhere between midnight

and cock-crow would be about the etiquette of the thing, I fancy!

But I must tell you all the realities of the Castle and around it.

So I will write again within a day or two, and try to let you know

enough to prepare you for coming here. Till then adieu, my dear.

Your loving

RUPERT.

From Rupert Sent Leger, Vissarion, to Janet MacKelpie,

Croom.

January 25, 1907.

I hope I did not frighten you, dear Aunt Janet, by the yarn of the

lady in the coffin. But I know you are not afraid; you have told me

too many weird stories for me to dread that. Besides, you have

Second Sight—latent, at all events. However, there won’t be any

more ghosts, or about ghosts, in this letter. I want to tell you all

about our new home. I am so glad you are coming out so soon; I am

beginning to feel so lonesome—I walk about sometimes aimlessly, and

find my thoughts drifting in such an odd way. If I didn’t know

better, I might begin to think I was in love! There is no one here

to be in love with; so make your mind easy, Aunt Janet. Not that you

would be unhappy, I know, dear, if I DID fall in love. I suppose I

must marry some day. It is a duty now, I know, when there is such an

estate as Uncle Roger has left me. And I know this: I shall never

marry any woman unless I love her. And I am right sure that if I do

love her you will love her, too, Aunt Janet! Won’t you, dear? It

wouldn’t be half a delight if you didn’t. It won’t if you don’t.

There, now!

But before I begin to describe Vissarion I shall throw a sop to you

as a chatelaine; that may give you patience to read the rest. The

Castle needs a lot of things to make it comfortable—as you would

consider it. In fact, it is absolutely destitute of everything of a

domestic nature. Uncle Roger had it vetted on the defence side, and

so far it could stand a siege. But it couldn’t cook a dinner or go

through a spring-cleaning! As you know, I am not much up in domestic

matters, and so I cannot give you details; but you may take it that

it wants everything. I don’t mean furniture, or silver, or even

gold-plate, or works of art, for it is full of the most magnificent

old things that you can imagine. I think Uncle Roger must have been

a collector, and gathered a lot of good things in all sorts of

places, stored them for years, and then sent them here. But as to

glass, china, delft, all sorts of crockery, linen, household

appliances and machinery, cooking utensils—except of the simplest—

there are none. I don’t think Uncle Roger could have lived here more

than on a temporary picnic. So far as I only am concerned, I am all

right; a gridiron and a saucepan are all I want—and I can use them

myself. But, dear Aunt Janet, I don’t want you to pig it. I would

like you to have everything you can imagine, and all of the very

best. Cost doesn’t count now for us, thanks to Uncle Roger; and so I

want you to order all. I know you, dear—being a woman—won’t object

to shopping. But it will have to be wholesale. This is an enormous

place, and will swallow up all you can buy—like a quicksand. Do as

you like about choosing, but get all the help you can. Don’t be

afraid of getting too much. You can’t, or of being idle when you are

here. I assure you that when you come there will be so much to do

and so many things to think of that you will want to get away from it

all. And, besides, Aunt Janet, I hope you won’t be too long.

Indeed, I don’t wish to be selfish, but your boy is lonely, and wants

you. And when you get here you will be an EMPRESS. I don’t

altogether like doing so, lest I should offend a millionairess like

you; but it may facilitate matters, and the way’s of commerce are

strict, though devious. So I send you a cheque for 1,000 pounds for

the little things: and a letter to the bank to honour your own

cheques for any amount I have got.

I think, by the way, I should, if I were you, take or send out a few

servants—not too many at first, only just enough to attend on our

two selves. You can arrange to send for any more you may want later.

Engage them, and arrange for their being paid—when they are in our

service we must treat them well—and then they can be at our call as

you find that we want them. I think you should secure, say, fifty or

a hundred—‘tis an awfu’ big place, Aunt Janet! And in the same way

will you secure—and, of course, arrange for pay similarly—a hundred

men, exclusive of any servants you think it well to have. I should

like the General, if he can give the time, to choose or pass them. I

want clansmen that I can depend on, if need be. We are going to live

in a country which is at present strange to us, and it is well to

look things in the face. I know Sir Colin will only have men who are

a credit to Scotland and to Ross and to Croom—men who will impress

the Blue Mountaineers. I know they will take them to their hearts—

certainly if any of them are bachelors the girls will! Forgive me!

But if we are to settle here, our followers will probably want to

settle also. Moreover, the Blue Mountaineers may want followers

also! And will want them to settle, too, and have successors!

Now for the description of the place. Well, I simply can’t just now.

It is all so wonderful and so beautiful. The Castle—I have written

so much already about other things that I really must keep the Castle

for another letter! Love to Sir Colin if he is at Croom. And oh,

dear Aunt Janet, how I wish that my dear mother was coming out! It

all seems so dark and empty without her. How she would have enjoyed

it! How proud she would have been! And, my dear, if she could be

with us again, how grateful she would have been to you for all you

have done for her boy! As I am, believe me, most truly and sincerely

and affectionately grateful.

Your loving

RUPERT.

Rupert Sent Leger, Vissarion, to Janet MacKelpie, Croom.

January 26, 1907.

MY DEAR AUNT JANET,

Please read this as if it was a part of the letter I wrote yesterday.

The Castle itself is so vast that I really can’t describe it in

detail. So I am waiting till you come; and then you and I will go

over it together and learn all that we can about it. We shall take

Rooke with us, and, as he is supposed to know every part of it, from

the keep to the torture-chamber, we can spend a few days over it. Of

course, I have been over most of it, since I came—that, is, I went

at various times to see different portions—the battlements, the

bastions, the old guard-room, the hall, the chapel, the walls, the

roof. And I have been through some of the network of rock passages.

Uncle Roger must have spent a mint of money on it, so far as I can

see; and though I am not a soldier, I have been in so many places

fortified in different ways that I am not entirely ignorant of the

subject. He has restored it in such an up-to-date way that it is

practically impregnable to anything under big guns or a siege-train.

He has gone so far as to have certain outworks and the keep covered

with armoured plating of what looks like harveyized steel. You will

wonder when you see it. But as yet I really know only a few rooms,

and am familiar with only one—my own room. The drawing-room—not

the great hall, which is a vast place; the library—a magnificent

one, but in sad disorder—we must get a librarian some day to put it

in trim; and the drawing-room and boudoir and bedroom suite which I

have selected for you, are all fine. But my own room is what suits

me best, though I do not think you would care for it for yourself.

If you do, you shall have it. It was Uncle Roger’s own room when he

stayed here; living in it for a few days served to give me more

insight to his character—or rather to his mind—than I could have

otherwise had. It is just the kind of place I like myself; so,

naturally, I understand the other chap who liked it too. It is a

fine big room, not quite within the Castle, but an outlying part of

it. It is not detached, or anything of that sort, but is a sort of

garden-room built on to it. There seems to have been always some

sort of place where it is, for the passages and openings inside seem

to accept or recognize it. It can be shut off if necessary—it would

be in case of attack—by a great slab of steel, just like the door of

a safe, which slides from inside the wall, and can be operated from

either inside or outside—if you know how. That is from my room or

from within the keep. The mechanism is a secret, and no one but

Rooke and I know it. The room opens out through a great French

window—the French window is modern, I take it, and was arranged by

or for Uncle Roger; I think there must have been always a large

opening there, for centuries at least—which opens on a wide terrace

or balcony of white marble, extending right and left. From this a

white marble stair lies straight in front of the window, and leads

down to the garden. The balcony and staircase are quite ancient—of

old Italian work, beautifully carved, and, of course, weather-worn

through centuries. There is just that little tinging of green here

and there which makes all outdoor marble so charming. It is hard to

believe at times that it is a part of a fortified castle, it is so

elegant and free and open. The first glance of it would make a

burglar’s heart glad. He would say to himself: “Here is the sort of

crib I like when I’m on the job. You can just walk in and out as you

choose.” But, Aunt Janet, old Roger was cuter than any burglar. He

had the place so guarded that the burglar would have been a baffled

burglar. There are two steel shields which can slide out from the

wall and lock into the other side right across the whole big window.

One is a grille of steel bands that open out into diamond-shaped

lozenges. Nothing bigger than a kitten could get through; and yet

you can see the garden and the mountains and the whole view—much the

same as you ladies can see through your veils. The other is a great

sheet of steel, which slides out in a similar way in different

grooves. It is not, of course, so heavy and strong as the safe-door

which covers the little opening in the main wall, but Rooke tells me

it is proof against the heaviest rifle-hall.

Having told you this, I must tell you, too, Aunt Janet, lest you

should be made anxious by the arriere-pensee of all these warlike

measures of defence, that I always sleep at night with one of these

iron screens across the window. Of course, when I am awake I leave

it open. As yet I have tried only, but not used, the grille; and I

don’t think I shall ever use anything else, for it is a perfect

guard. If it should be tampered with from outside it would sound an

alarm at the head of the bed, and the pressing of a button would roll

out the solid steel screen in front of it. As a matter of fact, I

have been so used to the open that I don’t feel comfortable shut in.

I only close windows against cold or rain. The weather here is

delightful—as yet, at all events—but they tell me that the rainy

season will be on us before very long.

I think you will like my den, aunty dear, though it will doubtless be

a worry to you to see it so untidy. But that can’t be helped. I

must be untidy SOMEWHERE; and it is best in my own den!

Again I find my letter so long that I must cut it off now and go on

again to-night. So this must go as it stands. I shall not cause you

to wait to hear all I can tell you about our new home.

Your loving

RUPERT.

From Rupert Sent Leger, Vissarion, to Janet MacKelpie,

Croom.

January 29, 1907.

MY DEAR AUNT JANET,

My den looks out, as I told you in my last letter, on the garden, or,

to speak more accurately, on ONE of the gardens, for there are acres

of them. This is the old one, which must be almost as old as the

Castle itself, for it was within the defences in the old days of

bows. The wall that surrounds the inner portion of it has long ago

been levelled, but sufficient remains at either end where it joined

the outer defences to show the long casemates for the bowmen to shoot

through and the raised stone gallery where they stood. It is just

the same kind of building as the stone-work of the sentry’s walk on

the roof and of the great old guard-room under it.

But whatever the garden may have been, and no matter how it was

guarded, it is a most lovely place. There are whole sections of

garden here of various styles—Greek, Italian, French, German, Dutch,

British, Spanish, African, Moorish—all the older nationalities. I

am going to have a new one laid out for you—a Japanese garden. I

have sent to the great gardener of Japan, Minaro, to make the plans

for it, and to come over with workmen to carry it out. He is to

bring trees and shrubs and flowers and stone-work, and everything

that can be required; and you shall superintend the finishing, if not

the doing, of it yourself. We have such a fine head of water here,

and the climate is, they tell me, usually so lovely that we can do

anything in the gardening way. If it should ever turn out that the

climate does not suit, we shall put a great high glass roof over it,

and MAKE a suitable climate.

This garden in front of my room is the old Italian garden. It must

have been done with extraordinary taste and care, for there is not a

bit of it which is not rarely beautiful. Sir Thomas Browne himself,

for all his Quincunx, would have been delighted with it, and have

found material for another “Garden of Cyrus.” It is so big that

there are endless “episodes” of garden beauty I think all Italy must

have been ransacked in old times for garden stone-work of exceptional

beauty; and these treasures have been put together by some master-hand. Even the formal borders of the walks are of old porous stone,

which takes the weather-staining so beautifully, and are carved in

endless variety. Now that the gardens have been so long neglected or

left in abeyance, the green staining has become perfect. Though the

stone-work is itself intact, it has all the picturesque effect of the

wear and ruin wrought by many centuries. I am having it kept for you

just as it is, except that I have had the weeds and undergrowth

cleared away so that its beauties might be visible.

But it is not merely the architect work of the garden that is so

beautiful, nor is the assembling there of the manifold wealth of

floral beauty—there is the beauty that Nature creates by the hand of

her servant, Time. You see, Aunt Janet, how the beautiful garden

inspires a danger-hardened old tramp like me to high-grade sentiments

of poetic fancy! Not only have limestone and sandstone, and even

marble, grown green in time, but even the shrubs planted and then

neglected have developed new kinds of beauty of their own. In some

far-distant time some master-gardener of the Vissarions has tried to

realize an idea—that of tiny plants that would grow just a little

higher than the flowers, so that the effect of an uneven floral

surface would be achieved without any hiding of anything in the

garden seen from anywhere. This is only my reading of what has been

from the effect of what is! In the long period of neglect the shrubs

have outlived the flowers. Nature has been doing her own work all

the time in enforcing the survival of the fittest. The shrubs have

grown and grown, and have overtopped flower and weed, according to

their inherent varieties of stature; to the effect that now you see

irregularly scattered through the garden quite a number—for it is a

big place—of vegetable products which from a landscape standpoint

have something of the general effect of statues without the cramping

feeling of detail. Whoever it was that laid out that part of the

garden or made the choice of items, must have taken pains to get

strange specimens, for all those taller shrubs are in special

colours, mostly yellow or white—white cypress, white holly, yellow

yew, grey-golden box, silver juniper, variegated maple, spiraea, and

numbers of dwarf shrubs whose names I don’t know. I only know that

when the moon shines—and this, my dear Aunt Janet, is the very land

of moonlight itself!—they all look ghastly pale. The effect is

weird to the last degree, and I am sure that you will enjoy it. For

myself, as you know, uncanny things hold no fear. I suppose it is

that I have been up against so many different kinds of fears, or,

rather, of things which for most people have terrors of their own,

that I have come to have a contempt—not an active contempt, you

know, but a tolerative contempt—for the whole family of them. And

you, too, will enjoy yourself here famously, I know. You’ll have to

collect all the stories of such matters in our new world and make a

new book of facts for the Psychical Research Society. It will be

nice to see your own name on a title-page, won’t it, Aunt Janet?

From Rupert Sent Leger, Vissarion, to Janet MacKelpie,

Croom.

January 30, 1907.

MY DEAR AUNT JANET,

I stopped writing last night—do you know why? Because I wanted to

write more! This sounds a paradox, but it is true. The fact is

that, as I go on telling you of this delightful place, I keep finding

out new beauties myself. Broadly speaking, it IS ALL beautiful. In

the long view or the little view—as the telescope or the microscope

directs—it is all the same. Your eye can turn on nothing that does

not entrance you. I was yesterday roaming about the upper part of

time Castle, and came across some delightful nooks, which at once I

became fond of, and already like them as if I had known them all my

life. I felt at first a sense of greediness when I had appropriated

to myself several rooms in different places—I who have never in my

life had more than one room which I could call my own—and that only

for a time! But when I slept on it the feeling changed, and its

aspect is now not half bad. It is now under another classification—

under a much more important label—PROPRIETORSHIP. If I were writing

philosophy, I should here put in a cynical remark:

“Selfishness is an appanage of poverty. It might appear in the stud-book as by ‘Morals’ out of ‘Wants.’”

I have now three bedrooms arranged as my own particular dens. One of

the other two was also a choice of Uncle Roger’s. It is at the top

of one of the towers to the extreme east, and from it I can catch the

first ray of light over the mountains. I slept in it last night, and

when I woke, as in my travelling I was accustomed to do, at dawn, I

saw from my bed through an open window—a small window, for it is in

a fortress tower—the whole great expanse to the east. Not far off,

and springing from the summit of a great ruin, where long ago a seed

had fallen, rose a great silver-birch, and the half-transparent,

drooping branches and hanging clusters of leaf broke the outline of

the grey hills beyond, for the hills were, for a wonder, grey instead

of blue. There was a mackerel sky, with the clouds dropping on the

mountain-tops till you could hardly say which was which. It was a

mackerel sky of a very bold and extraordinary kind—not a dish of

mackerel, but a world of mackerel! The mountains are certainly most

lovely. In this clear air they usually seem close at hand. It was

only this morning, with the faint glimpse of the dawn whilst the

night clouds were still unpierced by the sunlight, that I seemed to

realize their greatness. I have seen the same enlightening effect of

aerial perspective a few times before—in Colorado, in Upper India,

in Thibet, and in the uplands amongst the Andes.

There is certainly something in looking at things from above which

tends to raise one’s own self-esteem. From the height, inequalities

simply disappear. This I have often felt on a big scale when

ballooning, or, better still, from an aeroplane. Even here from the

tower the outlook is somehow quite different from below. One

realizes the place and all around it, not in detail, but as a whole.

I shall certainly sleep up here occasionally, when you have come and

we have settled down to our life as it is to be. I shall live in my

own room downstairs, where I can have the intimacy of the garden.

But I shall appreciate it all the more from now and again losing the

sense of intimacy for a while, and surveying it without the sense of

one’s own self-importance.

I hope you have started on that matter of the servants. For myself,

I don’t care a button whether or not there are any servants at all;

but I know well that you won’t come till you have made your

arrangements regarding them! Another thing, Aunt Janet. You must

not be killed with work here, and it is all so vast … Why can’t

you get some sort of secretary who will write your letters and do all

that sort of thing for you? I know you won’t have a man secretary;

but there are lots of women now who can write shorthand and

typewrite. You could doubtless get one in the clan—someone with a

desire to better herself. I know you would make her happy here. If

she is not too young, all the better; she will have learned to hold

her tongue and mind her own business, and not be too inquisitive.

That would be a nuisance when we are finding our way about in a new

country and trying to reconcile all sorts of opposites in a whole new

country with new people, whom at first we shan’t understand, and who

certainly won’t understand us; where every man carries a gun with as

little thought of it as he has of buttons! Good-bye for a while.

Your loving

RUPERT.

From Rupert Sent Leger, Vissarion, to Janet MacKelpie,

Croom.

February 3, 1907.

I am back in my own room again. Already it seems to me that to get

here again is like coming home. I have been going about for the last

few days amongst the mountaineers and trying to make their

acquaintance. It is a tough job; and I can see that there will be

nothing but to stick to it. They are in reality the most primitive

people I ever met—the most fixed to their own ideas, which belong to

centuries back. I can understand now what people were like in

England—not in Queen Elizabeth’s time, for that was civilized time,

but in the time of Coeur-de-Lion, or even earlier—and all the time

with the most absolute mastery of weapons of precision. Every man

carries a rifle—and knows how to use it, too. I do believe they

would rather go without their clothes than their guns if they had to

choose between them. They also carry a handjar, which used to be

their national weapon. It is a sort of heavy, straight cutlass, and

they are so expert with it as well as so strong that it is as facile

in the hands of a Blue Mountaineer as is a foil in the hands of a

Persian maitre d’armes. They are so proud and reserved that they

make one feel quite small, and an “outsider” as well. I can see

quite well that they rather resent my being here at all. It is not

personal, for when alone with me they are genial, almost brotherly;

but the moment a few of them get together they are like a sort of

jury, with me as the criminal before them. It is an odd situation,

and quite new to me. I am pretty well accustomed to all sorts of

people, from cannibals to Mahatmas, but I’m blessed if I ever struck

such a type as this—so proud, so haughty, so reserved, so distant,

so absolutely fearless, so honourable, so hospitable. Uncle Roger’s

head was level when he chose them out as a people to live amongst.

Do you know, Aunt Janet, I can’t help feeling that they are very much

like your own Highlanders—only more so. I’m sure of one thing:

that in the end we shall get on capitally together. But it will be a

slow job, and will need a lot of patience. I have a feeling in my

bones that when they know me better they will be very loyal and very

true; and I am not a hair’s-breadth afraid of them or anything they

shall or might do. That is, of course, if I live long enough for

them to have time to know me. Anything may happen with such an

indomitable, proud people to whom pride is more than victuals. After

all, it only needs one man out of a crowd to have a wrong idea or to

make a mistake as to one’s motive—and there you are. But it will be

all right that way, I am sure. I am come here to stay, as Uncle

Roger wished. And stay I shall even if it has to be in a little bed

of my own beyond the garden—seven feet odd long, and not too narrow-

-or else a stone-box of equal proportions in the vaults of St. Sava’s

Church across the Creek—the old burial-place of the Vissarions and

other noble people for a good many centuries back …

I have been reading over this letter, dear Aunt Janet, and I am

afraid the record is rather an alarming one. But don’t you go

building up superstitious horrors or fears on it. Honestly, I am

only joking about death—a thing to which I have been rather prone

for a good many years back. Not in very good taste, I suppose, but

certainly very useful when the old man with the black wings goes

flying about you day and night in strange places, sometimes visible

and at others invisible. But you can always hear wings, especially

in the dark, when you cannot see them. YOU know that, Aunt Janet,

who come of a race of warriors, and who have special sight behind or

through the black curtain.

Honestly, I am in no whit afraid of the Blue Mountaineers, nor have I

a doubt of them. I love them already for their splendid qualities,

and I am prepared to love them for themselves. I feel, too, that

they will love me (and incidentally they are sure to love you). I

have a sort of undercurrent of thought that there is something in

their minds concerning me—something not painful, but disturbing;

something that has a base in the past; something that has hope in it

and possible pride, and not a little respect. As yet they can have

had no opportunity of forming such impression from seeing me or from

any thing I have done. Of course, it may be that, although they are

fine, tall, stalwart men, I am still a head and shoulders over the

tallest of them that I have yet seen. I catch their eyes looking up

at me as though they were measuring me, even when they are keeping

away from me, or, rather, keeping me from them at arm’s length. I

suppose I shall understand what it all means some day. In the

meantime there is nothing to do but to go on my own way—which is

Uncle Roger’s—and wait and be patient and just. I have learned the

value of that, any way, in my life amongst strange peoples. Good-night.

Your loving

RUPERT.

From Rupert Sent Leger, Vissarion, to Janet MacKelpie,

Croom.

February 24, 1907.

MY DEAR AUNT JANET,

I am more than rejoiced to hear that you are coming here so soon.

This isolation is, I think, getting on my nerves. I thought for a

while last night that I was getting on, but the reaction came all too

soon. I was in my room in the east turret, the room on the

corbeille, and saw here and there men passing silently and swiftly

between the trees as though in secret. By-and-by I located their

meeting-place, which was in a hollow in the midst of the wood just

outside the “natural” garden, as the map or plan of the castle calls

it. I stalked that place for all I was worth, and suddenly walked

straight into the midst of them. There were perhaps two or three

hundred gathered, about the very finest lot of men I ever saw in my

life. It was in its way quite an experience, and one not likely to

be repeated, for, as I told you, in this country every man carries a

rifle, and knows how to use it. I do not think I have seen a single

man (or married man either) without his rifle since I came here. I

wonder if they take them with them to bed! Well, the instant after I

stood amongst them every rifle in the place was aimed straight at me.

Don’t be alarmed, Aunt Janet; they did not fire at me. If they had I

should not be writing to you now. I should be in that little bit of

real estate or the stone box, and about as full of lead as I could

hold. Ordinarily, I take it, they would have fired on the instant;

that is the etiquette here. But this time they—all separately but

all together—made a new rule. No one said a word or, so far as I

could see, made a movement. Here came in my own experience. I had

been more than once in a tight place of something of the same kind,

so I simply behaved in the most natural way I could. I felt

conscious—it was all in a flash, remember—that if I showed fear or

cause for fear, or even acknowledged danger by so much as even

holding up my hands, I should have drawn all the fire. They all

remained stock-still, as though they had been turned into stone, for

several seconds. Then a queer kind of look flashed round them like

wind over corn—something like the surprise one shows unconsciously

on waking in a strange place. A second after they each dropped the

rifle to the hollow of his arm and stood ready for anything. It was

all as regular and quick and simultaneous as a salute at St. James’s

Palace.

Happily I had no arms of any kind with me, so that there could be no

complication. I am rather a quick hand myself when there is any

shooting to be done. However, there was no trouble here, but the

contrary; the Blue Mountaineers—it sounds like a new sort of Bond

Street band, doesn’t it?—treated me in quite a different way than

they did when I first met them. They were amazingly civil, almost

deferential. But, all time same, they were more distant than ever,

and all the time I was there I could get not a whit closer to them.

They seemed in a sort of way to be afraid or in awe of me. No doubt

that will soon pass away, and when we know one another better we

shall become close friends. They are too fine fellows not to be

worth a little waiting for. (That sentence, by the way, is a pretty

bad sentence! In old days you would have slippered me for it!) Your

journey is all arranged, and I hope you will be comfortable. Rooke

will meet you at Liverpool Street and look after everything.

I shan’t write again, but when we meet at Fiume I shall begin to tell

you all the rest. Till then, good-bye. A good journey to you, and a

happy meeting to us both.

RUPERT.

Letter from Janet MacKelpie, Vissarion, to Sir Colin MacKelpie,

United Service Club, London.

DEAREST UNCLE, February 28, 1907.

I had a very comfortable journey all across Europe. Rupert wrote to

me some time ago to say that when I got to Vissarion I should be an

Empress, and he certainly took care that on the way here I should be

treated like one. Rooke, who seems a wonderful old man, was in the

next compartment to that reserved for me. At Harwich he had

everything arranged perfectly, and so right on to Fiume. Everywhere

there were attentive officials waiting. I had a carriage all to

myself, which I joined at Antwerp—a whole carriage with a suite of

rooms, dining-room, drawing-room, bedroom, even bath-room. There was

a cook with a kitchen of his own on board, a real chef like a French

nobleman in disguise. There were also a waiter and a servant-maid.

My own maid Maggie was quite awed at first. We were as far as

Cologne before she summoned up courage to order them about. Whenever

we stopped Rooke was on the platform with local officials, and kept

the door of my carriage like a sentry on duty.

At Fiume, when the train slowed down, I saw Rupert waiting on the

platform. He looked magnificent, towering over everybody there like

a giant. He is in perfect health, and seemed glad to see me. He

took me off at once on an automobile to a quay where an electric

launch was waiting. This took us on board a beautiful big steam-yacht, which was waiting with full steam up and—how he got there I

don’t know—Rooke waiting at the gangway.

I had another suite all to myself. Rupert and I had dinner together-

-I think the finest dinner I ever sat down to. This was very nice of

Rupert, for it was all for me. He himself only ate a piece of steak

and drank a glass of water. I went to bed early, for, despite the

luxury of the journey, I was very tired.

I awoke in the grey of the morning, and came on deck. We were close

to the coast. Rupert was on the bridge with the Captain, and Rooke

was acting as pilot. When Rupert saw me, he ran down the ladder and

took me up on the bridge. He left me there while he ran down again

and brought me up a lovely fur cloak which I had never seen. He put

it on me and kissed me. He is the tenderest-hearted boy in the

world, as well as the best and bravest! He made me take his arm

whilst he pointed out Vissarion, towards which we were steering. It

is the most lovely place I ever saw. I won’t stop to describe it

now, for it will be better that you see it for yourself and enjoy it

all fresh as I did.

The Castle is an immense place. You had better ship off, as soon as

all is ready here and you can arrange it, the servants whom I

engaged; and I am not sure that we shall not want as many more.

There has hardly been a mop or broom on the place for centuries, and

I doubt if it ever had a thorough good cleaning all over since it was

built. And, do you know, Uncle, that it might be well to double that

little army of yours that you are arranging for Rupert? Indeed, the

boy told me himself that he was going to write to you about it. I

think old Lachlan and his wife, Sandy’s Mary, had better be in charge

of the maids when they come over. A lot of lassies like yon will be

iller to keep together than a flock of sheep. So it will be wise to

have authority over them, especially as none of them speaks a word of

foreign tongues. Rooke—you saw him at the station at Liverpool

Street—will, if he be available, go over to bring the whole body

here. He has offered to do it if I should wish. And, by the way, I

think it will be well, when the time comes for their departure, if

not only the lassies, but Lachlan and Sandy’s Mary, too, will call

him MISTER Rooke. He is a very important person indeed here. He is,

in fact, a sort of Master of the Castle, and though he is very self-suppressing, is a man of rarely fine qualities. Also it will be well

to keep authority. When your clansmen come over, he will have charge

of them, too. Dear me! I find I have written such a long letter, I

must stop and get to work. I shall write again.

Your very affectionate

JANET.

From the Same to the Same.

March 3, 1907.

DEAREST UNCLE,

All goes well here, and as there is no news, I only write because you

are a dear, and I want to thank you for all the trouble you have

taken for me—and for Rupert. I think we had better wait awhile

before bringing out the servants. Rooke is away on some business for

Rupert, and will not be back for some time; Rupert thinks it may be a

couple of months. There is no one else that he could send to take

charge of the party from home, and I don’t like the idea of all those

lassies coming out without an escort. Even Lachlan and Sandy’s Mary

are ignorant of foreign languages and foreign ways. But as soon as

Rooke returns we can have them all out. I dare say you will have

some of your clansmen ready by then, and I think the poor girls, who

may feel a bit strange in a new country like this, where the ways are

so different from ours, will feel easier when they know that there

are some of their own mankind near them. Perhaps it might be well

that those of them who are engaged to each other—I know there are

some—should marry before they come out here. It will be more

convenient in many ways, and will save lodgment, and, besides, these

Blue Mountaineers are very handsome men. Good-night.

JANET.

Sir Colin MacKelpie, Croom, to Janet MacKelpie,

Vissarion.

March 9, 1907.

MY DEAR JANET,

I have duly received both your letters, and am delighted to find you

are so well pleased with your new home. It must certainly be a very

lovely and unique place, and I am myself longing to see it. I came

up here three days ago, and am, as usual, feeling all the better for

a breath of my native air. Time goes on, my dear, and I am beginning

to feel not so young as I was. Tell Rupert that the men are all fit,

and longing to get out to him. They are certainly a fine lot of men.

I don’t think I ever saw a finer. I have had them drilled and

trained as soldiers, and, in addition, have had them taught a lot of

trades just as they selected themselves. So he shall have nigh him

men who can turn their hands to anything—not, of course, that they

all know every trade, but amongst them there is someone who can do

whatever may be required. There are blacksmiths, carpenters,

farriers, saddle-makers, gardeners, plumbers, cutlers, gunsmiths, so,

as they all are farmers by origin and sportsmen by practice, they

will make a rare household body of men. They are nearly all first-class shots, and I am having them practise with revolvers. They are

being taught fencing and broadsword and ju-jitsu; I have organized

them in military form, with their own sergeants and corporals. This

morning I had an inspection, and I assure you, my dear, they could

give points to the Household troop in matters of drill. I tell you I

am proud of my clansmen!

I think you are quite wise about waiting to bring out the lassies,

and wiser still about the marrying. I dare say there will be more

marrying when they all get settled in a foreign country. I shall be

glad of it, for as Rupert is going to settle there, it will be good

for him to have round him a little colony of his own people. And it

will be good for them, too, for I know he will be good to them—as

you will, my dear. The hills are barren here, and life is hard, and

each year there is more and more demand for crofts, and sooner or

later our people must thin out. And mayhap our little settlement of

MacKelpie clan away beyond the frontiers of the Empire may be some

service to the nation and the King. But this is a dream! I see that

here I am beginning to realise in myself one part of Isaiah’s

prophecy:

“Your young men shall see visions, and your old men shall dream

dreams.”

By the way, my dear, talking about dreams, I am sending you out some

boxes of books which were in your rooms. They are nearly all on odd

subjects that WE understand—Second Sight, Ghosts, Dreams (that was

what brought the matter to my mind just now), superstitions,

Vampires, Wehr-Wolves, and all such uncanny folk and things. I

looked over some of these books, and found your marks and underlining

and comments, so I fancy you will miss them in your new home. You

will, I am sure, feel more at ease with such old friends close to

you. I have taken the names and sent the list to London, so that

when you pay me a visit again you will be at home in all ways. If

you come to me altogether, you will be more welcome still—if

possible. But I am sure that Rupert, who I know loves you very much,

will try to make you so happy that you will not want to leave him.

So I will have to come out often to see you both, even at the cost of

leaving Croom for so long. Strange, is it not? that now, when,

through Roger Melton’s more than kind remembrance of me, I am able to

go where I will and do what I will, I want more and more to remain at

home by my own ingle. I don’t think that anyone but you or Rupert

could get me away from it. I am working very hard at my little

regiment, as I call it. They are simply fine, and will, I am sure,

do us credit. The uniforms are all made, and well made, too. There

is not a man of them that does not look like an officer. I tell you,

Janet, that when we turn out the Vissarion Guard we shall feel proud

of them. I dare say that a couple of months will do all that can be

done here. I shall come out with them myself. Rupert writes me that

he thinks it will be more comfortable to come out direct in a ship of

our own. So when I go up to London in a few weeks’ time I shall see

about chartering a suitable vessel. It will certainly save a lot of

trouble to us and anxiety to our people. Would it not be well when I

am getting the ship, if I charter one big enough to take out all your

lassies, too? It is not as if they were strangers. After all, my

dear, soldiers are soldiers and lassies are lassies. But these are

all kinsfolk, as well as clansmen and clanswomen, and I, their Chief,

shall be there. Let me know your views and wishes in this respect.

Mr. Trent, whom I saw before leaving London, asked me to “convey to

you his most respectful remembrances”—these were his very words, and

here they are. Trent is a nice fellow, and I like him. He has

promised to pay me a visit here before the month is up, and I look

forward to our both enjoying ourselves.

Good-bye, my dear, and the Lord watch over you and our dear boy.

Your affectionate Uncle,

COLIN ALEXANDER MACKELPIE.

BOOK III: THE COMING OF THE LADY

RUPERT SENT LEGER’S JOURNAL.

April 3, 1907.

I have waited till now—well into midday—before beginning to set

down the details of the strange episode of last night. I have spoken

with persons whom I know to be of normal type. I have breakfasted,

as usual heartily, and have every reason to consider myself in

perfect health and sanity. So that the record following may be

regarded as not only true in substance, but exact as to details. I

have investigated and reported on too many cases for the Psychical

Research Society to be ignorant of the necessity for absolute

accuracy in such matters of even the minutest detail.

Yesterday was Tuesday, the second day of April, 1907. I passed a day

of interest, with its fair amount of work of varying kinds. Aunt

Janet and I lunched together, had a stroll round the gardens after

tea—especially examining the site for the new Japanese garden, which

we shall call “Janet’s Garden.” We went in mackintoshes, for the

rainy season is in its full, the only sign of its not being a

repetition of the Deluge being that breaks in the continuance are

beginning. They are short at present but will doubtless enlarge

themselves as the season comes towards an end. We dined together at

seven. After dinner I had a cigar, and then joined Aunt Janet for an

hour in her drawing-room. I left her at half-past ten, when I went

to my own room and wrote some letters. At ten minutes past eleven I

wound my watch, so I know the time accurately. Having prepared for

bed, I drew back the heavy curtain in front of my window, which opens

on the marble steps into the Italian garden. I had put out my light

before drawing back the curtain, for I wanted to have a look at the

scene before turning in. Aunt Janet has always had an old-fashioned

idea of the need (or propriety, I hardly know which) of keeping

windows closed and curtains drawn. I am gradually getting her to

leave my room alone in this respect, but at present the change is in

its fitful stage, and of course I must not hurry matters or be too

persistent, as it would hurt her feelings. This night was one of

those under the old regime. It was a delight to look out, for the

scene was perfect of its own kind. The long spell of rain—the

ceaseless downpour which had for the time flooded everywhere—had

passed, and water in abnormal places rather trickled than ran. We

were now beginning to be in the sloppy rather than the deluged stage.

There was plenty of light to see by, for the moon had begun to show

out fitfully through the masses of flying clouds. The uncertain

light made weird shadows with the shrubs and statues in the garden.

The long straight walk which leads from the marble steps is strewn

with fine sand white from the quartz strand in the nook to the south

of the Castle. Tall shrubs of white holly, yew, juniper, cypress,

and variegated maple and spiraea, which stood at intervals along the

walk and its branches, appeared ghost-like in the fitful moonlight.

The many vases and statues and urns, always like phantoms in a half-light, were more than ever weird. Last night the moonlight was

unusually effective, and showed not only the gardens down to the

defending wall, but the deep gloom of the great forest-trees beyond;

and beyond that, again, to where the mountain chain began, the forest

running up their silvered slopes flamelike in form, deviated here and

there by great crags and the outcropping rocky sinews of the vast

mountains.

Whilst I was looking at this lovely prospect, I thought I saw

something white flit, like a modified white flash, at odd moments

from one to another of the shrubs or statues—anything which would

afford cover from observation. At first I was not sure whether I

really saw anything or did not. This was in itself a little

disturbing to me, for I have been so long trained to minute

observation of facts surrounding me, on which often depend not only

my own life, but the lives of others, that I have become accustomed

to trust my eyes; and anything creating the faintest doubt in this

respect is a cause of more or less anxiety to me. Now, however, that

my attention was called to myself, I looked more keenly, and in a

very short time was satisfied that something was moving—something

clad in white. It was natural enough that my thoughts should tend

towards something uncanny—the belief that this place is haunted,

conveyed in a thousand ways of speech and inference. Aunt Janet’s

eerie beliefs, fortified by her books on occult subjects—and of

late, in our isolation from the rest of the world, the subject of

daily conversations—helped to this end. No wonder, then, that,

fully awake and with senses all on edge, I waited for some further

manifestation from this ghostly visitor—as in my mind I took it to

be. It must surely be a ghost or spiritual manifestation of some

kind which moved in this silent way. In order to see and hear

better, I softly moved back the folding grille, opened the French

window, and stepped out, barefooted and pyjama-clad as I was, on the

marble terrace. How cold the wet marble was! How heavy smelled the

rain-laden garden! It was as though the night and the damp, and even

the moonlight, were drawing the aroma from all the flowers that

blossomed. The whole night seemed to exhale heavy, half-intoxicating

odours! I stood at the head of the marble steps, and all immediately

before me was ghostly in the extreme—the white marble terrace and

steps, the white walks of quartz-sand glistening under the fitful

moonlight; the shrubs of white or pale green or yellow,—all looking

dim and ghostly in the glamorous light; the white statues and vases.

And amongst them, still flitting noiselessly, that mysterious elusive

figure which I could not say was based on fact or imagination. I

held my breath, listening intently for every sound; but sound there

was none, save those of the night and its denizens. Owls hooted in

the forest; bats, taking advantage of the cessation of the rain,

flitted about silently, like shadows in the air. But there was no

more sign of moving ghost or phantom, or whatever I had seen might

have been—if, indeed, there had been anything except imagination.

So, after waiting awhile, I returned to my room, closed the window,

drew the grille across again, and dragged the heavy curtain before

the opening; then, having extinguished my candles, went to bed in the

dark. In a few minutes I must have been asleep.

“What was that?” I almost heard the words of my own thought as I sat

up in bed wide awake. To memory rather than present hearing the

disturbing sound had seemed like the faint tapping at the window.

For some seconds I listened, mechanically but intently, with bated

breath and that quick beating of the heart which in a timorous person

speaks for fear, and for expectation in another. In the stillness

the sound came again—this time a very, very faint but unmistakable

tapping at the glass door.

I jumped up, drew back the curtain, and for a moment stood appalled.

There, outside on the balcony, in the now brilliant moonlight, stood

a woman, wrapped in white grave-clothes saturated with water, which

dripped on the marble floor, making a pool which trickled slowly down

the wet steps. Attitude and dress and circumstance all conveyed the

idea that, though she moved and spoke, she was not quick, but dead.

She was young and very beautiful, but pale, like the grey pallor of

death. Through the still white of her face, which made her look as

cold as the wet marble she stood on, her dark eyes seemed to gleam

with a strange but enticing lustre. Even in the unsearching

moonlight, which is after all rather deceptive than illuminative, I

could not but notice one rare quality of her eyes. Each had some

quality of refraction which made it look as though it contained a

star. At every movement she made, the stars exhibited new beauties,

of more rare and radiant force. She looked at me imploringly as the

heavy curtain rolled back, and in eloquent gestures implored me to

admit her. Instinctively I obeyed; I rolled back the steel grille,

and threw open the French window. I noticed that she shivered and

trembled as the glass door fell open. Indeed, she seemed so overcome

with cold as to seem almost unable to move. In the sense of her

helplessness all idea of the strangeness of the situation entirely

disappeared. It was not as if my first idea of death taken from her

cerements was negatived. It was simply that I did not think of it at

all; I was content to accept things as they were—she was a woman,

and in some dreadful trouble; that was enough.

I am thus particular about my own emotions, as I may have to refer to

them again in matters of comprehension or comparison. The whole

thing is so vastly strange and abnormal that the least thing may

afterwards give some guiding light or clue to something otherwise not

understandable. I have always found that in recondite matters first

impressions are of more real value than later conclusions. We humans

place far too little reliance on instinct as against reason; and yet

instinct is the great gift of Nature to all animals for their

protection and the fulfilment of their functions generally.

When I stepped out on the balcony, not thinking of my costume, I

found that the woman was benumbed and hardly able to move. Even when

I asked her to enter, and supplemented my words with gestures in case

she should not understand my language, she stood stock-still, only

rocking slightly to and fro as though she had just strength enough

left to balance herself on her feet. I was afraid, from the

condition in which she was, that she might drop down dead at any

moment. So I took her by the hand to lead her in. But she seemed

too weak to even make the attempt. When I pulled her slightly

forward, thinking to help her, she tottered, and would have fallen

had I not caught her in my arms. Then, half lifting her, I moved her

forwards. Her feet, relieved of her weight, now seemed able to make

the necessary effort; and so, I almost carrying her, we moved into

the room. She was at the very end of her strength; I had to lift her

over the sill. In obedience to her motion, I closed the French

window and bolted it. I supposed the warmth of the room—though

cool, it was warmer than the damp air without—affected her quickly,

for on the instant she seemed to begin to recover herself. In a few

seconds, as though she had reacquired her strength, she herself

pulled the heavy curtain across the window. This left us in

darkness, through which I heard her say in English:

“Light. Get a light!”

I found matches, and at once lit a candle. As the wick flared, she

moved over to the door of the room, and tried if the lock and bolt

were fastened. Satisfied as to this, she moved towards me, her wet

shroud leaving a trail of moisture on the green carpet. By this time

the wax of the candle had melted sufficiently to let me see her

clearly. She was shaking and quivering as though in an ague; she

drew the wet shroud around her piteously. Instinctively I spoke:

“Can I do anything for you?”

She answered, still in English, and in a voice of thrilling, almost

piercing sweetness, which seemed somehow to go straight to my heart,

and affected me strangely: “Give me warmth.”

I hurried to the fireplace. It was empty; there was no fire laid. I

turned to her, and said:

“Wait just a few minutes here. I shall call someone, and get help—

and fire.”

Her voice seemed to ring with intensity as she answered without a

pause:

“No, no! Rather would I be”—here she hesitated for an instant, but

as she caught sight of her cerements went on hurriedly—“as I am. I

trust you—not others; and you must not betray my trust.” Almost

instantly she fell into a frightful fit of shivering, drawing again

her death-clothes close to her, so piteously that it wrung my heart.

I suppose I am a practical man. At any rate, I am accustomed to

action. I took from its place beside my bed a thick Jaeger dressing-gown of dark brown—it was, of course, of extra length—and held it

out to her as I said:

“Put that on. It is the only warm thing here which would be

suitable. Stay; you must remove that wet—wet”—I stumbled about for

a word that would not be offensive—“that frock—dress—costume—

whatever it is.” I pointed to where, in the corner of the room,

stood a chintz-covered folding-screen which fences in my cold sponge

bath, which is laid ready for me overnight, as I am an early riser.

She bowed gravely, and taking the dressing-gown in a long, white,

finely-shaped hand, bore it behind the screen. There was a slight

rustle, and then a hollow “flop” as the wet garment fell on the

floor; more rustling and rubbing, and a minute later she emerged

wrapped from head to foot in the long Jaeger garment, which trailed

on the floor behind her, though she was a tall woman. She was still

shivering painfully, however. I took a flask of brandy and a glass

from a cupboard, and offered her some; but with a motion of her hand

she refused it, though she moaned grievously.

“Oh, I am so cold—so cold!” Her teeth were chattering. I was

pained at her sad condition, and said despairingly, for I was at my

wits’ end to know what to do:

“Tell me anything that I can do to help you, and I will do it. I may

not call help; there is no fire—nothing to make it with; you will

not take some brandy. What on earth can I do to give you warmth?”

Her answer certainly surprised me when it came, though it was

practical enough—so practical that I should not have dared to say

it. She looked me straight in the face for a few seconds before

speaking. Then, with an air of girlish innocence which disarmed

suspicion and convinced me at once of her simple faith, she said in a

voice that at once thrilled me and evoked all my pity:

“Let me rest for a while, and cover me up with rugs. That may give

me warmth. I am dying of cold. And I have a deadly fear upon me—a

deadly fear. Sit by me, and let me hold your hand. You are big and

strong, and you look brave. It will reassure me. I am not myself a

coward, but to-night fear has got me by the throat. I can hardly

breathe. Do let me stay till I am warm. If you only knew what I

have gone through, and have to go through still, I am sure you would

pity me and help me.”

To say that I was astonished would be a mild description of my

feelings. I was not shocked. The life which I have led was not one

which makes for prudery. To travel in strange places amongst strange

peoples with strange views of their own is to have odd experiences

and peculiar adventures now and again; a man without human passions

is not the type necessary for an adventurous life, such as I myself

have had. But even a man of passions and experiences can, when he

respects a woman, be shocked—even prudish—where his own opinion of

her is concerned. Such must bring to her guarding any generosity

which he has, and any self-restraint also. Even should she place

herself in a doubtful position, her honour calls to his honour. This

is a call which may not be—MUST not be—unanswered. Even passion

must pause for at least a while at sound of such a trumpet-call.

This woman I did respect—much respect. Her youth and beauty; her

manifest ignorance of evil; her superb disdain of convention, which

could only come through hereditary dignity; her terrible fear and

suffering—for there must be more in her unhappy condition than meets

the eye—would all demand respect, even if one did not hasten to

yield it. Nevertheless, I thought it necessary to enter a protest

against her embarrassing suggestion. I certainly did feel a fool

when making it, also a cad. I can truly say it was made only for her

good, and out of the best of me, such as I am. I felt impossibly

awkward; and stuttered and stumbled before I spoke:

“But surely—the convenances! Your being here alone at night! Mrs.

Grundy—convention—the—”

She interrupted me with an incomparable dignity—a dignity which had

the effect of shutting me up like a clasp-knife and making me feel a

decided inferior—and a poor show at that. There was such a gracious

simplicity and honesty in it, too, such self-respecting knowledge of

herself and her position, that I could be neither angry nor hurt. I

could only feel ashamed of myself, and of my own littleness of mind

and morals. She seemed in her icy coldness—now spiritual as well as

bodily—like an incarnate figure of Pride as she answered:

“What are convenances or conventions to me! If you only knew where I

have come from—the existence (if it can be called so) which I have

had—the loneliness—the horror! And besides, it is for me to MAKE

conventions, not to yield my personal freedom of action to them.

Even as I am—even here and in this garb—I am above convention.

Convenances do not trouble me or hamper me. That, at least, I have

won by what I have gone through, even if it had never come to me

through any other way. Let me stay.” She said the last words, in

spite of all her pride, appealingly. But still, there was a note of

high pride in all this—in all she said and did, in her attitude and

movement, in the tones of her voice, in the loftiness of her carriage

and the steadfast look of her open, starlit eyes. Altogether, there

was something so rarely lofty in herself and all that clad her that,

face to face with it and with her, my feeble attempt at moral

precaution seemed puny, ridiculous, and out of place. Without a word

in the doing, I took from an old chiffonier chest an armful of

blankets, several of which I threw over her as she lay, for in the

meantime, having replaced the coverlet, she had lain down at length

on the bed. I took a chair, and sat down beside her. When she

stretched out her hand from beneath the pile of wraps, I took it in

mine, saying:

“Get warm and rest. Sleep if you can. You need not fear; I shall

guard you with my life.”

She looked at me gratefully, her starry eyes taking a new light more

full of illumination than was afforded by the wax candle, which was

shaded from her by my body … She was horribly cold, and her teeth

chattered so violently that I feared lest she should have incurred

some dangerous evil from her wetting and the cold that followed it.

I felt, however, so awkward that I could find no words to express my

fears; moreover, I hardly dared say anything at all regarding herself

after the haughty way in which she had received my well-meant

protest. Manifestly I was but to her as a sort of refuge and

provider of heat, altogether impersonal, and not to be regarded in

any degree as an individual. In these humiliating circumstances what

could I do but sit quiet—and wait developments?

Little by little the fierce chattering of her teeth began to abate as

the warmth of her surroundings stole through her. I also felt, even

in this strangely awakening position, the influence of the quiet; and

sleep began to steal over me. Several times I tried to fend it off,

but, as I could not make any overt movement without alarming my

strange and beautiful companion, I had to yield myself to drowsiness.

I was still in such an overwhelming stupor of surprise that I could

not even think freely. There was nothing for me but to control

myself and wait. Before I could well fix my thoughts I was asleep.

I was recalled to consciousness by hearing, even through the pall of

sleep that bound me, the crowing of a cock in some of the out-offices

of the castle. At the same instant the figure, lying deathly still

but for the gentle heaving of her bosom, began to struggle wildly.

The sound had won through the gates of her sleep also. With a swift,

gliding motion she slipped from the bed to the floor, saying in a

fierce whisper as she pulled herself up to her full height:

“Let me out! I must go! I must go!”

By this time I was fully awake, and the whole position of things came

to me in an instant which I shall never—can never—forget: the dim

light of the candle, now nearly burned down to the socket, all the

dimmer from the fact that the first grey gleam of morning was

stealing in round the edges of the heavy curtain; the tall, slim

figure in the brown dressing-gown whose over-length trailed on the

floor, the black hair showing glossy in the light, and increasing by

contrast the marble whiteness of the face, in which the black eyes

sent through their stars fiery gleams. She appeared quite in a

frenzy of haste; her eagerness was simply irresistible.

I was so stupefied with amazement, as well as with sleep, that I did

not attempt to stop her, but began instinctively to help her by

furthering her wishes. As she ran behind the screen, and, as far as

sound could inform me,—began frantically to disrobe herself of the

warm dressing-gown and to don again the ice-cold wet shroud, I pulled

back the curtain from the window, and drew the bolt of the glass

door. As I did so she was already behind me, shivering. As I threw

open the door she glided out with a swift silent movement, but

trembling in an agonized way. As she passed me, she murmured in a

low voice, which was almost lost in the chattering of her teeth:

“Oh, thank you—thank you a thousand times! But I must go. I MUST!

I MUST! I shall come again, and try to show my gratitude. Do not

condemn me as ungrateful—till then.” And she was gone.

I watched her pass the length of the white path, flitting from shrub

to shrub or statue as she had come. In the cold grey light of the

undeveloped dawn she seemed even more ghostly than she had done in

the black shadow of the night.

When she disappeared from sight in the shadow of the wood, I stood on

the terrace for a long time watching, in case I should be afforded

another glimpse of her, for there was now no doubt in my mind that

she had for me some strange attraction. I felt even then that the

look in those glorious starry eyes would be with me always so long as

I might live. There was some fascination which went deeper than my

eyes or my flesh or my heart—down deep into the very depths of my

soul. My mind was all in a whirl, so that I could hardly think

coherently. It all was like a dream; the reality seemed far away.

It was not possible to doubt that the phantom figure which had been

so close to me during the dark hours of the night was actual flesh

and blood. Yet she was so cold, so cold! Altogether I could not fix

my mind to either proposition: that it was a living woman who had

held my hand, or a dead body reanimated for the time or the occasion

in some strange manner.

The difficulty was too great for me to make up my mind upon it, even

had I wanted to. But, in any case, I did not want to. This would,

no doubt, come in time. But till then I wished to dream on, as

anyone does in a dream which can still be blissful though there be

pauses of pain, or ghastliness, or doubt, or terror.

So I closed the window and drew the curtain again, feeling for the

first time the cold in which I had stood on the wet marble floor of

the terrace when my bare feet began to get warm on the soft carpet.

To get rid of the chill feeling I got into the bed on which SHE had

lain, and as the warmth restored me tried to think coherently. For a

short while I was going over the facts of the night—or what seemed

as facts to my remembrance. But as I continued to think, the

possibilities of any result seemed to get less, and I found myself

vainly trying to reconcile with the logic of life the grim episode of

the night. The effort proved to be too much for such concentration

as was left to me; moreover, interrupted sleep was clamant, and would

not be denied. What I dreamt of—if I dreamt at all—I know not. I

only know that I was ready for waking when the time came. It came

with a violent knocking at my door. I sprang from bed, fully awake

in a second, drew the bolt, and slipped back to bed. With a hurried

“May I come in?” Aunt Janet entered. She seemed relieved when she

saw me, and gave without my asking an explanation of her

perturbation:

“Oh, laddie, I hae been so uneasy aboot ye all the nicht. I hae had

dreams an’ veesions an’ a’ sorts o’ uncanny fancies. I fear that—”

She was by now drawing back the curtain, and as her eyes took in the

marks of wet all over the floor the current of her thoughts changed:

“Why, laddie, whativer hae ye been doin’ wi’ yer baith? Oh, the mess

ye hae made! ‘Tis sinful to gie sic trouble an’ waste … ” And

so she went on. I was glad to hear the tirade, which was only what a

good housewife, outraged in her sentiments of order, would have made.

I listened in patience—with pleasure when I thought of what she

would have thought (and said) had she known the real facts. I was

well pleased to have got off so easily.

RUPERT’S JOURNAL—Continued.

April 10, 1907.

For some days after what I call “the episode” I was in a strange

condition of mind. I did not take anyone—not even Aunt Janet—into

confidence. Even she dear, and open-hearted and liberal-minded as

she is, might not have understood well enough to be just and

tolerant; and I did not care to hear any adverse comment on my

strange visitor. Somehow I could not bear the thought of anyone

finding fault with her or in her, though, strangely enough, I was

eternally defending her to myself; for, despite my wishes,

embarrassing thoughts WOULD come again and again, and again in all

sorts and variants of queries difficult to answer. I found myself

defending her, sometimes as a woman hard pressed by spiritual fear

and physical suffering, sometimes as not being amenable to laws that

govern the Living. Indeed, I could not make up my mind whether I

looked on her as a living human being or as one with some strange

existence in another world, and having only a chance foothold in our

own. In such doubt imagination began to work, and thoughts of evil,

of danger, of doubt, even of fear, began to crowd on me with such

persistence and in such varied forms that I found my instinct of

reticence growing into a settled purpose. The value of this

instinctive precaution was promptly shown by Aunt Janet’s state of

mind, with consequent revelation of it. She became full of gloomy

prognostications and what I thought were morbid fears. For the first

time in my life I discovered that Aunt Janet had nerves! I had long

had a secret belief that she was gifted, to some degree at any rate,

with Second Sight, which quality, or whatever it is, skilled in the

powers if not the lore of superstition, manages to keep at stretch

not only the mind of its immediate pathic, but of others relevant to

it. Perhaps this natural quality had received a fresh impetus from

the arrival of some cases of her books sent on by Sir Colin. She

appeared to read and reread these works, which were chiefly on occult

subjects, day and night, except when she was imparting to me choice

excerpts of the most baleful and fearsome kind. Indeed, before a

week was over I found myself to be an expert in the history of the

cult, as well as in its manifestations, which latter I had been

versed in for a good many years.

The result of all this was that it set me brooding. Such, at least,

I gathered was the fact when Aunt Janet took me to task for it. She

always speaks out according to her convictions, so that her thinking

I brooded was to me a proof that I did; and after a personal

examination I came—reluctantly—to the conclusion that she was

right, so far, at any rate, as my outer conduct was concerned. The

state of mind I was in, however, kept me from making any

acknowledgment of it—the real cause of my keeping so much to myself

and of being so distrait. And so I went on, torturing myself as

before with introspective questioning; and she, with her mind set on

my actions, and endeavouring to find a cause for them, continued and

expounded her beliefs and fears.

Her nightly chats with me when we were alone after dinner—for I had

come to avoid her questioning at other times—kept my imagination at

high pressure. Despite myself, I could not but find new cause for

concern in the perennial founts of her superstition. I had thought,

years ago, that I had then sounded the depths of this branch of

psychicism; but this new phase of thought, founded on the really deep

hold which the existence of my beautiful visitor and her sad and

dreadful circumstances had taken upon me, brought me a new concern in

the matter of self-importance. I came to think that I must

reconstruct my self-values, and begin a fresh understanding of

ethical beliefs. Do what I would, my mind would keep turning on the

uncanny subjects brought before it. I began to apply them one by one

to my own late experience, and unconsciously to try to fit them in

turn to the present case.

The effect of this brooding was that I was, despite my own will,

struck by the similarity of circumstances bearing on my visitor, and

the conditions apportioned by tradition and superstition to such

strange survivals from earlier ages as these partial existences which

are rather Undead than Living—still walking the earth, though

claimed by the world of the Dead. Amongst them are the Vampire, or

the Wehr-Wolf. To this class also might belong in a measure the

Doppelganger—one of whose dual existences commonly belongs to the

actual world around it. So, too, the denizens of the world of

Astralism. In any of these named worlds there is a material

presence—which must be created, if only for a single or periodic

purpose. It matters not whether a material presence already created

can be receptive of a disembodied soul, or a soul unattached can have

a body built up for it or around it; or, again, whether the body of a

dead person can be made seeming quick through some diabolic influence

manifested in the present, or an inheritance or result of some

baleful use of malefic power in the past. The result is the same in

each case, though the ways be widely different: a soul and a body

which are not in unity but brought together for strange purposes

through stranger means and by powers still more strange.

Through much thought and a process of exclusions the eerie form which

seemed to be most in correspondence with my adventure, and most

suitable to my fascinating visitor, appeared to be the Vampire.

Doppelganger, Astral creations, and all such-like, did not comply

with the conditions of my night experience. The Wehr-Wolf is but a

variant of the Vampire, and so needed not to be classed or examined

at all. Then it was that, thus focussed, the Lady of the Shroud (for

so I came to hold her in my mind) began to assume a new force. Aunt

Janet’s library afforded me clues which I followed with avidity. In

my secret heart I hated the quest, and did not wish to go on with it.

But in this I was not my own master. Do what I would—brush away

doubts never so often, new doubts and imaginings came in their stead.

The circumstance almost repeated the parable of the Seven Devils who

took the place of the exorcised one. Doubts I could stand.

Imaginings I could stand. But doubts and imaginings together made a

force so fell that I was driven to accept any reading of the mystery

which might presumably afford a foothold for satisfying thought. And

so I came to accept tentatively the Vampire theory—accept it, at

least, so far as to examine it as judicially as was given me to do.

As the days wore on, so the conviction grew. The more I read on the

subject, the more directly the evidences pointed towards this view.

The more I thought, the more obstinate became the conviction. I

ransacked Aunt Janet’s volumes again and again to find anything to

the contrary; but in vain. Again, no matter how obstinate were my

convictions at any given time, unsettlement came with fresh thinking

over the argument, so that I was kept in a harassing state of

uncertainty.

Briefly, the evidence in favour of accord between the facts of the

case and the Vampire theory were:

Her coming was at night—the time the Vampire is according to the

theory, free to move at will.

She wore her shroud—a necessity of coming fresh from grave or tomb;

for there is nothing occult about clothing which is not subject to

astral or other influences.

She had to be helped into my room—in strict accordance with what one

sceptical critic of occultism has called “the Vampire etiquette.”

She made violent haste in getting away at cock-crow.

She seemed preternaturally cold; her sleep was almost abnormal in

intensity, and yet the sound of the cock-crowing came through it.

These things showed her to be subject to SOME laws, though not in

exact accord within those which govern human beings. Under the

stress of such circumstances as she must have gone through, her

vitality seemed more than human—the quality of vitality which could

outlive ordinary burial. Again, such purpose as she had shown in

donning, under stress of some compelling direction, her ice-cold wet

shroud, and, wrapt in it, going out again into the night, was hardly

normal for a woman.

But if so, and if she was indeed a Vampire, might not whatever it may

be that holds such beings in thrall be by some means or other

exorcised? To find the means must be my next task. I am actually

pining to see her again. Never before have I been stirred to my

depths by anyone. Come it from Heaven or Hell, from the Earth or the

Grave, it does not matter; I shall make it my task to win her back to

life and peace. If she be indeed a Vampire, the task may be hard and

long; if she be not so, and if it be merely that circumstances have

so gathered round her as to produce that impression, the task may be

simpler and the result more sweet. No, not more sweet; for what can

be more sweet than to restore the lost or seemingly lost soul of the

woman you love! There, the truth is out at last! I suppose that I

have fallen in love with her. If so, it is too late for me to fight

against it. I can only wait with what patience I can till I see her

again. But to that end I can do nothing. I know absolutely nothing

about her—not even her name. Patience!

RUPERT’S JOURNAL—Continued.

April 16, 1907.

The only relief I have had from the haunting anxiety regarding the

Lady of the Shroud has been in the troubled state of my adopted

country. There has evidently been something up which I have not been

allowed to know. The mountaineers are troubled and restless; are

wandering about, singly and in parties, and holding meetings in

strange places. This is what I gather used to be in old days when

intrigues were on foot with Turks, Greeks, Austrians, Italians,

Russians. This concerns me vitally, for my mind has long been made

up to share the fortunes of the Land of the Blue Mountains. For good

or ill I mean to stay here: J’y suis, j’y reste. I share henceforth

the lot of the Blue Mountaineers; and not Turkey, nor Greece, nor

Austria, nor Italy, nor Russia—no, not France nor Germany either;

not man nor God nor Devil shall drive me from my purpose. With these

patriots I throw in my lot! My only difficulty seemed at first to be

with the men themselves. They are so proud that at the beginning I

feared they would not even accord me the honour of being one of them!

However, things always move on somehow, no matter what difficulties

there be at the beginning. Never mind! When one looks back at an

accomplished fact the beginning is not to be seen—and if it were it

would not matter. It is not of any account, anyhow.

I heard that there was going to be a great meeting near here

yesterday afternoon, and I attended it. I think it was a success.

If such is any proof, I felt elated as well as satisfied when I came

away. Aunt Janet’s Second Sight on the subject was comforting,

though grim, and in a measure disconcerting. When I was saying good-night she asked me to bend down my head. As I did so, she laid her

hands on it and passed them all over it. I heard her say to herself:

“Strange! There’s nothing there; yet I could have sworn I saw it!”

I asked her to explain, but she would not. For once she was a little

obstinate, and refused point blank to even talk of the subject. She

was not worried nor unhappy; so I had no cause for concern. I said

nothing, but I shall wait and see. Most mysteries become plain or

disappear altogether in time. But about the meeting—lest I forget!

When I joined the mountaineers who had assembled, I really think they

were glad to see me; though some of them seemed adverse, and others

did not seem over well satisfied. However, absolute unity is very

seldom to be found. Indeed, it is almost impossible; and in a free

community is not altogether to be desired. When it is apparent, the

gathering lacks that sense of individual feeling which makes for the

real consensus of opinion—which is the real unity of purpose. The

meeting was at first, therefore, a little cold and distant. But

presently it began to thaw, and after some fiery harangues I was

asked to speak. Happily, I had begun to learn the Balkan language as

soon as ever Uncle Roger’s wishes had been made known to me, and as I

have some facility of tongues and a great deal of experience, I soon

began to know something of it. Indeed, when I had been here a few

weeks, with opportunity of speaking daily with the people themselves,

and learned to understand the intonations and vocal inflexions, I

felt quite easy in speaking it. I understood every word which had up

to then been spoken at the meeting, and when I spoke myself I felt

that they understood. That is an experience which every speaker has

in a certain way and up to a certain point. He knows by some kind of

instinct if his hearers are with him; if they respond, they must

certainly have understood. Last night this was marked. I felt it

every instant I was talking and when I came to realize that the men

were in strict accord with my general views, I took them into

confidence with regard to my own personal purpose. It was the

beginning of a mutual trust; so for peroration I told them that I had

come to the conclusion that what they wanted most for their own

protection and the security and consolidation of their nation was

arms—arms of the very latest pattern. Here they interrupted me with

wild cheers, which so strung me up that I went farther than I

intended, and made a daring venture. “Ay,” I repeated, “the security

and consolidation of your country—of OUR country, for I have come to

live amongst you. Here is my home whilst I live. I am with you

heart and soul. I shall live with you, fight shoulder to shoulder

with you, and, if need be, shall die with you!” Here the shouting

was terrific, and the younger men raised their guns to fire a salute

in Blue Mountain fashion. But on the instant the Vladika {1} held up

his hands and motioned them to desist. In the immediate silence he

spoke, sharply at first, but later ascending to a high pitch of

single-minded, lofty eloquence. His words rang in my ears long after

the meeting was over and other thoughts had come between them and the

present.

“Silence!” he thundered. “Make no echoes in the forest or through

the hills at this dire time of stress and threatened danger to our

land. Bethink ye of this meeting, held here and in secret, in order

that no whisper of it may be heard afar. Have ye all, brave men of

the Blue Mountains, come hither through the forest like shadows that

some of you, thoughtless, may enlighten your enemies as to our secret

purpose? The thunder of your guns would doubtless sound well in the

ears of those who wish us ill and try to work us wrong. Fellow-countrymen, know ye not that the Turk is awake once more for our

harming? The Bureau of Spies has risen from the torpor which came on

it when the purpose against our Teuta roused our mountains to such

anger that the frontiers blazed with passion, and were swept with

fire and sword. Moreover, there is a traitor somewhere in the land,

or else incautious carelessness has served the same base purpose.

Something of our needs—our doing, whose secret we have tried to

hide, has gone out. The myrmidons of the Turk are close on our

borders, and it may be that some of them have passed our guards and

are amidst us unknown. So it behoves us doubly to be discreet.

Believe me that I share with you, my brothers, our love for the

gallant Englishman who has come amongst us to share our sorrows and

ambitions—and I trust it may be our joys. We are all united in the

wish to do him honour—though not in the way by which danger might be

carried on the wings of love. My brothers, our newest brother comes

to us from the Great Nation which amongst the nations has been our

only friend, and which has ere now helped us in our direst need—that

mighty Britain whose hand has ever been raised in the cause of

freedom. We of the Blue Mountains know her best as she stands with

sword in hand face to face with our foes. And this, her son and now

our brother, brings further to our need the hand of a giant and the

heart of a lion. Later on, when danger does not ring us round, when

silence is no longer our outer guard; we shall bid him welcome in

true fashion of our land. But till then he will believe—for he is

great-hearted—that our love and thanks and welcome are not to be

measured by sound. When the time comes, then shall be sound in his

honour—not of rifles alone, but bells and cannon and the mighty

voice of a free people shouting as one. But now we must be wise and

silent, for the Turk is once again at our gates. Alas! the cause of

his former coming may not be, for she whose beauty and nobility and

whose place in our nation and in our hearts tempted him to fraud and

violence is not with us to share even our anxiety.”

Here his voice broke, and there arose from all a deep wailing sound,

which rose and rose till the woods around us seemed broken by a

mighty and long-sustained sob. The orator saw that his purpose was

accomplished, and with a short sentence finished his harangue: “But

the need of our nation still remains!” Then, with an eloquent

gesture to me to proceed, he merged in the crowd and disappeared.

How could I even attempt to follow such a speaker with any hope of

success? I simply told them what I had already done in the way of

help, saying:

“As you needed arms, I have got them. My agent sends me word through

the code between us that he has procured for me—for us—fifty

thousand of the newest-pattern rifles, the French Ingis-Malbron,

which has surpassed all others, and sufficient ammunition to last for

a year of war. The first section is in hand, and will soon be ready

for consignment. There are other war materials, too, which, when

they arrive, will enable every man and woman—even the children—of

our land to take a part in its defence should such be needed. My

brothers, I am with you in all things, for good or ill!”

It made me very proud to hear the mighty shout which arose. I had

felt exalted before, but now this personal development almost

unmanned me. I was glad of the long-sustained applause to recover my

self-control.

I was quite satisfied that the meeting did not want to hear any other

speaker, for they began to melt away without any formal notification

having been given. I doubt if there will be another meeting soon

again. The weather has begun to break, and we are in for another

spell of rain. It is disagreeable, of course; but it has its own

charm. It was during a spell of wet weather that the Lady of the

Shroud came to me. Perhaps the rain may bring her again. I hope so,

with all my soul.

RUPERT’S JOURNAL—Continued.

April 23, 1907.

The rain has continued for four whole days and nights, and the lowlying ground is like a quagmire in places. In the sunlight the whole

mountains glisten with running streams and falling water. I feel a

strange kind of elation, but from no visible cause. Aunt Janet

rather queered it by telling me, as she said good-night, to be very

careful of myself, as she had seen in a dream last night a figure in

a shroud. I fear she was not pleased that I did not take it with all

the seriousness that she did. I would not wound her for the world if

I could help it, but the idea of a shroud gets too near the bone to

be safe, and I had to fend her off at all hazards. So when I doubted

if the Fates regarded the visionary shroud as of necessity

appertaining to me, she said, in a way that was, for her, almost

sharp:

“Take care, laddie. ‘Tis ill jesting wi’ the powers o’ time

Unknown.”

Perhaps it was that her talk put the subject in my mind. The woman

needed no such aid; she was always there; but when I locked myself

into my room that night, I half expected to find her in the room. I

was not sleepy, so I took a book of Aunt Janet’s and began to read.

The title was “On the Powers and Qualities of Disembodied Spirits.”

“Your grammar,” said I to the author, “is hardly attractive, but I

may learn something which might apply to her. I shall read your

book.” Before settling down to it, however, I thought I would have a

look at the garden. Since the night of the visit the garden seemed

to have a new attractiveness for me: a night seldom passed without

my having a last look at it before turning in. So I drew the great

curtain and looked out.

The scene was beautiful, but almost entirely desolate. All was

ghastly in the raw, hard gleams of moonlight coming fitfully through

the masses of flying cloud. The wind was rising, and the air was

damp and cold. I looked round the room instinctively, and noticed

that the fire was laid ready for lighting, and that there were small-cut logs of wood piled beside the hearth. Ever since that night I

have had a fire laid ready. I was tempted to light it, but as I

never have a fire unless I sleep in the open, I hesitated to begin.

I went back to the window, and, opening the catch, stepped out on the

terrace. As I looked down the white walk and let my eyes range over

the expanse of the garden, where everything glistened as the

moonlight caught the wet, I half expected to see some white figure

flitting amongst the shrubs and statues. The whole scene of the

former visit came back to me so vividly that I could hardly believe

that any time had passed since then. It was the same scene, and

again late in the evening. Life in Vissarion was primitive, and

early hours prevailed—though not so late as on that night.

As I looked I thought I caught a glimpse of something white far away.

It was only a ray of moonlight coming through the rugged edge of a

cloud. But all the same it set me in a strange state of

perturbation. Somehow I seemed to lose sight of my own identity. It

was as though I was hypnotized by the situation or by memory, or

perhaps by some occult force. Without thinking of what I was doing,

or being conscious of any reason for it, I crossed the room and set

light to the fire. Then I blew out the candle and came to the window

again. I never thought it might be a foolish thing to do—to stand

at a window with a light behind me in this country, where every man

carries a gun with him always. I was in my evening clothes, too,

with my breast well marked by a white shirt. I opened the window and

stepped out on the terrace. There I stood for many minutes,

thinking. All the time my eyes kept ranging over the garden. Once I

thought I saw a white figure moving, but it was not followed up, so,

becoming conscious that it was again beginning to rain, I stepped

back into the room, shut the window, and drew the curtain. Then I

realized the comforting appearance of the fire, and went over and

stood before it.

Hark! Once more there was a gentle tapping at the window. I rushed

over to it and drew the curtain.

There, out on the rain-beaten terrace, stood the white shrouded

figure, more desolate-appearing than ever. Ghastly pale she looked,

as before, but her eyes had an eager look which was new. I took it

that she was attracted by the fire, which was by now well ablaze, and

was throwing up jets of flame as the dry logs crackled. The leaping

flames threw fitful light across the room, and every gleam threw the

white-clad figure into prominence, showing the gleam of the black

eyes, and fixing the stars that lay in them.

Without a word I threw open the window, and, taking the white hand

extended to me, drew into the room the Lady of the Shroud.

As she entered and felt the warmth of the blazing fire, a glad look

spread over her face. She made a movement as if to run to it. But

she drew back an instant after, looking round with instinctive

caution. She closed the window and bolted it, touched the lever

which spread the grille across the opening, and pulled close the

curtain behind it. Then she went swiftly to the door and tried if it

was locked. Satisfied as to this, she came quickly over to the fire,

and, kneeling before it, stretched out her numbed hands to the blaze.

Almost on the instant her wet shroud began to steam. I stood

wondering. The precautions of secrecy in the midst of her suffering-

-for that she did suffer was only too painfully manifest—must have

presupposed some danger. Then and there my mind was made up that

there should no harm assail her that I by any means could fend off.

Still, the present must be attended to; pneumonia and other ills

stalked behind such a chill as must infallibly come on her unless

precautions were taken. I took again the dressing-gown which she had

worn before and handed it to her, motioning as I did so towards the

screen which had made a dressing-room for her on the former occasion.

To my surprise she hesitated. I waited. She waited, too, and then

laid down the dressing-gown on the edge of the stone fender. So I

spoke:

“Won’t you change as you did before? Your—your frock can then be

dried. Do! It will be so much safer for you to be dry clad when you

resume your own dress.”

“How can I whilst you are here?”

Her words made me stare, so different were they from her acts of the

other visit. I simply bowed—speech on such a subject would be at

least inadequate—and walked over to the window. Passing behind the

curtain, I opened the window. Before stepping out on to the terrace,

I looked into the room and said:

“Take your own time. There is no hurry. I dare say you will find

there all you may want. I shall remain on the terrace until you

summon me.” With that I went out on the terrace, drawing close the

glass door behind me.

I stood looking out on the dreary scene for what seemed a very short

time, my mind in a whirl. There came a rustle from within, and I saw

a dark brown figure steal round the edge of the curtain. A white

hand was raised, and beckoned me to come in. I entered, bolting the

window behind me. She had passed across the room, and was again

kneeling before the fire with her hands outstretched. The shroud was

laid in partially opened folds on one side of the hearth, and was

steaming heavily. I brought over some cushions and pillows, and made

a little pile of them beside her.

“Sit there,” I said, “and rest quietly in the heat.” It may have

been the effect of the glowing heat, but there was a rich colour in

her face as she looked at me with shining eyes. Without a word, but

with a courteous little bow, she sat down at once. I put a thick rug

across her shoulders, and sat down myself on a stool a couple of feet

away.

For fully five or six minutes we sat in silence. At last, turning

her head towards me she said in a sweet, low voice:

“I had intended coming earlier on purpose to thank you for your very

sweet and gracious courtesy to me, but circumstances were such that I

could not leave my—my”—she hesitated before saying—“my abode. I

am not free, as you and others are, to do what I will. My existence

is sadly cold and stern, and full of horrors that appal. But I DO

thank you. For myself I am not sorry for the delay, for every hour

shows me more clearly how good and understanding and sympathetic you

have been to me. I only hope that some day you may realize how kind

you have been, and how much I appreciate it.”

“I am only too glad to be of any service,” I said, feebly I felt, as

I held out my hand. She did not seem to see it. Her eyes were now

on the fire, and a warm blush dyed forehead and cheek and neck. The

reproof was so gentle that no one could have been offended. It was

evident that she was something coy and reticent, and would not allow

me to come at present more close to her, even to the touching of her

hand. But that her heart was not in the denial was also evident in

the glance from her glorious dark starry eyes. These glances—

veritable lightning flashes coming through her pronounced reserve—

finished entirely any wavering there might be in my own purpose. I

was aware now to the full that my heart was quite subjugated. I knew

that I was in love—veritably so much in love as to feel that without

this woman, be she what she might, by my side my future must be

absolutely barren.

It was presently apparent that she did not mean to stay as long on

this occasion as on the last. When the castle clock struck midnight

she suddenly sprang to her feet with a bound, saying:

“I must go! There is midnight!” I rose at once, the intensity of

her speech having instantly obliterated the sleep which, under the

influence of rest and warmth, was creeping upon me. Once more she

was in a frenzy of haste, so I hurried towards the window, but as I

looked back saw her, despite her haste, still standing. I motioned

towards the screen, and slipping behind the curtain, opened the

window and went out on the terrace. As I was disappearing behind the

curtain I saw her with the tail of my eye lifting the shroud, now

dry, from the hearth.

She was out through the window in an incredibly short time, now

clothed once more in that dreadful wrapping. As she sped past me

barefooted on the wet, chilly marble which made her shudder, she

whispered:

“Thank you again. You ARE good to me. You can understand.”

Once again I stood on the terrace, saw her melt like a shadow down

the steps, and disappear behind the nearest shrub. Thence she

flitted away from point to point with exceeding haste. The moonlight

had now disappeared behind heavy banks of cloud, so there was little

light to see by. I could just distinguish a pale gleam here and

there as she wended her secret way.

For a long time I stood there alone thinking, as I watched the course

she had taken, and wondering where might be her ultimate destination.

As she had spoken of her “abode,” I knew there was some definitive

objective of her flight.

It was no use wondering. I was so entirely ignorant of her

surroundings that I had not even a starting-place for speculation.

So I went in, leaving the window open. It seemed that this being so

made one barrier the less between us. I gathered the cushions and

rugs from before the fire, which was no longer leaping, but burning

with a steady glow, and put them back in their places. Aunt Janet

might come in the morning, as she had done before, and I did not wish

to set her thinking. She is much too clever a person to have

treading on the heels of a mystery—especially one in which my own

affections are engaged. I wonder what she would have said had she

seen me kiss the cushion on which my beautiful guest’s head had

rested?

When I was in bed, and in the dark save for the fading glow of the

fire, my thoughts became fixed that whether she came from Earth or

Heaven or Hell, my lovely visitor was already more to me than aught

else in the world. This time she had, on going, said no word of

returning. I had been so much taken up with her presence, and so

upset by her abrupt departure, that I had omitted to ask her. And so

I am driven, as before, to accept the chance of her returning—a

chance which I fear I am or may be unable to control.

Surely enough Aunt Janet did come in the morning, early. I was still

asleep when she knocked at my door. With that purely physical

subconsciousness which comes with habit I must have realized the

cause of the sound, for I woke fully conscious of the fact that Aunt

Janet had knocked and was waiting to come in. I jumped from bed, and

back again when I had unlocked the door. When Aunt Janet came in she

noticed the cold of the room.

“Save us, laddie, but ye’ll get your death o’ cold in this room.”

Then, as she looked round and noticed the ashes of the extinct fire

in the grate:

“Eh, but ye’re no that daft after a’; ye’ve had the sense to light

yer fire. Glad I am that we had the fire laid and a wheen o’ dry

logs ready to yer hand.” She evidently felt the cold air coming from

the window, for she went over and drew the curtain. When she saw the

open window, she raised her hands in a sort of dismay, which to me,

knowing how little base for concern could be within her knowledge,

was comic. Hurriedly she shut the window, and then, coming close

over to my bed, said:

“Yon has been a fearsome nicht again, laddie, for yer poor auld

aunty.”

“Dreaming again, Aunt Janet?” I asked—rather flippantly as it seemed

to me. She shook her head:

“Not so, Rupert, unless it be that the Lord gies us in dreams what we

in our spiritual darkness think are veesions.” I roused up at this.

When Aunt Janet calls me Rupert, as she always used to do in my dear

mother’s time, things are serious with her. As I was back in

childhood now, recalled by her word, I thought the best thing I could

do to cheer her would be to bring her back there too—if I could. So

I patted the edge of the bed as I used to do when I was a wee kiddie

and wanted her to comfort me, and said:

“Sit down, Aunt Janet, and tell me.” She yielded at once, and the

look of the happy old days grew over her face as though there had

come a gleam of sunshine. She sat down, and I put out my hands as I

used to do, and took her hand between them. There was a tear in her

eye as she raised my hand and kissed it as in old times. But for the

infinite pathos of it, it would have been comic:

Aunt Janet, old and grey-haired, but still retaining her girlish

slimness of figure, petite, dainty as a Dresden figure, her face

lined with the care of years, but softened and ennobled by the

unselfishness of those years, holding up my big hand, which would

outweigh her whole arm; sitting dainty as a pretty old fairy beside a

recumbent giant—for my bulk never seems so great as when I am near

this real little good fairy of my life—seven feet beside four feet

seven.

So she began as of old, as though she were about to soothe a

frightened child with a fairy tale:

“‘Twas a veesion, I think, though a dream it may hae been. But

whichever or whatever it was, it concerned my little boy, who has

grown to be a big giant, so much that I woke all of a tremble.

Laddie dear, I thought that I saw ye being married.” This gave me an

opening, though a small one, for comforting her, so I took it at

once:

“Why, dear, there isn’t anything to alarm you in that, is there? It

was only the other day when you spoke to me about the need of my

getting married, if it was only that you might have children of your

boy playing around your knees as their father used to do when he was

a helpless wee child himself.”

“That is so, laddie,” she answered gravely. “But your weddin’ was

none so merry as I fain would see. True, you seemed to lo’e her wi’

all yer hairt. Yer eyes shone that bright that ye might ha’ set her

afire, for all her black locks and her winsome face. But, laddie,

that was not all—no, not though her black een, that had the licht o’

all the stars o’ nicht in them, shone in yours as though a hairt o’

love an’ passion, too, dwelt in them. I saw ye join hands, an’ heard

a strange voice that talked stranger still, but I saw none ither.

Your eyes an’ her eyes, an’ your hand an’ hers, were all I saw. For

all else was dim, and the darkness was close around ye twa. And when

the benison was spoken—I knew that by the voices that sang, and by

the gladness of her een, as well as by the pride and glory of yours—

the licht began to glow a wee more, an’ I could see yer bride. She

was in a veil o’ wondrous fine lace. And there were orange-flowers

in her hair, though there were twigs, too, and there was a crown o’

flowers on head wi’ a golden band round it. And the heathen candles

that stood on the table wi’ the Book had some strange effect, for the

reflex o’ it hung in the air o’er her head like the shadow of a

crown. There was a gold ring on her finger and a silver one on

yours.” Here she paused and trembled, so that, hoping to dispel her

fears, I said, as like as I could to the way I used to when I was a

child:

“Go on, Aunt Janet.”

She did not seem to recognize consciously the likeness between past

and present; but the effect was there, for she went on more like her

old self, though there was a prophetic gravity in her voice, more

marked than I had ever heard from her:

“All this I’ve told ye was well; but, oh, laddie, there was a

dreadful lack o’ livin’ joy such as I should expect from the woman

whom my boy had chosen for his wife—and at the marriage coupling,

too! And no wonder, when all is said; for though the marriage veil

o’ love was fine, an’ the garland o’ flowers was fresh-gathered,

underneath them a’ was nane ither than a ghastly shroud. As I looked

in my veesion—or maybe dream—I expectit to see the worms crawl

round the flagstane at her feet. If ‘twas not Death, laddie dear,

that stood by ye, it was the shadow o’ Death that made the darkness

round ye, that neither the light o’ candles nor the smoke o’ heathen

incense could pierce. Oh, laddie, laddie, wae is me that I hae seen

sic a veesion—waking or sleeping, it matters not! I was sair

distressed—so sair that I woke wi’ a shriek on my lips and bathed in

cold sweat. I would hae come doon to ye to see if you were hearty or

no—or even to listen at your door for any sound o’ yer being quick,

but that I feared to alarm ye till morn should come. I’ve counted

the hours and the minutes since midnight, when I saw the veesion,

till I came hither just the now.”

“Quite right, Aunt Janet,” I said, “and I thank you for your kind

thought for me in the matter, now and always.” Then I went on, for I

wanted to take precautions against the possibility of her discovery

of my secret. I could not bear to think that she might run my

precious secret to earth in any well-meant piece of bungling. That

would be to me disaster unbearable. She might frighten away

altogether my beautiful visitor, even whose name or origin I did not

know, and I might never see her again:

“You must never do that, Aunt Janet. You and I are too good friends

to have sense of distrust or annoyance come between us—which would

surely happen if I had to keep thinking that you or anyone else might

be watching me.”

RUPERT’S JOURNAL—Continued.

April 27, 1907.

After a spell of loneliness which has seemed endless I have something

to write. When the void in my heart was becoming the receptacle for

many devils of suspicion and distrust I set myself a task which

might, I thought, keep my thoughts in part, at any rate, occupied—to

explore minutely the neighbourhood round the Castle. This might, I

hoped, serve as an anodyne to my pain of loneliness, which grew more

acute as the days, the hours, wore on, even if it should not

ultimately afford me some clue to the whereabouts of the woman whom I

had now grown to love so madly.

My exploration soon took a systematic form, as I intended that it

should be exhaustive. I would take every day a separate line of

advance from the Castle, beginning at the south and working round by

the east to the north. The first day only took me to the edge of the

creek, which I crossed in a boat, and landed at the base of the cliff

opposite. I found the cliffs alone worth a visit. Here and there

were openings to caves which I made up my mind to explore later. I

managed to climb up the cliff at a spot less beetling than the rest,

and continued my journey. It was, though very beautiful, not a

specially interesting place. I explored that spoke of the wheel of

which Vissarion was the hub, and got back just in time for dinner.

The next day I took a course slightly more to the eastward. I had no

difficulty in keeping a straight path, for, once I had rowed across

the creek, the old church of St. Sava rose before me in stately

gloom. This was the spot where many generations of the noblest of

the Land of the Blue Mountains had from time immemorial been laid to

rest, amongst them the Vissarions. Again, I found the opposite

cliffs pierced here and there with caves, some with wide openings,—

others the openings of which were partly above and partly below

water. I could, however, find no means of climbing the cliff at this

part, and had to make a long detour, following up the line of the

creek till further on I found a piece of beach from which ascent was

possible. Here I ascended, and found that I was on a line between

the Castle and the southern side of the mountains. I saw the church

of St. Sava away to my right, and not far from the edge of the cliff.

I made my way to it at once, for as yet I had never been near it.

Hitherto my excursions had been limited to the Castle and its many

gardens and surroundings. It was of a style with which I was not

familiar—with four wings to the points of the compass. The great

doorway, set in a magnificent frontage of carved stone of manifestly

ancient date, faced west, so that, when one entered, he went east.

To my surprise—for somehow I expected the contrary—I found the door

open. Not wide open, but what is called ajar—manifestly not locked

or barred, but not sufficiently open for one to look in. I entered,

and after passing through a wide vestibule, more like a section of a

corridor than an ostensible entrance, made my way through a spacious

doorway into the body of the church. The church itself was almost

circular, the openings of the four naves being spacious enough to

give the appearance of the interior as a whole, being a huge cross.

It was strangely dim, for the window openings were small and high-set, and were, moreover, filled with green or blue glass, each window

having a colour to itself. The glass was very old, being of the

thirteenth or fourteenth century. Such appointments as there were—

for it had a general air of desolation—were of great beauty and

richness,—especially so to be in a place—even a church—where the

door lay open, and no one was to be seen. It was strangely silent

even for an old church on a lonesome headland. There reigned a

dismal solemnity which seemed to chill me, accustomed as I have been

to strange and weird places. It seemed abandoned, though it had not

that air of having been neglected which is so often to be noticed in

old ‘churches. There was none of the everlasting accumulation of

dust which prevails in places of higher cultivation and larger and

more strenuous work.

In the church itself or its appending chambers I could find no clue

or suggestion which could guide me in any way in my search for the

Lady of the Shroud. Monuments there were in profusion—statues,

tablets, and all the customary memorials of the dead. The families

and dates represented were simply bewildering. Often the name of

Vissarion was given, and the inscription which it held I read through

carefully, looking to find some enlightenment of any kind. But all

in vain: there was nothing to see in the church itself. So I

determined to visit the crypt. I had no lantern or candle with me,

so had to go back to the Castle to secure one.

It was strange, coming in from the sunlight, here overwhelming to one

so recently accustomed to northern skies, to note the slender gleam

of the lantern which I carried, and which I had lit inside the door.

At my first entry to the church my mind had been so much taken up

with the strangeness of the place, together with the intensity of

wish for some sort of clue, that I had really no opportunity of

examining detail. But now detail became necessary, as I had to find

the entrance to the crypt. My puny light could not dissipate the

semi-Cimmerian gloom of the vast edifice; I had to throw the feeble

gleam into one after another of the dark corners.

At last I found, behind the great screen, a narrow stone staircase

which seemed to wind down into the rock. It was not in any way

secret, but being in the narrow space behind the great screen, was

not visible except when close to it. I knew I was now close to my

objective, and began to descend. Accustomed though I have been to

all sorts of mysteries and dangers, I felt awed and almost

overwhelmed by a sense of loneliness and desolation as I descended

the ancient winding steps. These were many in number, roughly hewn

of old in the solid rock on which the church was built.

I met a fresh surprise in finding that the door of the crypt was

open. After all, this was different from the church-door being open;

for in many places it is a custom to allow all comers at all times to

find rest and comfort in the sacred place. But I did expect that at

least the final resting-place of the historic dead would be held safe

against casual intrusion. Even I, on a quest which was very near my

heart, paused with an almost overwhelming sense of decorum before

passing through that open door. The crypt was a huge place,

strangely lofty for a vault. From its formation, however, I soon

came to the conclusion that it was originally a natural cavern

altered to its present purpose by the hand of man. I could hear

somewhere near the sound of running water, but I could not locate it.

Now and again at irregular intervals there was a prolonged booming,

which could only come from a wave breaking in a confined place. The

recollection then came to me of the proximity of the church to the

top of the beetling cliff, and of the half-sunk cavern entrances

which pierced it.

With the gleam of my lamp to guide me, I went through and round the

whole place. There were many massive tombs, mostly rough-hewn from

great slabs or blocks of stone. Some of them were marble, and the

cutting of all was ancient. So large and heavy were some of them

that it was a wonder to me how they could ever have been brought to

this place, to which the only entrance was seemingly the narrow,

tortuous stairway by which I had come. At last I saw near one end of

the crypt a great chain hanging. Turning the light upward, I found

that it depended from a ring set over a wide opening, evidently made

artificially. It must have been through this opening that the great

sarcophagi had been lowered.

Directly underneath the hanging chain, which did not come closer to

the ground than some eight or ten feet, was a huge tomb in the shape

of a rectangular coffer or sarcophagus. It was open, save for a huge

sheet of thick glass which rested above it on two thick balks of dark

oak, cut to exceeding smoothness, which lay across it, one at either

end. On the far side from where I stood each of these was joined to

another oak plank, also cut smooth, which sloped gently to the rocky

floor. Should it be necessary to open the tomb, the glass could be

made to slide along the supports and descend by the sloping planks.

Naturally curious to know what might be within such a strange

receptacle, I raised the lantern, depressing its lens so that the

light might fall within.

Then I started back with a cry, the lantern slipping from my

nerveless hand and falling with a ringing sound on the great sheet of

thick glass.

Within, pillowed on soft cushions, and covered with a mantle woven of

white natural fleece sprigged with tiny sprays of pine wrought in

gold, lay the body of a woman—none other than my beautiful visitor.

She was marble white, and her long black eyelashes lay on her white

cheeks as though she slept.

Without a word or a sound, save the sounds made by my hurrying feet

on the stone flooring, I fled up the steep steps, and through the dim

expanse of the church, out into the bright sunlight. I found that I

had mechanically raised the fallen lamp, and had taken it with me in

my flight.

My feet naturally turned towards home. It was all instinctive. The

new horror had—for the time, at any rate—drowned my mind in its

mystery, deeper than the deepest depths of thought or imagination.

BOOK IV: UNDER THE FLAGSTAFF

RUPERT’S JOURNAL—Continued.

May 1, 1907.

For some days after the last adventure I was in truth in a half-dazed

condition, unable to think sensibly, hardly coherently. Indeed, it

was as much as I could do to preserve something of my habitual

appearance and manner. However, my first test happily came soon, and

when I was once through it I reacquired sufficient self-confidence to

go through with my purpose. Gradually the original phase of

stupefaction passed, and I was able to look the situation in the

face. I knew the worst now, at any rate; and when the lowest point

has been reached things must begin to mend. Still, I was wofully

sensitive regarding anything which might affect my Lady of the

Shroud, or even my opinion of her. I even began to dread Aunt

Janet’s Second-Sight visions or dreams. These had a fatal habit of

coming so near to fact that they always made for a danger of

discovery. I had to realize now that the Lady of the Shroud might

indeed be a Vampire—one of that horrid race that survives death and

carries on a life-in-death existence eternally and only for evil.

Indeed, I began to EXPECT that Aunt Janet would ere long have some

prophetic insight to the matter. She had been so wonderfully correct

in her prophetic surmises with regard to both the visits to my room

that it was hardly possible that she could fail to take cognizance of

this last development.

But my dread was not justified; at any rate, I had no reason to

suspect that by any force or exercise of her occult gift she might

cause me concern by the discovery of my secret. Only once did I feel

that actual danger in that respect was close to me. That was when

she came early one morning and rapped at my door. When I called out,

“Who is that? What is it?” she said in an agitated way:

“Thank God, laddie, you are all right! Go to sleep again.”

Later on, when we met at breakfast, she explained that she had had a

nightmare in the grey of the morning. She thought she had seen me in

the crypt of a great church close beside a stone coffin; and, knowing

that such was an ominous subject to dream about, came as soon as she

dared to see if I was all right. Her mind was evidently set on death

and burial, for she went on:

“By the way, Rupert, I am told that the great church on time top of

the cliff across the creek is St. Sava’s, where the great people of

the country used to be buried. I want you to take me there some day.

We shall go over it, and look at the tombs and monuments together. I

really think I should be afraid to go alone, but it will be all right

if you are with me.” This was getting really dangerous, so I turned

it aside:

Really, Aunt Janet, I’m afraid it won’t do. If you go off to weird

old churches, and fill yourself up with a fresh supply of horrors, I

don’t know what will happen. You’ll be dreaming dreadful things

about me every night and neither you nor I shall get any sleep.” It

went to my heart to oppose her in any wish; and also this kind of

chaffy opposition might pain her. But I had no alternative; the

matter was too serious to be allowed to proceed. Should Aunt Janet

go to the church, she would surely want to visit the crypt. Should

she do so, and there notice the glass-covered tomb—as she could not

help doing—the Lord only knew what would happen. She had already

Second-Sighted a woman being married to me, and before I myself knew

that I had such a hope. What might she not reveal did she know where

the woman came from? It may have been that her power of Second Sight

had to rest on some basis of knowledge or belief, and that her vision

was but some intuitive perception of my own subjective thought. But

whatever it was it should be stopped—at all hazards.

This whole episode set me thinking introspectively, and led me

gradually but imperatively to self-analysis—not of powers, but of

motives. I found myself before long examining myself as to what were

my real intentions. I thought at first that this intellectual

process was an exercise of pure reason; but soon discarded this as

inadequate—even impossible. Reason is a cold manifestation; this

feeling which swayed and dominated me is none other than passion,

which is quick, hot, and insistent.

As for myself, the self-analysis could lead to but one result—the

expression to myself of the reality and definiteness of an already-formed though unconscious intention. I wished to do the woman good—

to serve her in some way—to secure her some benefit by any means, no

matter how difficult, which might be within my power. I knew that I

loved her—loved her most truly and fervently; there was no need for

self-analysis to tell me that. And, moreover, no self-analysis, or

any other mental process that I knew of, could help my one doubt:

whether she was an ordinary woman (or an extraordinary woman, for the

matter of that) in some sore and terrible straits; or else one who

lay under some dreadful condition, only partially alive, and not

mistress of herself or her acts. Whichever her condition might be,

there was in my own feeling a superfluity of affection for her. The

self-analysis taught me one thing, at any rate—that I had for her,

to start with, an infinite pity which had softened towards her my

whole being, and had already mastered merely selfish desire. Out of

it I began to find excuses for her every act. In the doing so I knew

now, though perhaps I did not at the time the process was going on,

that my view in its true inwardness was of her as a living woman—the

woman I loved.

In the forming of our ideas there are different methods of work, as

though the analogy with material life holds good. In the building of

a house, for instance, there are many persons employed; men of

different trades and occupations—architect, builder, masons,

carpenters, plumbers, and a host of others—and all these with the

officials of each guild or trade. So in the world of thought and

feelings: knowledge and understanding come through various agents,

each competent to its task.

How far pity reacted with love I knew not; I only knew that whatever

her state might be, were she living or dead, I could find in my heart

no blame for the Lady of the Shroud. It could not be that she was

dead in the real conventional way; for, after all, the Dead do not

walk the earth in corporal substance, even if there be spirits which

take the corporal form. This woman was of actual form and weight.

How could I doubt that, at all events—I, who had held her in my

arms? Might it not be that she was not quite dead, and that it had

been given to me to restore her to life again? Ah! that would be,

indeed, a privilege well worth the giving my life to accomplish.

That such a thing may be is possible. Surely the old myths were not

absolute inventions; they must have had a basis somewhere in fact.

May not the world-old story of Orpheus and Eurydice have been based

on some deeplying principle or power of human nature? There is not

one of us but has wished at some time to bring back the dead. Ay,

and who has not felt that in himself or herself was power in the deep

love for our dead to make them quick again, did we but know the

secret of how it was to be done?

For myself, I have seen such mysteries that I am open to conviction

regarding things not yet explained. These have been, of course,

amongst savages or those old-world people who have brought unchecked

traditions and beliefs—ay, and powers too—down the ages from the

dim days when the world was young; when forces were elemental, and

Nature’s handiwork was experimental rather than completed. Some of

these wonders may have been older still than the accepted period of

our own period of creation. May we not have to-day other wonders,

different only in method, but not more susceptible of belief? Obi-ism and Fantee-ism have been exercised in my own presence, and their

results proved by the evidence of my own eyes and other senses. So,

too, have stranger rites, with the same object and the same success,

in the far Pacific Islands. So, too, in India and China, in Thibet

and in the Golden Chersonese. On all and each of these occasions

there was, on my own part, enough belief to set in motion the powers

of understanding; and there were no moral scruples to stand in the

way of realization. Those whose lives are so spent that they achieve

the reputation of not fearing man or God or devil are not deterred in

their doing or thwarted from a set purpose by things which might

deter others not so equipped for adventure. Whatever may be before

them—pleasant or painful, bitter or sweet, arduous or facile,

enjoyable or terrible, humorous or full of awe and horror—they must

accept, taking them in the onward course as a good athlete takes

hurdles in his stride. And there must be no hesitating, no looking

back. If the explorer or the adventurer has scruples, he had better

give up that special branch of effort and come himself to a more

level walk in life. Neither must there be regrets. There is no need

for such; savage life has this advantage: it begets a certain

toleration not to be found in conventional existence.

RUPERT’S JOURNAL—Continued.

May 2, 1907.

I had heard long ago that Second Sight is a terrible gift, even to

its possessor. I am now inclined not only to believe, but to

understand it. Aunt Janet has made such a practice of it of late

that I go in constant dread of discovery of my secret. She seems to

parallel me all the time, whatever I may do. It is like a sort of

dual existence to her; for she is her dear old self all the time, and

yet some other person with a sort of intellectual kit of telescope

and notebook, which are eternally used on me. I know they are FOR

me, too—for what she considers my good. But all the same it makes

an embarrassment. Happily Second Sight cannot speak as clearly as it

sees, or, rather, as it understands. For the translation of the

vague beliefs which it inculcates is both nebulous and uncertain—a

sort of Delphic oracle which always says things which no one can make

out at the time, but which can be afterwards read in any one of

several ways. This is all right, for in my case it is a kind of

safety; but, then, Aunt Janet is a very clever woman, and some time

she herself may be able to understand. Then she may begin to put two

and two together. When she does that, it will not be long before she

knows more than I do of the facts of the whole affair. And her

reading of them and of the Lady of the Shroud, round whom they

circle, may not be the same as mine. Well, that will be all right

too. Aunt Janet loves me—God knows I have good reason to know that

all through these years—and whatever view she may take, her acts

will be all I could wish. But I shall come in for a good lot of

scolding, I am sure. By the way, I ought to think of that; if Aunt

Janet scolds me, it is a pretty good proof that I ought to be

scolded. I wonder if I dare tell her all. No! It is too strange.

She is only a woman, after all: and if she knew I loved … I wish

I knew her name, and thought—as I might myself do, only that I

resist it—that she is not alive at all. Well, what she would either

think or do beats me. I suppose she would want to slipper me as she

used to do when I was a wee kiddie—in a different way, of course.

May 3, 1907.

I really could not go on seriously last night. The idea of Aunt

Janet giving me a licking as in the dear old days made me laugh so

much that nothing in the world seemed serious then. Oh, Aunt Janet

is all right whatever comes. That I am sure of, so I needn’t worry

over it. A good thing too; there will be plenty to worry about

without that. I shall not check her telling me of her visions,

however; I may learn something from them.

For the last four-and-twenty hours I have, whilst awake, been looking

over Aunt Janet’s books, of which I brought a wheen down here. Gee

whizz! No wonder the old dear is superstitious, when she is filled

up to the back teeth with that sort of stuff! There may be some

truth in some of those yarns; those who wrote them may believe in

them, or some of them, at all events. But as to coherence or logic,

or any sort of reasonable or instructive deduction, they might as

well have been written by so many hens! These occult book-makers

seem to gather only a lot of bare, bald facts, which they put down in

the most uninteresting way possible. They go by quantity only. One

story of the kind, well examined and with logical comments, would be

more convincing to a third party than a whole hecatomb of them.

RUPERT’S JOURNAL—Continued.

May 4, 1907.

There is evidently something up in the country. The mountaineers are

more uneasy than they have been as yet. There is constant going to

and fro amongst them, mostly at night and in the grey of the morning.

I spend many hours in my room in the eastern tower, from which I can

watch the woods, and gather from signs the passing to and fro. But

with all this activity no one has said to me a word on the subject.

It is undoubtedly a disappointment to me. I had hoped that the

mountaineers had come to trust me; that gathering at which they

wanted to fire their guns for me gave me strong hopes. But now it is

apparent that they do not trust me in full—as yet, at all events.

Well, I must not complain. It is all only right and just. As yet I

have done nothing to prove to them the love and devotion that I feel

to the country. I know that such individuals as I have met trust me,

and I believe like me. But the trust of a nation is different. That

has to be won and tested; he who would win it must justify, and in a

way that only troublous times can allow. No nation will—can—give

full meed of honour to a stranger in times of peace. Why should it?

I must not forget that I am here a stranger in the land, and that to

the great mass of people even my name is unknown. Perhaps they will

know me better when Rooke comes back with that store of arms and

ammunition that he has bought, and the little warship he has got from

South America. When they see that I hand over the whole lot to the

nation without a string on them, they may begin to believe. In the

meantime all I can do is to wait. It will all come right in time, I

have no doubt. And if it doesn’t come right, well, we can only die

once!

Is that so? What about my Lady of the Shroud? I must not think of

that or of her in this gallery. Love and war are separate, and may

not mix—cannot mix, if it comes to that. I must be wise in the

matter; and if I have got the hump in any degree whatever, must not

show it.

But one thing is certain: something is up, and it must be the Turks.

From what the Vladika said at that meeting they have some intention

of an attack on the Blue Mountains. If that be so, we must be ready;

and perhaps I can help there. The forces must be organized; we must

have some method of communication. In this country, where are

neither roads nor railways nor telegraphs, we must establish a

signalling system of some sort. THAT I can begin at once. I can

make a code, or adapt one that I have used elsewhere already. I

shall rig up a semaphore on the top of the Castle which can be seen

for an enormous distance around. I shall train a number of men to be

facile in signalling. And then, should need come, I may be able to

show the mountaineers that I am fit to live in their hearts …

And all this work may prove an anodyne to pain of another kind. It

will help, at any rate, to keep my mind occupied whilst I am waiting

for another visit from my Lady of the Shroud.

RUPERT’S JOURNAL—Continued.

May 18, 1907.

The two weeks that have passed have been busy, and may, as time goes

on, prove eventful. I really think they have placed me in a

different position with the Blue Mountaineers—certainly so far as

those in this part of the country are concerned. They are no longer

suspicious of me—which is much; though they have not yet received me

into their confidence. I suppose this will come in time, but I must

not try to hustle them. Already they are willing, so far as I can

see, to use me to their own ends. They accepted the signalling idea

very readily, and are quite willing to drill as much as I like. This

can be (and I think is, in its way) a pleasure to them. They are

born soldiers, every man of them; and practice together is only a

realization of their own wishes and a further development of their

powers. I think I can understand the trend of their thoughts, and

what ideas of public policy lie behind them. In all that we have

attempted together as yet they are themselves in absolute power. It

rests with them to carry out any ideas I may suggest, so they do not

fear any assumption of power or governance on my part. Thus, so long

as they keep secret from me both their ideas of high policy and their

immediate intentions, I am powerless to do them ill, and I MAY be of

service should occasion arise. Well, all told, this is much.

Already they accept me as an individual, not merely one of the mass.

I am pretty sure that they are satisfied of my personal bona fides.

It is policy and not mistrust that hedges me in. Well, policy is a

matter of time. They are a splendid people, but if they knew a

little more than they do they would understand that the wisest of all

policies is trust—when it can be given. I must hold myself in

check, and never be betrayed into a harsh thought towards them. Poor

souls! with a thousand years behind them of Turkish aggression,

strenuously attempted by both force and fraud, no wonder they are

suspicious. Likewise every other nation with whom they have ever

come in contact—except one, my own—has deceived or betrayed them.

Anyhow, they are fine soldiers, and before long we shall have an army

that cannot be ignored. If I can get so that they trust me, I shall

ask Sir Colin to come out here. He would be a splendid head for

their army. His great military knowledge and tactical skill would

come in well. It makes me glow to think of what an army he would

turn out of this splendid material, and one especially adapted for

the style of fighting which would be necessary in this country.

If a mere amateur like myself, who has only had experience of

organizing the wildest kind of savages, has been able to advance or

compact their individual style of fighting into systematic effort, a

great soldier like MacKelpie will bring them to perfection as a

fighting machine. Our Highlanders, when they come out, will

foregather with them, as mountaineers always do with each other.

Then we shall have a force which can hold its own against any odds.

I only hope that Rooke will be returning soon. I want to see those

Ingis-Malbron rifles either safely stored in the Castle or, what is

better, divided up amongst the mountaineers—a thing which will be

done at the very earliest moment that I can accomplish it. I have a

conviction that when these men have received their arms and

ammunition from me they will understand me better, and not keep any

secrets from me.

All this fortnight when I was not drilling or going about amongst the

mountaineers, and teaching them the code which I have now got

perfected, I was exploring the side of the mountain nearest to here.

I could not bear to be still. It is torture to me to be idle in my

present condition of mind regarding my Lady of the Shroud …

Strange I do not mind mentioning the word to myself now. I used to

at first; but that bitterness has all gone away.

RUPERT’S JOURNAL—Continued.

May 19, 1907.

I was so restless early this morning that before daylight I was out

exploring on the mountain-side. By chance I came across a secret

place just as the day was breaking. Indeed, it was by the change of

light as the first sun-rays seemed to fall down the mountain-side

that my attention was called to an opening shown by a light behind

it. It was, indeed, a secret place—so secret that I thought at

first I should keep it to myself. In such a place as this either to

hide in or to be able to prevent anyone else hiding in might on

occasion be an asset of safety.

When, however, I saw indications rather than traces that someone had

already used it to camp in, I changed my mind, and thought that

whenever I should get an opportunity I would tell the Vladika of it,

as he is a man on whose discretion I can rely. If we ever have a war

here or any sort of invasion, it is just such places that may be

dangerous. Even in my own case it is much too near the Castle to be

neglected.

The indications were meagre—only where a fire had been on a little

shelf of rock; and it was not possible, through the results of

burning vegetation or scorched grass, to tell how long before the

fire had been alight. I could only guess. Perhaps the mountaineers

might be able to tell or even to guess better than I could. But I am

not so sure of this. I am a mountaineer myself, and with larger and

more varied experience than any of them. For myself, though I could

not be certain, I came to the conclusion that whoever had used the

place had done so not many days before. It could not have been quite

recently; but it may not have been very long ago. Whoever had used

it had covered up his tracks well. Even the ashes had been carefully

removed, and the place where they had lain was cleaned or swept in

some way, so that there was no trace on the spot. I applied some of

my West African experience, and looked on the rough bark of the trees

to leeward, to where the agitated air, however directed, must have

come, unless it was wanted to call attention to the place by the

scattered wood-ashes, however fine. I found traces of it, but they

were faint. There had not been rain for several days; so the dust

must have been blown there since the rain had fallen, for it was

still dry.

The place was a tiny gorge, with but one entrance, which was hidden

behind a barren spur of rock—just a sort of long fissure, jagged and

curving, in the rock, like a fault in the stratification. I could

just struggle through it with considerable effort, holding my breath

here and there, so as to reduce my depth of chest. Within it was

tree-clad, and full of possibilities of concealment.

As I came away I marked well its direction and approaches, noting any

guiding mark which might aid in finding it by day or night. I

explored every foot of ground around it—in front, on each side, and

above. But from nowhere could I see an indication of its existence.

It was a veritable secret chamber wrought by the hand of Nature

itself. I did not return home till I was familiar with every detail

near and around it. This new knowledge added distinctly to my sense

of security.

Later in the day I tried to find the Vladika or any mountaineer of

importance, for I thought that such a hiding-place which had been

used so recently might be dangerous, and especially at a time when,

as I had learned at the meeting where they did NOT fire their guns

that there may have been spies about or a traitor in the land.

Even before I came to my own room to-night I had fully made up my

mind to go out early in the morning and find some proper person to

whom to impart the information, so that a watch might be kept on the

place. It is now getting on for midnight, and when I have had my

usual last look at the garden I shall turn in. Aunt Janet was uneasy

all day, and especially so this evening. I think it must have been

my absence at the usual breakfast-hour which got on her nerves; and

that unsatisfied mental or psychical irritation increased as the day

wore on.

RUPERT’S JOURNAL—Continued.

May 20, 1907.

The clock on the mantelpiece in my room, which chimes on the notes of

the clock at St. James’s Palace, was striking midnight when I opened

the glass door on the terrace. I had put out my lights before I drew

the curtain, as I wished to see the full effect of the moonlight.

Now that the rainy season is over, the moon is quite as beautiful as

it was in the wet, and a great deal more comfortable. I was in

evening dress, with a smoking-jacket in lieu of a coat, and I felt

the air mild and mellow on the warm side, as I stood on the terrace.

But even in that bright moonlight the further corners of the great

garden were full of mysterious shadows. I peered into them as well

as I could—and my eyes are pretty good naturally, and are well

trained. There was not the least movement. The air was as still as

death, the foliage as still as though wrought in stone.

I looked for quite a long time in the hope of seeing something of my

Lady. The quarters chimed several times, but I stood on unheeding.

At last I thought I saw far off in the very corner of the old

defending wall a flicker of white. It was but momentary, and could

hardly have accounted in itself for the way my heart beat. I

controlled myself, and stood as though I, too, were a graven image.

I was rewarded by seeing presently another gleam of white. And then

an unspeakable rapture stole over me as I realized that my Lady was

coming as she had come before. I would have hurried out to meet her,

but that I knew well that this would not be in accord with her

wishes. So, thinking to please her, I drew back into the room. I

was glad I had done so when, from the dark corner where I stood, I

saw her steal up the marble steps and stand timidly looking in at the

door. Then, after a long pause, came a whisper as faint and sweet as

the music of a distant AEolian harp:

“Are you there? May I come in? Answer me! I am lonely and in

fear!” For answer I emerged from my dim corner so swiftly that she

was startled. I could hear from the quivering intake of her breath

that she was striving—happily with success—to suppress a shriek.

“Come in,” I said quietly. “I was waiting for you, for I felt that

you would come. I only came in from the terrace when I saw you

coming, lest you might fear that anyone might see us. That is not

possible, but I thought you wished that I should be careful.”

“I did—I do,” she answered in a low, sweet voice, but very firmly.

“But never avoid precaution. There is nothing that may not happen

here. There may be eyes where we least expect—or suspect them.” As

she spoke the last words solemnly and in a low whisper, she was

entering the room. I closed the glass door and bolted it, rolled

back the steel grille, and pulled the heavy curtain. Then, when I

had lit a candle, I went over and put a light to the fire. In a few

seconds the dry wood had caught, and the flames were beginning to

rise and crackle. She had not objected to my closing the window and

drawing the curtain; neither did she make any comment on my lighting

the fire. She simply acquiesced in it, as though it was now a matter

of course. When I made the pile of cushions before it as on the

occasion of her last visit, she sank down on them, and held out her

white, trembling hands to the warmth.

She was different to-night from what she had been on either of the

two former visits. From her present bearing I arrived at some gauge

of her self-concern, her self-respect. Now that she was dry, and not

overmastered by wet and cold, a sweet and gracious dignity seemed to

shine from her, enwrapping her, as it were, with a luminous veil. It

was not that she was by this made or shown as cold or distant, or in

any way harsh or forbidding. On the contrary, protected by this

dignity, she seemed much more sweet and genial than before. It was

as though she felt that she could afford to stoop now that her

loftiness was realized—that her position was recognized and secure.

If her inherent dignity made an impenetrable nimbus round her, this

was against others; she herself was not bound by it, or to be bound.

So marked was this, so entirely and sweetly womanly did she appear,

that I caught myself wondering in flashes of thought, which came as

sharp periods of doubting judgment between spells of unconscious

fascination, how I had ever come to think she was aught but perfect

woman. As she rested, half sitting and half lying on the pile of

cushions, she was all grace, and beauty, and charm, and sweetness—

the veritable perfect woman of the dreams of a man, be he young or

old. To have such a woman sit by his hearth and hold her holy of

holies in his heart might well be a rapture to any man. Even an hour

of such entrancing joy might be well won by a lifetime of pain, by

the balance of a long life sacrificed, by the extinction of life

itself. Quick behind the record of such thoughts came the answer to

the doubt they challenged: if it should turn out that she was not

living at all, but one of the doomed and pitiful Un-Dead, then so

much more on account of her very sweetness and beauty would be the

winning of her back to Life and Heaven—even were it that she might

find happiness in the heart and in the arms of another man.

Once, when I leaned over the hearth to put fresh logs on the fire, my

face was so close to hers that I felt her breath on my cheek. It

thrilled me to feel even the suggestion of that ineffable contact.

Her breath was sweet—sweet as the breath of a calf, sweet as the

whiff of a summer breeze across beds of mignonette. How could anyone

believe for a moment that such sweet breath could come from the lips

of the dead—the dead in esse or in posse—that corruption could send

forth fragrance so sweet and pure? It was with satisfied happiness

that, as I looked at her from my stool, I saw the dancing of the

flames from the beech-logs reflected in her glorious black eyes, and

the stars that were hidden in them shine out with new colours and new

lustre as they gleamed, rising and falling like hopes and fears. As

the light leaped, so did smiles of quiet happiness flit over her

beautiful face, the merriment of the joyous flames being reflected in

ever-changing dimples.

At first I was a little disconcerted whenever my eyes took note of

her shroud, and there came a momentary regret that the weather had

not been again bad, so that there might have been compulsion for her

putting on another garment—anything lacking the loathsomeness of

that pitiful wrapping. Little by little, however, this feeling

disappeared, and I found no matter for even dissatisfaction in her

wrapping. Indeed, my thoughts found inward voice before the subject

was dismissed from my mind:

“One becomes accustomed to anything—even a shroud!” But the thought

was followed by a submerging wave of pity that she should have had

such a dreadful experience.

By-and-by we seemed both to forget everything—I know I did—except

that we were man and woman, and close together. The strangeness of

the situation and the circumstances did not seem of moment—not worth

even a passing thought. We still sat apart and said little, if

anything. I cannot recall a single word that either of us spoke

whilst we sat before the fire, but other language than speech came

into play; the eyes told their own story, as eyes can do, and more

eloquently than lips whilst exercising their function of speech.

Question and answer followed each other in this satisfying language,

and with an unspeakable rapture I began to realize that my affection

was returned. Under these circumstances it was unrealizable that

there should be any incongruity in the whole affair. I was not

myself in the mood of questioning. I was diffident with that

diffidence which comes alone from true love, as though it were a

necessary emanation from that delightful and overwhelming and

commanding passion. In her presence there seemed to surge up within

me that which forbade speech. Speech under present conditions would

have seemed to me unnecessary, imperfect, and even vulgarly overt.

She, too, was silent. But now that I am alone, and memory is alone

with me, I am convinced that she also had been happy. No, not that

exactly. “Happiness” is not the word to describe either her feeling

or my own. Happiness is more active, a more conscious enjoyment. We

had been content. That expresses our condition perfectly; and now

that I can analyze my own feeling, and understand what the word

implies, I am satisfied of its accuracy. “Content” has both a

positive and negative meaning or antecedent condition. It implies an

absence of disturbing conditions as well as of wants; also it implies

something positive which has been won or achieved, or which has

accrued. In our state of mind—for though it may be presumption on

my part, I am satisfied that our ideas were mutual—it meant that we

had reached an understanding whence all that might come must be for

good. God grant that it may be so!

As we sat silent, looking into each other’s eyes, and whilst the

stars in hers were now full of latent fire, perhaps from the

reflection of the flames, she suddenly sprang to her feet,

instinctively drawing the horrible shroud round her as she rose to

her full height in a voice full of lingering emotion, as of one who

is acting under spiritual compulsion rather than personal will, she

said in a whisper:

“I must go at once. I feel the morning drawing nigh. I must be in

my place when the light of day comes.”

She was so earnest that I felt I must not oppose her wish; so I, too,

sprang to my feet and ran towards the window. I pulled the curtain

aside sufficiently far for me to press back the grille and reach the

glass door, the latch of which I opened. I passed behind the curtain

again, and held the edge of it back so that she could go through.

For an instant she stopped as she broke the long silence:

“You are a true gentleman, and my friend. You understand all I wish.

Out of the depth of my heart I thank you.” She held out her

beautiful high-bred hand. I took it in both mine as I fell on my

knees, and raised it to my lips. Its touch made me quiver. She,

too, trembled as she looked down at me with a glance which seemed to

search my very soul. The stars in her eyes, now that the firelight

was no longer on them, had gone back to their own mysterious silver.

Then she drew her hand from mine very, very gently, as though it

would fain linger; and she passed out behind the curtain with a

gentle, sweet, dignified little bow which left me on my knees.

When I heard the glass door pulled-to gently behind her, I rose from

my knees and hurried without the curtain, just in time to watch her

pass down the steps. I wanted to see her as long as I could. The

grey of morning was just beginning to war with the night gloom, and

by the faint uncertain light I could see dimly the white figure flit

between shrub and statue till finally it merged in the far darkness.

I stood for a long time on the terrace, sometimes looking into the

darkness in front of me, in case I might be blessed with another

glimpse of her; sometimes with my eyes closed, so that I might recall

and hold in my mind her passage down the steps. For the first time

since I had met her she had thrown back at me a glance as she stepped

on the white path below the terrace. With the glamour over me of

that look, which was all love and enticement, I could have dared all

the powers that be.

When the grey dawn was becoming apparent through the lightening of

the sky I returned to my room. In a dazed condition—half hypnotized

by love—I went to bed, and in dreams continued to think, all

happily, of my Lady of the Shroud.

RUPERT’S JOURNAL—Continued.

May 27, 1907.

A whole week has gone since I saw my Love! There it is; no doubt

whatever is left in my mind about it now! Since I saw her my passion

has grown and grown by leaps and bounds, as novelists put it. It has

now become so vast as to overwhelm me, to wipe out all thought of

doubt or difficulty. I suppose it must be what men suffered—

suffering need not mean pain—under enchantments in old times. I am

but as a straw whirled in the resistless eddies of a whirlpool. I

feel that I MUST see her again, even if it be but in her tomb in the

crypt. I must, I suppose, prepare myself for the venture, for many

things have to be thought of. The visit must not be at night, for in

such case I might miss her, did she come to me again here …

The morning came and went, but my wish and intention still remained;

and so in the full tide of noon, with the sun in all its fiery force,

I set out for the old church of St. Sava. I carried with me a

lantern with powerful lens. I had wrapped it up secretly, for I had

a feeling that I should not like anyone to know that I had such a

thing with me.

On this occasion I had no misgivings. On the former visit I had for

a moment been overwhelmed at the unexpected sight of the body of the

woman I thought I loved—I knew it now—lying in her tomb. But now I

knew all, and it was to see this woman, though in her tomb, that I

came.

When I had lit my lantern, which I did as soon as I had pushed open

the great door, which was once again unlocked, I turned my steps to

the steps of the crypt, which lay behind the richly carven wood

screen. This I could see, with the better light, was a noble piece

of work of priceless beauty and worth. I tried to keep my heart in

full courage with thoughts of my Lady, and of the sweetness and

dignity of our last meeting; but, despite all, it sank down, down,

and turned to water as I passed with uncertain feet down the narrow,

tortuous steps. My concern, I am now convinced, was not for myself,

but that she whom I adored should have to endure such a fearful

place. As anodyne to my own pain I thought what it would be, and how

I should feel, when I should have won for her a way out of that

horror, at any rate. This thought reassured me somewhat, and

restored my courage. It was in something of the same fashion which

has hitherto carried me out of tight places as well as into them that

at last I pushed open the low, narrow door at the foot of the rock-hewn staircase and entered the crypt.

Without delay I made my way to the glass-covered tomb set beneath the

hanging chain. I could see by the flashing of the light around me

that my hand which held the lantern trembled. With a great effort I

steadied myself, and raising the lantern, turned its light down into

the sarcophagus.

Once again the fallen lantern rang on the tingling glass, and I stood

alone in the darkness, for an instant almost paralyzed with surprised

disappointment.

The tomb was empty! Even the trappings of the dead had been removed.

I knew not what happened till I found myself groping my way up the

winding stair. Here, in comparison with the solid darkness of the

crypt, it seemed almost light. The dim expanse of the church sent a

few straggling rays down the vaulted steps, and as I could see, be it

never so dimly, I felt I was not in absolute darkness. With the

light came a sense of power and fresh courage, and I groped my way

back into the crypt again. There, by now and again lighting matches,

I found my way to the tomb and recovered my lantern. Then I took my

way slowly—for I wished to prove, if not my own courage, at least

such vestiges of self-respect as the venture had left me—through the

church, where I extinguished my lantern, and out through the great

door into the open sunlight. I seemed to have heard, both in the

darkness of the crypt and through the dimness of the church,

mysterious sounds as of whispers and suppressed breathing; but the

memory of these did not count for much when once I was free. I was

only satisfied of my own consciousness and identity when I found

myself on the broad rock terrace in front of the church, with the

fierce sunlight beating on my upturned face, and, looking downward,

saw far below me the rippled blue of the open sea.

RUPERT’S JOURNAL—Continued.

June 3, 1907.

Another week has elapsed—a week full of movement of many kinds and

in many ways—but as yet I have had no tale or tidings of my Lady of

the Shroud. I have not had an opportunity of going again in daylight

to St. Sava’s as I should have liked to have done. I felt that I

must not go at night. The night is her time of freedom, and it must

be kept for her—or else I may miss her, or perhaps never see her

again.

The days have been full of national movement. The mountaineers have

evidently been organizing themselves, for some reason which I cannot

quite understand, and which they have hesitated to make known to me.

I have taken care not to manifest any curiosity, whatever I may have

felt. This would certainly arouse suspicion, and might ultimately

cause disaster to my hopes of aiding the nation in their struggle to

preserve their freedom.

These fierce mountaineers are strangely—almost unduly—suspicious,

and the only way to win their confidence is to begin the trusting. A

young American attache of the Embassy at Vienna, who had made a

journey through the Land of the Blue Mountains, once put it to me in

this form:

“Keep your head shut, and they’ll open theirs. If you don’t, they’ll

open it for you—down to the chine!”

It was quite apparent to me that they were completing some fresh

arrangements for signalling with a code of their own. This was

natural enough, and in no way inconsistent with the measure of

friendliness already shown to me. Where there are neither

telegraphs, railways, nor roads, any effective form of communication

must—can only be purely personal. And so, if they wish to keep any

secret amongst themselves, they must preserve the secret of their

code. I should have dearly liked to learn their new code and their

manner of using it, but as I want to be a helpful friend to them—and

as this implies not only trust, but the appearance of it—I had to

school myself to patience.

This attitude so far won their confidence that before we parted at

our last meeting, after most solemn vows of faith and secrecy, they

took me into the secret. This was, however, only to the extent of

teaching me the code and method; they still withheld from me rigidly

the fact or political secret, or whatever it was that was the

mainspring of their united action.

When I got home I wrote down, whilst it was fresh in my memory, all

they told me. This script I studied until I had it so thoroughly by

heart that I COULD not forget it. Then I burned the paper. However,

there is now one gain at least: with my semaphore I can send through

the Blue Mountains from side to side, with expedition, secrecy, and

exactness, a message comprehensible to all.

RUPERT’S JOURNAL—Continued.

June 6, 1907.

Last night I had a new experience of my Lady of the Shroud—in so far

as form was concerned, at any rate. I was in bed, and just falling

asleep, when I heard a queer kind of scratching at the glass door of

the terrace. I listened acutely, my heart beating hard. The sound

seemed to come from low down, close to the floor. I jumped out of

bed, ran to the window, and, pulling aside the heavy curtains, looked

out.

The garden looked, as usual, ghostly in the moonlight, but there was

not the faintest sign of movement anywhere, and no one was on or near

the terrace. I looked eagerly down to where the sound had seemed to

come from.

There, just inside the glass door, as though it had been pushed under

the door, lay a paper closely folded in several laps. I picked it up

and opened it. I was all in a tumult, for my heart told me whence it

came. Inside was written in English, in a large, sprawling hand,

such as might be from an English child of seven or eight:

“Meet me at the Flagstaff on the Rock!”

I knew the place, of course. On the farthermost point of the rock on

which the Castle stands is set a high flagstaff, whereon in old time

the banner of the Vissarion family flew. At some far-off time, when

the Castle had been liable to attack, this point had been strongly

fortified. Indeed, in the days when the bow was a martial weapon it

must have been quite impregnable.

A covered gallery, with loopholes for arrows, had been cut in the

solid rock, running right round the point, quite surrounding the

flagstaff and the great boss of rock on whose centre it was reared.

A narrow drawbridge of immense strength had connected—in peaceful

times, and still remained—the outer point of rock with an entrance

formed in the outer wall, and guarded with flanking towers and a

portcullis. Its use was manifestly to guard against surprise. From

this point only could be seen the line of the rocks all round the

point. Thus, any secret attack by boats could be made impossible.

Having hurriedly dressed myself, and taking with me both hunting-knife and revolver, I went out on the terrace, taking the precaution,

unusual to me, of drawing the grille behind me and locking it.

Matters around the Castle are in far too disturbed a condition to

allow the taking of any foolish chances, either in the way of being

unarmed or of leaving the private entrance to the Castle open. I

found my way through the rocky passage, and climbed by the Jacob’s

ladder fixed on the rock—a device of convenience in time of peace—

to the foot of the flagstaff.

I was all on fire with expectation, and the time of going seemed

exceeding long; so I was additionally disappointed by the contrast

when I did not see my Lady there when I arrived. However, my heart

beat freely again—perhaps more freely than ever—when I saw her

crouching in the shadow of the Castle wall. From where she was she

could not be seen from any point save that alone which I occupied;

even from there it was only her white shroud that was conspicuous

through the deep gloom of the shadow. The moonlight was so bright

that the shadows were almost unnaturally black.

I rushed over towards her, and when close was about to say

impulsively, “Why did you leave your tomb?” when it suddenly struck

me that the question would be malapropos and embarrassing in many

ways. So, better judgment prevailing, I said instead:

“It has been so long since I saw you! It has seemed an eternity to

me!” Her answer came as quickly as even I could have wished; she

spoke impulsively and without thought:

“It has been long to me too! Oh, so long! so long! I have asked you

to come out here because I wanted to see you so much that I could not

wait any longer. I have been heart-hungry for a sight of you!”

Her words, her eager attitude, the ineffable something which conveys

the messages of the heart, the longing expression in her eyes as the

full moonlight fell on her face, showing the stars as living gold—

for in her eagerness she had stepped out towards me from the shadow—

all set me on fire. Without a thought or a word—for it was Nature

speaking in the language of Love, which is a silent tongue—I stepped

towards her and took her in my arms. She yielded with that sweet

unconsciousness which is the perfection of Love, as if it was in

obedience to some command uttered before the beginning of the world.

Probably without any conscious effort on either side—I know there

was none on mine—our mouths met in the first kiss of love.

At the time nothing in the meeting struck me as out of the common.

But later in the night, when I was alone and in darkness, whenever I

thought of it all—its strangeness and its stranger rapture—I could

not but be sensible of the bizarre conditions for a love meeting.

The place lonely, the time night, the man young and strong, and full

of life and hope and ambition; the woman, beautiful and ardent though

she was, a woman seemingly dead, clothed in the shroud in which she

had been wrapped when lying in her tomb in the crypt of the old

church.

Whilst we were together, anyhow, there was little thought of the

kind; no reasoning of any kind on my part. Love has its own laws and

its own logic. Under the flagstaff, where the Vissarion banner was

wont to flap in the breeze, she was in my arms; her sweet breath was

on my face; her heart was beating against my own. What need was

there for reason at all? Inter arma silent leges—the voice of

reason is silent in the stress of passion. Dead she may be, or Undead—a Vampire with one foot in Hell and one on earth. But I love

her; and come what may, here or hereafter, she is mine. As my mate,

we shall fare along together, whatsoever the end may be, or

wheresoever our path may lead. If she is indeed to be won from the

nethermost Hell, then be mine the task!

But to go back to the record. When I had once started speaking to

her in words of passion I could not stop. I did not want to—if I

could; and she did not appear to wish it either. Can there be a

woman—alive or dead—who would not want to hear the rapture of her

lover expressed to her whilst she is enclosed in his arms?

There was no attempt at reticence on my part now; I took it for

granted that she knew all that I surmised, and, as she made neither

protest nor comment, that she accepted my belief as to her

indeterminate existence. Sometimes her eyes would be closed, but

even then the rapture of her face was almost beyond belief. Then,

when the beautiful eyes would open and gaze on me, the stars that

were in them would shine and scintillate as though they were formed

of living fire. She said little, very little; but though the words

were few, every syllable was fraught with love, and went straight to

the very core of my heart.

By-and-by, when our transport had calmed to joy, I asked when I might

next see her, and how and where I might find her when I should want

to. She did not reply directly, but, holding me close in her arms,

whispered in my ear with that breathless softness which is a lover’s

rapture of speech:

“I have come here under terrible difficulties, not only because I

love you—and that would be enough—but because, as well as the joy

of seeing you, I wanted to warn you.”

“To warn me! Why?” I queried. Her reply came with a bashful

hesitation, with something of a struggle in it, as of one who for

some ulterior reason had to pick her words:

“There are difficulties and dangers ahead of you. You are beset with

them; and they are all the greater because they are, of grim

necessity, hidden from you. You cannot go anywhere, look in any

direction, do anything, say anything, but it may be a signal for

danger. My dear, it lurks everywhere—in the light as well as in the

darkness; in the open as well as in the secret places; from friends

as well as foes; when you are least prepared; when you may least

expect it. Oh, I know it, and what it is to endure; for I share it

for you—for your dear sake!”

“My darling!” was all I could say, as I drew her again closer to me

and kissed her. After a bit she was calmer; seeing this, I came back

to the subject that she had—in part, at all events—come to me to

speak about:

“But if difficulty and danger hedge me in so everlastingly, and if I

am to have no indication whatever of its kind or purpose, what can I

do? God knows I would willingly guard myself—not on my own account,

but for your dear sake. I have now a cause to live and be strong,

and to keep all my faculties, since it may mean much to you. If you

may not tell me details, may you not indicate to me some line of

conduct, of action, that would be most in accord with your wishes—

or, rather, with your idea of what would be best?

She looked at me fixedly before speaking—a long, purposeful, loving

look which no man born of woman could misunderstand. Then she spoke

slowly, deliberately, emphatically:

“Be bold, and fear not. Be true to yourself, to me—it is the same

thing. These are the best guards you can use. Your safety does not

rest with me. Ah, I wish it did! I wish to God it did!” In my

inner heart it thrilled me not merely to hear the expression of her

wish, but to hear her use the name of God as she did. I understand

now, in the calm of this place and with the sunlight before me, that

my belief as to her being all woman—living woman—was not quite

dead: but though at the moment my heart did not recognize the doubt,

my brain did. And I made up my mind that we should not part this

time until she knew that I had seen her, and where; but, despite my

own thoughts, my outer ears listened greedily as she went on.

“As for me, you may not find ME, but I shall find YOU, be sure!

And now we must say ‘Good-night,’ my dear, my dear! Tell me once

again that you love me, for it is a sweetness that one does not wish

to forego—even one who wears such a garment as this—and rests where

I must rest.” As she spoke she held up part of her cerements for me

to see. What could I do but take her once again in my arms and hold

her close, close. God knows it was all in love; but it was

passionate love which surged through my every vein as I strained her

dear body to mine. But yet this embrace was not selfish; it was not

all an expression of my own passion. It was based on pity—the pity

which is twin-born with true love. Breathless from our kisses, when

presently we released each other, she stood in a glorious rapture,

like a white spirit in the moonlight, and as her lovely, starlit eyes

seemed to devour me, she spoke in a languorous ecstasy:

“Oh, how you love me! how you love me! It is worth all I have gone

through for this, even to wearing this terrible drapery.” And again

she pointed to her shroud.

Here was my chance to speak of what I knew, and I took it. “I know,

I know. Moreover, I know that awful resting-place.”

I was interrupted, cut short in the midst of my sentence, not by any

word, but by the frightened look in her eyes and the fear-mastered

way in which she shrank away from me. I suppose in reality she could

not be paler than she looked when the colour-absorbing moonlight fell

on her; but on the instant all semblance of living seemed to shrink

and fall away, and she looked with eyes of dread as if in I some

awful way held in thrall. But for the movement of the pitiful

glance, she would have seemed of soulless marble, so deadly cold did

she look.

The moments that dragged themselves out whilst I waited for her to

speak seemed endless. At length her words came in an awed whisper,

so faint that even in that stilly night I could hardly hear it:

“You know—you know my resting-place! How—when was that?” There

was nothing to do now but to speak out the truth:

“I was in the crypt of St. Sava. It was all by accident. I was

exploring all around the Castle, and I went there in my course. I

found the winding stair in the rock behind the screen, and went down.

Dear, I loved you well before that awful moment, but then, even as

the lantern fell tingling on the glass, my love multiplied itself,

with pity as a factor.” She was silent for a few seconds. When she

spoke, there was a new tone in her voice:

“But were you not shocked?”

“Of course I was,” I answered on the spur of the moment, and I now

think wisely. “Shocked is hardly the word. I was horrified beyond

anything that words can convey that you—YOU should have to so

endure! I did not like to return, for I feared lest my doing so

might set some barrier between us. But in due time I did return on

another day.”

“Well?” Her voice was like sweet music.

“I had another shock that time, worse than before, for you were not

there. Then indeed it was that I knew to myself how dear you were—

how dear you are to me. Whilst I live, you—living or dead—shall

always be in my heart.” She breathed hard. The elation in her eyes

made them outshine the moonlight, but she said no word. I went on:

“My dear, I had come into the crypt full of courage and hope, though

I knew what dreadful sight should sear my eyes once again. But we

little know what may be in store for us, no matter what we expect. I

went out with a heart like water from that dreadful desolation.”

“Oh, how you love me, dear!” Cheered by her words, and even more by

her tone, I went on with renewed courage. There was no halting, no

faltering in my intention now:

“You and I, my dear, were ordained for each other. I cannot help it

that you had already suffered before I knew you. It may be that

there may be for you still suffering that I may not prevent,

endurance that I may not shorten; but what a man can do is yours.

Not Hell itself will stop me, if it be possible that I may win

through its torments with you in my arms!”

“Will nothing stop you, then?” Her question was breathed as softly

as the strain of an AEolian harp.

“Nothing!” I said, and I heard my own teeth snap together. There was

something speaking within me stronger than I had ever known myself to

be. Again came a query, trembling, quavering, quivering, as though

the issue was of more than life or death:

“Not this?” She held up a corner of the shroud, and as she saw my

face and realized the answer before I spoke, went on: “With all it

implies?”

“Not if it were wrought of the cerecloths of the damned!” There was

a long pause. Her voice was more resolute when she spoke again. It

rang. Moreover, there was in it a joyous note, as of one who feels

new hope:

“But do you know what men say? Some of them, that I am dead and

buried; others, that I am not only dead and buried, but that I am one

of those unhappy beings that may not die the common death of man.

Who live on a fearful life-in-death, whereby they are harmful to all.

Those unhappy Un-dead whom men call Vampires—who live on the blood

of the living, and bring eternal damnation as well as death with the

poison of their dreadful kisses!

“I know what men say sometimes,” I answered. “But I know also what

my own heart says; and I rather choose to obey its calling than all

the voices of the living or the dead. Come what may, I am pledged to

you. If it be that your old life has to be rewon for you out of the

very jaws of Death and Hell, I shall keep the faith I have pledged,

and that here I pledge again!” As I finished speaking I sank on my

knees at her feet, and, putting my arms round her, drew her close to

me. Her tears rained down on my face as she stroked my hair with her

soft, strong hand and whispered to me:

“This is indeed to be one. What more holy marriage can God give to

any of His creatures?” We were both silent for a time.

I think I was the first to recover my senses. That I did so was

manifest by my asking her: “When may we meet again?”—a thing I had

never remembered doing at any of our former partings. She answered

with a rising and falling of the voice that was just above a whisper,

as soft and cooing as the voice of a pigeon:

“That will be soon—as soon as I can manage it, be sure. My dear, my

dear!” The last four words of endearment she spoke in a low but

prolonged and piercing tone which made me thrill with delight.

“Give me some token,” I said, “that I may have always close to me to

ease my aching heart till we meet again, and ever after, for love’s

sake!” Her mind seemed to leap to understanding, and with a purpose

all her own. Stooping for an instant, she tore off with swift,

strong fingers a fragment of her shroud. This, having kissed it, she

handed to me, whispering:

“It is time that we part. You must leave me now. Take this, and

keep it for ever. I shall be less unhappy in my terrible loneliness

whilst it lasts if I know that this my gift, which for good or ill is

a part of me as you know me, is close to you. It may be, my very

dear, that some day you may be glad and even proud of this hour, as I

am.” She kissed me as I took it.

“For life or death, I care not which, so long as I am with you!” I

said, as I moved off. Descending the Jacob’s ladder, I made my way

down the rock-hewn passage.

The last thing I saw was the beautiful face of my Lady of the Shroud

as she leaned over the edge of the opening. Her eyes were like

glowing stars as her looks followed me. That look shall never fade

from my memory.

After a few agitating moments of thought I half mechanically took my

way down to the garden. Opening the grille, I entered my lonely

room, which looked all the more lonely for the memory of the

rapturous moments under the Flagstaff. I went to bed as one in a

dream. There I lay till sunrise—awake and thinking.

BOOK V: A RITUAL AT MIDNIGHT

RUPERT’S JOURNAL—Continued.

June 20, 1907.

The time has gone as quickly as work can effect since I saw my Lady.

As I told the mountaineers, Rooke, whom I had sent on the service,

had made a contract for fifty thousand Ingis-Malbron rifles, and as

many tons of ammunition as the French experts calculated to be a full

supply for a year of warfare. I heard from him by our secret

telegraph code that the order had been completed, and that the goods

were already on the way. The morning after the meeting at the

Flagstaff I had word that at night the vessel—one chartered by Rooke

for the purpose—would arrive at Vissarion during the night. We were

all expectation. I had always now in the Castle a signalling party,

the signals being renewed as fast as the men were sufficiently expert

to proceed with their practice alone or in groups. We hoped that

every fighting-man in the country would in time become an expert

signaller. Beyond these, again, we have always a few priests. The

Church of the country is a militant Church; its priests are soldiers,

its Bishops commanders. But they all serve wherever the battle most

needs them. Naturally they, as men of brains, are quicker at

learning than the average mountaineers; with the result that they

learnt the code and the signalling almost by instinct. We have now

at least one such expert in each community of them, and shortly the

priests alone will be able to signal, if need be, for the nation;

thus releasing for active service the merely fighting-man. The men

at present with me I took into confidence as to the vessel’s arrival,

and we were all ready for work when the man on the lookout at the

Flagstaff sent word that a vessel without lights was creeping in

towards shore. We all assembled on the rocky edge of the creek, and

saw her steal up the creek and gain the shelter of the harbour. When

this had been effected, we ran out the boom which protects the

opening, and after that the great armoured sliding-gates which Uncle

Roger had himself had made so as to protect the harbour in case of

need.

We then came within and assisted in warping the steamer to the side

of the dock.

Rooke looked fit, and was full of fire and vigour. His

responsibility and the mere thought of warlike action seemed to have

renewed his youth.

When we had arranged for the unloading of the cases of arms and

ammunition, I took Rooke into the room which we call my “office,”

where he gave me an account of his doings. He had not only secured

the rifles and the ammunition for them, but he had purchased from one

of the small American Republics an armoured yacht which had been

especially built for war service. He grew quite enthusiastic, even

excited, as he told me of her:

“She is the last word in naval construction—a torpedo yacht. A

small cruiser, with turbines up to date, oil-fuelled, and fully armed

with the latest and most perfect weapons and explosives of all kinds.

The fastest boat afloat to-day. Built by Thorneycroft, engined by

Parsons, armoured by Armstrong, armed by Crupp. If she ever comes

into action, it will be bad for her opponent, for she need not fear

to tackle anything less than a Dreadnought.”

He also told me that from the same Government, whose nation had just

established an unlooked-for peace, he had also purchased a whole park

of artillery of the very latest patterns, and that for range and

accuracy the guns were held to be supreme. These would follow before

long, and with them their proper ammunition, with a shipload of the

same to follow shortly after.

When he had told me all the rest of his news, and handed me the

accounts, we went out to the dock to see the debarkation of the war

material. Knowing that it was arriving, I had sent word in the

afternoon to the mountaineers to tell them to come and remove it.

They had answered the call, and it really seemed to me that the whole

of the land must that night have been in motion.

They came as individuals, grouping themselves as they came within the

defences of the Castle; some had gathered at fixed points on the way.

They went secretly and in silence, stealing through the forests like

ghosts, each party when it grouped taking the place of that which had

gone on one of the routes radiating round Vissarion. Their coming

and going was more than ghostly. It was, indeed, the outward

manifestation of an inward spirit—a whole nation dominated by one

common purpose.

The men in the steamer were nearly all engineers, mostly British,

well conducted, and to be depended upon. Rooke had picked them

separately, and in the doing had used well his great experience of

both men and adventurous life. These men were to form part of the

armoured yacht’s crew when she should come into the Mediterranean

waters. They and the priests and fighting-men in the Castle worked

well together, and with a zeal that was beyond praise. The heavy

cases seemed almost of their own accord to leave the holds, so fast

came the procession of them along the gangways from deck to dock-wall. It was a part of my design that the arms should be placed in

centres ready for local distribution. In such a country as this,

without railways or even roads, the distribution of war material in

any quantity is a great labour, for it has to be done individually,

or at least from centres.

But of this work the great number of mountaineers who were arriving

made little account. As fast as the ship’s company, with the

assistance of the priests and fighting-men, placed the cases on the

quay, the engineers opened them and laid the contents ready for

portage. The mountaineers seemed to come in a continuous stream;

each in turn shouldered his burden and passed out, the captain of his

section giving him as he passed his instruction where to go and in

what route. The method had been already prepared in my office ready

for such a distribution when the arms should arrive, and descriptions

and quantities had been noted by the captains. The whole affair was

treated by all as a matter of the utmost secrecy. Hardly a word was

spoken beyond the necessary directions, and these were given in

whispers. All night long the stream of men went and came, and

towards dawn the bulk of the imported material was lessened by half.

On the following night the remainder was removed, after my own men

had stored in the Castle the rifles and ammunition reserved for its

defence if necessary. It was advisable to keep a reserve supply in

case it should ever be required. The following night Rooke went away

secretly in the chartered vessel. He had to bring back with him the

purchased cannon and heavy ammunition, which had been in the meantime

stored on one of the Greek islands. The second morning, having had

secret word that the steamer was on the way, I had given the signal

for the assembling of the mountaineers.

A little after dark the vessel, showing no light, stole into the

creek. The barrier gates were once again closed, and when a

sufficient number of men had arrived to handle the guns, we began to

unload. The actual deportation was easy enough, for the dock had all

necessary appliances quite up to date, including a pair of shears for

gun-lifting which could be raised into position in a very short time.

The guns were well furnished with tackle of all sorts, and before

many hours had passed a little procession of them disappeared into

the woods in ghostly silence. A number of men surrounded each, and

they moved as well as if properly supplied with horses.

In the meantime, and for a week after the arrival of the guns, the

drilling went on without pause. The gun-drill was wonderful. In the

arduous work necessary for it the great strength and stamina of the

mountaineers showed out wonderfully. They did not seem to know

fatigue any more than they knew fear.

For a week this went on, till a perfect discipline and management was

obtained. They did not practise the shooting, for this would have

made secrecy impossible. It was reported all along the Turkish

frontier that the Sultan’s troops were being massed, and though this

was not on a war footing, the movement was more or less dangerous.

The reports of our own spies, although vague as to the purpose and

extent of the movement, were definite as to something being on foot.

And Turkey does not do something without a purpose that bodes ill to

someone. Certainly the sound of cannon, which is a far-reaching

sound, would have given them warning of our preparations, and would

so have sadly minimized their effectiveness.

When the cannon had all been disposed of—except, of course, those

destined for defence of the Castle or to be stored there—Rooke went

away with the ship and crew. The ship he was to return to the

owners; the men would be shipped on the war-yacht, of whose crew they

would form a part. The rest of them had been carefully selected by

Rooke himself, and were kept in secrecy at Cattaro, ready for service

the moment required. They were all good men, and quite capable of

whatever work they might be set to. So Rooke told me, and he ought

to know. The experience of his young days as a private made him an

expert in such a job.

RUPERT’S JOURNAL—Continued.

June 24, 1907.

Last night I got from my Lady a similar message to the last, and

delivered in a similar way. This time, however, our meeting was to

be on the leads of the Keep.

I dressed myself very carefully before going on this adventure, lest

by any chance of household concern, any of the servants should see

me; for if this should happen, Aunt Janet would be sure to hear of

it, which would give rise to endless surmises and questionings—a

thing I was far from desiring.

I confess that in thinking the matter over during the time I was

making my hurried preparations I was at a loss to understand how any

human body, even though it be of the dead, could go or be conveyed to

such a place without some sort of assistance, or, at least,

collusion, on the part of some of the inmates. At the visit to the

Flagstaff circumstances were different. This spot was actually

outside the Castle, and in order to reach it I myself had to leave

the Castle privately, and from the garden ascend to the ramparts.

But here was no such possibility. The Keep was an imperium in

imperio. It stood within the Castle, though separated from it, and

it had its own defences against intrusion. The roof of it was, so

far as I knew, as little approachable as the magazine.

The difficulty did not, however, trouble me beyond a mere passing

thought. In the joy of the coming meeting and the longing rapture at

the mere thought of it, all difficulties disappeared. Love makes its

own faith, and I never doubted that my Lady would be waiting for me

at the place designated. When I had passed through the little arched

passages, and up the doubly-grated stairways contrived in the

massiveness of the walls, I let myself out on the leads. It was well

that as yet the times were sufficiently peaceful not to necessitate

guards or sentries at all such points.

There, in a dim corner where the moonlight and the passing clouds

threw deep shadows, I saw her, clothed as ever in her shroud. Why, I

know not. I felt somehow that the situation was even more serious

than ever. But I was steeled to whatever might come. My mind had

been already made up. To carry out my resolve to win the woman I

loved I was ready to face death. But now, after we had for a few

brief moments held each other in our arms, I was willing to accept

death—or more than death. Now, more than before, was she sweet and

dear to me. Whatever qualms there might have been at the beginning

of our love-making, or during the progress of it, did not now exist.

We had exchanged vows and confidences, and acknowledged our loves.

What, then, could there be of distrust, or even doubt, that the

present might not set at naught? But even had there been such doubts

or qualms, they must have disappeared in the ardour of our mutual

embrace. I was by now mad for her, and was content to be so mad.

When she had breath to speak after the strictness of our embrace, she

said:

“I have come to warn you to be more than ever careful.” It was, I

confess, a pang to me, who thought only of love, to hear that

anything else should have been the initiative power of her coming,

even though it had been her concern for my own safety. I could not

but notice the bitter note of chagrin in my voice as I answered:

“It was for love’s sake that I came.” She, too, evidently felt the

undercurrent of pain, for she said quickly:

“Ah, dearest, I, too, came for love’s sake. It is because I love you

that I am so anxious about you. What would the world—ay, or heaven-

-be to me without you?”

There was such earnest truth in her tone that the sense and

realization of my own harshness smote me. In the presence of such

love as this even a lover’s selfishness must become abashed. I could

not express myself in words, so simply raised her slim hand in mine

and kissed it. As it lay warm in my own I could not but notice, as

well as its fineness, its strength and the firmness of its clasp.

Its warmth and fervour struck into my heart—and my brain. Thereupon

I poured out to her once more my love for her, she listening all

afire. When passion had had its say, the calmer emotions had

opportunity of expression. When I was satisfied afresh of her

affection, I began to value her care for my safety, and so I went

back to the subject. Her very insistence, based on personal

affection, gave me more solid ground for fear. In the moment of love

transports I had forgotten, or did not think, of what wonderful power

or knowledge she must have to be able to move in such strange ways as

she did. Why, at this very moment she was within my own gates.

Locks and bars, even the very seal of death itself, seemed unable to

make for her a prison-house. With such freedom of action and

movement, going when she would into secret places, what might she not

know that was known to others? How could anyone keep secret from

such an one even an ill intent? Such thoughts, such surmises, had

often flashed through my mind in moments of excitement rather than of

reflection, but never long enough to become fixed into belief. But

yet the consequences, the convictions, of them were with me, though

unconsciously, though the thoughts themselves were perhaps forgotten

or withered before development.

“And you?” I asked her earnestly. “What about danger to you?” She

smiled, her little pearl-white teeth gleaming in the moonlight, as

she spoke:

“There is no danger for me. I am safe. I am the safest person,

perhaps the only safe person, in all this land.” The full

significance of her words did not seem to come to me all at once.

Some base for understanding such an assertion seemed to be wanting.

It was not that I did not trust or believe her, but that I thought

she might be mistaken. I wanted to reassure myself, so in my

distress I asked unthinkingly:

“How the safest? What is your protection?” For several moments that

spun themselves out endlessly she looked me straight in the face, the

stars in her eyes seeming to glow like fire; then, lowering her head,

she took a fold of her shroud and held it up to me.

“This!”

The meaning was complete and understandable now. I could not speak

at once for the wave of emotion which choked me. I dropped on my

knees, and taking her in my arms, held her close to me. She saw that

I was moved, and tenderly stroked my hair, and with delicate touch

pressed down my head on her bosom, as a mother might have done to

comfort a frightened child.

Presently we got back to the realities of life again. I murmured:

“Your safety, your life, your happiness are all-in-all to me. When

will you let them be my care?” She trembled in my arms, nestling

even closer to me. Her own arms seemed to quiver with delight as she

said:

“Would you indeed like me to be always with you? To me it would be a

happiness unspeakable; and to you, what would it be?”

I thought that she wished to hear me speak my love to her, and that,

woman-like, she had led me to the utterance, and so I spoke again of

the passion that now raged in me, she listening eagerly as we

strained each other tight in our arms. At last there came a pause, a

long, long pause, and our hearts beat consciously in unison as we

stood together. Presently she said in a sweet, low, intense whisper,

as soft as the sighing of summer wind:

“It shall be as you wish; but oh, my dear, you will have to first go

through an ordeal which may try you terribly! Do not ask me

anything! You must not ask, because I may not answer, and it would

be pain to me to deny you anything. Marriage with such an one as I

am has its own ritual, which may not be foregone. It may … ” I

broke passionately into her speaking:

“There is no ritual that I fear, so long as it be that it is for your

good, and your lasting happiness. And if the end of it be that I may

call you mine, there is no horror in life or death that I shall not

gladly face. Dear, I ask you nothing. I am content to leave myself

in your hands. You shall advise me when the time comes, and I shall

be satisfied, content to obey. Content! It is but a poor word to

express what I long for! I shall shirk nothing which may come to me

from this or any other world, so long as it is to make you mine!”

Once again her murmured happiness was music to my ears:

“Oh, how you love me! how you love me, dear, dear!” She took me in

her arms, and for a few seconds we hung together. Suddenly she tore

herself apart from me, and stood drawn up to the full height, with a

dignity I cannot describe or express. Her voice had a new dominance,

as with firm utterance and in staccato manner she said:

“Rupert Sent Leger, before we go a step further I must say something

to you, ask you something, and I charge you, on your most sacred

honour and belief, to answer me truly. Do you believe me to be one

of those unhappy beings who may not die, but have to live in shameful

existence between earth and the nether world, and whose hellish

mission is to destroy, body and soul, those who love them till they

fall to their level? You are a gentleman, and a brave one. I have

found you fearless. Answer me in sternest truth, no matter what the

issue may be!”

She stood there in the glamorous moonlight with a commanding dignity

which seemed more than human. In that mystic light her white shroud

seemed diaphanous, and she appeared like a spirit of power. What was

I to say? How could I admit to such a being that I had actually had

at moments, if not a belief, a passing doubt? It was a conviction

with me that if I spoke wrongly I should lose her for ever. I was in

a desperate strait. In such a case there is but one solid ground

which one may rest on—the Truth.

I really felt I was between the devil and the deep sea. There was no

avoiding the issue, and so, out of this all-embracing, all-compelling

conviction of truth, I spoke.

For a fleeting moment I felt that my tone was truculent, and almost

hesitated; but as I saw no anger or indignation on my Lady’s face,

but rather an eager approval, I was reassured. A woman, after all,

is glad to see a man strong, for all belief in him must be based on

that.

“I shall speak the truth. Remember that I have no wish to hurt your

feelings, but as you conjure me by my honour, you must forgive me if

I pain. It is true that I had at first—ay, and later, when I came

to think matters over after you had gone, when reason came to the aid

of impression—a passing belief that you are a Vampire. How can I

fail to have, even now, though I love you with all my soul, though I

have held you in my arms and kissed you on the mouth, a doubt, when

all the evidences seem to point to one thing? Remember that I have

only seen you at night, except that bitter moment when, in the broad

noonday of the upper world, I saw you, clad as ever in a shroud,

lying seemingly dead in a tomb in the crypt of St. Sava’s Church . .

. But let that pass. Such belief as I have is all in you. Be you

woman or Vampire, it is all the same to me. It is YOU whom I love!

Should it be that you are—you are not woman, which I cannot believe,

then it will be my glory to break your fetters, to open your prison,

and set you free. To that I consecrate my life.” For a few seconds

I stood silent, vibrating with the passion which had been awakened in

me. She had by now lost the measure of her haughty isolation, and

had softened into womanhood again. It was really like a realization

of the old theme of Pygmalion’s statue. It was with rather a

pleading than a commanding voice that she said:

“And shall you always be true to me?”

“Always—so help me, God!” I answered, and I felt that there could be

no lack of conviction in my voice.

Indeed, there was no cause for such lack. She also stood for a

little while stone-still, and I was beginning to expand to the

rapture which was in store for me when she should take me again in

her arms.

But there was no such moment of softness. All at once she started as

if she had suddenly wakened from a dream, and on the spur of the

moment said:

“Now go, go!” I felt the conviction of necessity to obey, and turned

at once. As I moved towards the door by which I had entered, I

asked:

“When shall I see you again?”

“Soon!” came her answer. “I shall let you know soon—when and where.

Oh, go, go!” She almost pushed me from her.

When I had passed through the low doorway and locked and barred it

behind me, I felt a pang that I should have had to shut her out like

that; but I feared lest there should arise some embarrassing

suspicion if the door should be found open. Later came the

comforting thought that, as she had got to the roof though the door

had been shut, she would be able to get away by the same means. She

had evidently knowledge of some secret way into the Castle. The

alternative was that she must have some supernatural quality or

faculty which gave her strange powers. I did not wish to pursue that

train of thought, and so, after an effort, shut it out from my mind.

When I got back to my room I locked the door behind me, and went to

sleep in the dark. I did not want light just then—could not bear

it.

This morning I woke, a little later than usual, with a kind of

apprehension which I could not at once understand. Presently,

however, when my faculties became fully awake and in working order, I

realized that I feared, half expected, that Aunt Janet would come to

me in a worse state of alarm than ever apropos of some new Second-Sight experience of more than usual ferocity.

But, strange to say, I had no such visit. Later on in the morning,

when, after breakfast, we walked together through the garden, I asked

her how she had slept, and if she had dreamt. She answered me that

she had slept without waking, and if she had had any dreams, they

must have been pleasant ones, for she did not remember them. “And

you know, Rupert,” she added, “that if there be anything bad or

fearsome or warning in dreams, I always remember them.”

Later still, when I was by myself on the cliff beyond the creek, I

could not help commenting on the absence of her power of Second Sight

on the occasion. Surely, if ever there was a time when she might

have had cause of apprehension, it might well have been when I asked

the Lady whom she did not know to marry me—the Lady of whose

identity I knew nothing, even whose name I did not know—whom I loved

with all my heart and soul—my Lady of the Shroud.

I have lost faith in Second Sight.

RUPERT’S JOURNAL—Continued.

July 1, 1907.

Another week gone. I have waited patiently, and I am at last

rewarded by another letter. I was preparing for bed a little while

ago, when I heard the same mysterious sound at the door as on the

last two occasions. I hurried to the glass door, and there found

another close-folded letter. But I could see no sign of my Lady, or

of any other living being. The letter, which was without direction,

ran as follows:

“If you are still of the same mind, and feel no misgivings, meet me

at the Church of St. Sava beyond the Creek to-morrow night at a

quarter before midnight. If you come, come in secret, and, of

course, alone. Do not come at all unless you are prepared for a

terrible ordeal. But if you love me, and have neither doubts nor

fears, come. Come!”

Needless to say, I did not sleep last night. I tried to, but without

success. It was no morbid happiness that kept me awake, no doubting,

no fear. I was simply overwhelmed with the idea of the coming

rapture when I should call my Lady my very, very own. In this sea of

happy expectation all lesser things were submerged. Even sleep,

which is an imperative force with me, failed in its usual

effectiveness, and I lay still, calm, content.

With the coming of the morning, however, restlessness began. I did

not know what to do, how to restrain myself, where to look for an

anodyne. Happily the latter came in the shape of Rooke, who turned

up shortly after breakfast. He had a satisfactory tale to tell me of

the armoured yacht, which had lain off Cattaro on the previous night,

and to which he had brought his contingent of crew which had waited

for her coming. He did not like to take the risk of going into any

port with such a vessel, lest he might be detained or otherwise

hampered by forms, and had gone out upon the open sea before

daylight. There was on board the yacht a tiny torpedo-boat, for

which provision was made both for hoisting on deck and housing there.

This last would run into the creek at ten o’clock that evening, at

which time it would be dark. The yacht would then run to near

Otranto, to which she would send a boat to get any message I might

send. This was to be in a code, which we arranged, and would convey

instructions as to what night and approximate hour the yacht would

come to the creek.

The day was well on before we had made certain arrangements for the

future; and not till then did I feel again the pressure of my

personal restlessness. Rooke, like a wise commander, took rest

whilst he could. Well he knew that for a couple of days and nights

at least there would be little, if any, sleep for him.

For myself, the habit of self-control stood to me, and I managed to

get through the day somehow without exciting the attention of anyone

else. The arrival of the torpedo-boat and the departure of Rooke

made for me a welcome break in my uneasiness. An hour ago I said

good-night to Aunt Janet, and shut myself up alone here. My watch is

on the table before me, so that I may make sure of starting to the

moment. I have allowed myself half an hour to reach St. Sava. My

skiff is waiting, moored at the foot of the cliff on the hither side,

where the zigzag comes close to the water. It is now ten minutes

past eleven.

I shall add the odd five minutes to the time for my journey so as to

make safe. I go unarmed and without a light.

I shall show no distrust of anyone or anything this night.

RUPERT’S JOURNAL—Continued.

July 2, 1907.

When I was outside the church, I looked at my watch in the bright

moonlight, and found I had one minute to wait. So I stood in the

shadow of the doorway and looked out at the scene before me. Not a

sign of life was visible around me, either on land or sea. On the

broad plateau on which the church stands there was no movement of any

kind. The wind, which had been pleasant in the noontide, had fallen

completely, and not a leaf was stirring. I could see across the

creek and note the hard line where the battlements of the Castle cut

the sky, and where the keep towered above the line of black rock,

which in the shadow of the land made an ebon frame for the picture.

When I had seen the same view on former occasions, the line where the

rock rose from the sea was a fringe of white foam. But then, in the

daylight, the sea was sapphire blue; now it was an expanse of dark

blue—so dark as to seem almost black. It had not even the relief of

waves or ripples—simply a dark, cold, lifeless expanse, with no

gleam of light anywhere, of lighthouse or ship; neither was there any

special sound to be heard that one could distinguish—nothing but the

distant hum of the myriad voices of the dark mingling in one

ceaseless inarticulate sound. It was well I had not time to dwell on

it, or I might have reached some spiritually-disturbing melancholy.

Let me say here that ever since I had received my Lady’s message

concerning this visit to St. Sava’s I had been all on fire—not,

perhaps, at every moment consciously or actually so, but always, as

it were, prepared to break out into flame. Did I want a simile, I

might compare myself to a well-banked furnace, whose present function

it is to contain heat rather than to create it; whose crust can at

any moment be broken by a force external to itself, and burst into

raging, all-compelling heat. No thought of fear really entered my

mind. Every other emotion there was, coming and going as occasion

excited or lulled, but not fear. Well I knew in the depths of my

heart the purpose which that secret quest was to serve. I knew not

only from my Lady’s words, but from the teachings of my own senses

and experiences, that some dreadful ordeal must take place before

happiness of any kind could be won. And that ordeal, though method

or detail was unknown to me, I was prepared to undertake. This was

one of those occasions when a man must undertake, blindfold, ways

that may lead to torture or death, or unknown terrors beyond. But,

then, a man—if, indeed, he have the heart of a man—can always

undertake; he can at least make the first step, though it may turn

out that through the weakness of mortality he may be unable to fulfil

his own intent, or justify his belief in his own powers. Such, I

take it, was the intellectual attitude of the brave souls who of old

faced the tortures of the Inquisition.

But though there was no immediate fear, there was a certain doubt.

For doubt is one of those mental conditions whose calling we cannot

control. The end of the doubting may not be a reality to us, or be

accepted as a possibility. These things cannot forego the existence

of the doubt. “For even if a man,” says Victor Cousin, “doubt

everything else, at least he cannot doubt that he doubts.” The doubt

had at times been on me that my Lady of the Shroud was a Vampire.

Much that had happened seemed to point that way, and here, on the

very threshold of the Unknown, when, through the door which I was

pushing open, my eyes met only an expanse of absolute blackness, all

doubts which had ever been seemed to surround me in a legion. I have

heard that, when a man is drowning, there comes a time when his whole

life passes in review during the space of time which cannot be

computed as even a part of a second. So it was to me in the moment

of my body passing into the church. In that moment came to my mind

all that had been, which bore on the knowledge of my Lady; and the

general tendency was to prove or convince that she was indeed a

Vampire. Much that had happened, or become known to me, seemed to

justify the resolving of doubt into belief. Even my own reading of

the books in Aunt Janet’s little library, and the dear lady’s

comments on them, mingled with her own uncanny beliefs, left little

opening for doubt. My having to help my Lady over the threshold of

my house on her first entry was in accord with Vampire tradition; so,

too, her flying at cock-crow from the warmth in which she revelled on

that strange first night of our meeting; so, too, her swift departure

at midnight on the second. Into the same category came the facts of

her constant wearing of her Shroud, even her pledging herself, and me

also, on the fragment torn from it, which she had given to me as a

souvenir; her lying still in the glass-covered tomb; her coming alone

to the most secret places in a fortified Castle where every aperture

was secured by unopened locks and bolts; her very movements, though

all of grace, as she flitted noiselessly through the gloom of night.

All these things, and a thousand others of lesser import, seemed, for

the moment, to have consolidated an initial belief. But then came

the supreme recollections of how she had lain in my arms; of her

kisses on my lips; of the beating of her heart against my own; of her

sweet words of belief and faith breathed in my ear in intoxicating

whispers; of … I paused. No! I could not accept belief as to

her being other than a living woman of soul and sense, of flesh and

blood, of all the sweet and passionate instincts of true and perfect

womanhood.

And so, in spite of all—in spite of all beliefs, fixed or

transitory, with a mind whirling amid contesting forces and

compelling beliefs—I stepped into the church overwhelmed with that

most receptive of atmospheres—doubt.

In one thing only was I fixed: here at least was no doubt or

misgiving whatever. I intended to go through what I had undertaken.

Moreover, I felt that I was strong enough to carry out my intention,

whatever might be of the Unknown—however horrible, however terrible.

When I had entered the church and closed the heavy door behind me,

the sense of darkness and loneliness in all their horror enfolded me

round. The great church seemed a living mystery, and served as an

almost terrible background to thoughts and remembrances of

unutterable gloom. My adventurous life has had its own schooling to

endurance and upholding one’s courage in trying times; but it has its

contra in fulness of memory.

I felt my way forward with both hands and feet. Every second seemed

as if it had brought me at last to a darkness which was actually

tangible. All at once, and with no heed of sequence or order, I was

conscious of all around me, the knowledge or perception of which—or

even speculation on the subject—had never entered my mind. They

furnished the darkness with which I was encompassed with all the

crowded phases of a dream. I knew that all around me were memorials

of the dead—that in the Crypt deep-wrought in the rock below my feet

lay the dead themselves. Some of them, perhaps—one of them I knew—

had even passed the grim portals of time Unknown, and had, by some

mysterious power or agency, come back again to material earth. There

was no resting-place for thought when I knew that the very air which

I breathed might be full of denizens of the spirit-world. In that

impenetrable blackness was a world of imagining whose possibilities

of horror were endless.

I almost fancied that I could see with mortal eyes down through that

rocky floor to where, in the lonely Crypt, lay, in her tomb of

massive stone and under that bewildering coverlet of glass, the woman

whom I love. I could see her beautiful face, her long black lashes,

her sweet mouth—which I had kissed—relaxed in the sleep of death.

I could note the voluminous shroud—a piece of which as a precious

souvenir lay even then so close to my heart—the snowy woollen

coverlet wrought over in gold with sprigs of pine, the soft dent in

the cushion on which her head must for so long have lain. I could

see myself—within my eyes the memory of that first visit—coming

once again with glad step to renew that dear sight—dear, though it

scorched my eyes and harrowed my heart—and finding the greater

sorrow, the greater desolation of the empty tomb!

There! I felt that I must think no more of that lest the thought

should unnerve me when I should most want all my courage. That way

madness lay! The darkness had already sufficient terrors of its own

without bringing to it such grim remembrances and imaginings …

And I had yet to go through some ordeal which, even to her who had

passed and repassed the portals of death, was full of fear.

It was a merciful relief to me when, in groping my way forwards

through the darkness, I struck against some portion of the furnishing

of the church. Fortunately I was all strung up to tension, else I

should never have been able to control instinctively, as I did, the

shriek which was rising to my lips.

I would have given anything to have been able to light even a match.

A single second of light would, I felt, have made me my own man

again. But I knew that this would be against the implied condition

of my being there at all, and might have had disastrous consequences

to her whom I had come to save. It might even frustrate my scheme,

and altogether destroy my opportunity. At that moment it was borne

upon me more strongly than ever that this was not a mere fight for

myself or my own selfish purposes—not merely an adventure or a

struggle for only life and death against unknown difficulties and

dangers. It was a fight on behalf of her I loved, not merely for her

life, but perhaps even for her soul.

And yet this very thinking—understanding—created a new form of

terror. For in that grim, shrouding darkness came memories of other

moments of terrible stress.

Of wild, mystic rites held in the deep gloom of African forests,

when, amid scenes of revolting horror, Obi and the devils of his kind

seemed to reveal themselves to reckless worshippers, surfeited with

horror, whose lives counted for naught; when even human sacrifice was

an episode, and the reek of old deviltries and recent carnage tainted

the air, till even I, who was, at the risk of my life, a privileged

spectator who had come through dangers without end to behold the

scene, rose and fled in horror.

Of scenes of mystery enacted in rock-cut temples beyond the

Himalayas, whose fanatic priests, cold as death and as remorseless,

in the reaction of their phrenzy of passion, foamed at the mouth and

then sank into marble quiet, as with inner eyes they beheld the

visions of the hellish powers which they had invoked.

Of wild, fantastic dances of the Devil-worshippers of Madagascar,

where even the very semblance of humanity disappeared in the

fantastic excesses of their orgies.

Of strange doings of gloom and mystery in the rock-perched

monasteries of Thibet.

Of awful sacrifices, all to mystic ends, in the innermost recesses of

Cathay.

Of weird movements with masses of poisonous snakes by the medicine-men of the Zuni and Mochi Indians in the far south-west of the

Rockies, beyond the great plains.

Of secret gatherings in vast temples of old Mexico, and by dim altars

of forgotten cities in the heart of great forests in South America.

Of rites of inconceivable horror in the fastnesses of Patagonia.

Of … Here I once more pulled myself up. Such thoughts were no

kind of proper preparation for what I might have to endure. My work

that night was to be based on love, on hope, on self-sacrifice for

the woman who in all the world was the closest to my heart, whose

future I was to share, whether that sharing might lead me to Hell or

Heaven. The hand which undertook such a task must have no trembling.

Still, those horrible memories had, I am bound to say, a useful part

in my preparation for the ordeal. They were of fact which I had

seen, of which I had myself been in part a sharer, and which I had

survived. With such experiences behind me, could there be aught

before me more dreadful? …

Moreover, if the coming ordeal was of supernatural or superhuman

order, could it transcend in living horror the vilest and most

desperate acts of the basest men? …

With renewed courage I felt my way before me, till my sense of touch

told me that I was at the screen behind which lay the stair to the

Crypt.

There I waited, silent, still.

My own part was done, so far as I knew how to do it. Beyond this,

what was to come was, so far as I knew, beyond my own control. I had

done what I could; the rest must come from others. I had exactly

obeyed my instructions, fulfilled my warranty to the utmost in my

knowledge and power. There was, therefore, left for me in the

present nothing but to wait.

It is a peculiarity of absolute darkness that it creates its own

reaction. The eye, wearied of the blackness, begins to imagine forms

of light. How far this is effected by imagination pure and simple I

know not. It may be that nerves have their own senses that bring

thought to the depository common to all the human functions, but,

whatever may be the mechanism or the objective, the darkness seems to

people itself with luminous entities.

So was it with me as I stood lonely in the dark, silent church. Here

and there seemed to flash tiny points of light.

In the same way the silence began to be broken now and again by

strange muffled sounds—the suggestion of sounds rather than actual

vibrations. These were all at first of the minor importance of

movement—rustlings, creakings, faint stirrings, fainter breathings.

Presently, when I had somewhat recovered from the sort of hypnotic

trance to which the darkness and stillness had during the time of

waiting reduced me, I looked around in wonder.

The phantoms of light and sound seemed to have become real. There

were most certainly actual little points of light in places—not

enough to see details by, but quite sufficient to relieve the utter

gloom. I thought—though it may have been a mingling of recollection

and imagination—that I could distinguish the outlines of the church;

certainly the great altar-screen was dimly visible. Instinctively I

looked up—and thrilled. There, hung high above me, was, surely

enough, a great Greek Cross, outlined by tiny points of light.

I lost myself in wonder, and stood still, in a purely receptive mood,

unantagonistic to aught, willing for whatever might come, ready for

all things, in rather a negative than a positive mood—a mood which

has an aspect of spiritual meekness. This is the true spirit of the

neophyte, and, though I did not think of it at the time, the proper

attitude for what is called by the Church in whose temple I stood a

“neo-nymph.”

As the light grew a little in power, though never increasing enough

for distinctness, I saw dimly before me a table on which rested a

great open book, whereon were laid two rings—one of sliver, the

other of gold—and two crowns wrought of flowers, bound at the

joining of their stems with tissue—one of gold, the other of silver.

I do not know much of the ritual of the old Greek Church, which is

the religion of the Blue Mountains, but the things which I saw before

me could be none other than enlightening symbols. Instinctively I

knew that I had been brought hither, though in this grim way, to be

married. The very idea of it thrilled me to the heart’s core. I

thought the best thing I could do would be to stay quite still, and

not show surprise at anything that might happen; but be sure I was

all eyes and ears.

I peered anxiously around me in every direction, but I could see no

sign of her whom I had come to meet.

Incidentally, however, I noticed that in the lighting, such as it

was, there was no flame, no “living” light. Whatever light there was

came muffled, as though through some green translucent stone. The

whole effect was terribly weird and disconcerting.

Presently I started, as, seemingly out of the darkness beside me, a

man’s hand stretched out and took mine. Turning, I found close to me

a tall man with shining black eyes and long black hair and beard. He

was clad in some kind of gorgeous robe of cloth of gold, rich with

variety of adornment. His head was covered with a high, over-hanging

hat draped closely with a black scarf, the ends of which formed a

long, hanging veil on either side. These veils, falling over the

magnificent robes of cloth of gold, had an extraordinarily solemn

effect.

I yielded myself to the guiding hand, and shortly found myself, so

far as I could see, at one side of the sanctuary.

In the floor close to my feet was a yawning chasm, into which, from

so high over my head that in the uncertain light I could not

distinguish its origin, hung a chain. At the sight a strange wave of

memory swept over me. I could not but remember the chain which hung

over the glass-covered tomb in the Crypt, and I had an instinctive

feeling that the grim chasm in the floor of the sanctuary was but the

other side of the opening in the roof of the crypt from which the

chain over the sarcophagus depended.

There was a creaking sound—the groaning of a windlass and the

clanking of a chain. There was heavy breathing close to me

somewhere. I was so intent on what was going on that I did not see

that one by one, seeming to grow out of the surrounding darkness,

several black figures in monkish garb appeared with the silence of

ghosts. Their faces were shrouded in black cowls, wherein were holes

through which I could see dark gleaming eyes. My guide held me

tightly by the hand. This gave me a feeling of security in the touch

which helped to retain within my breast some semblance of calm.

The strain of the creaking windlass and the clanking chain continued

for so long that the suspense became almost unendurable. At last

there came into sight an iron ring, from which as a centre depended

four lesser chains spreading wide. In a few seconds more I could see

that these were fixed to the corners of the great stone tomb with the

covering of glass, which was being dragged upward. As it arose it

filled closely the whole aperture. When its bottom had reached the

level of the floor it stopped, and remained rigid. There was no room

for oscillation. It was at once surrounded by a number of black

figures, who raised the glass covering and bore it away into the

darkness. Then there stepped forward a very tall man, black-bearded,

and with head-gear like my guide, but made in triple tiers, he also

was gorgeously arrayed in flowing robes of cloth of gold richly

embroidered. He raised his hand, and forthwith eight other black-clad figures stepped forward, and bending over the stone coffin,

raised from it the rigid form of my Lady, still clad in her Shroud,

and laid it gently on the floor of the sanctuary.

I felt it a grace that at that instant the dim lights seemed to grow

less, and finally to disappear—all save the tiny points that marked

the outline of the great Cross high overhead. These only gave light

enough to accentuate the gloom. The hand that held mine now released

it, and with a sigh I realized that I was alone. After a few moments

more of the groaning of the winch and clanking of the chain there was

a sharp sound of stone meeting stone; then there was silence. I

listened acutely, but could not hear near me the slightest sound.

Even the cautious, restrained breathing around me, of which up to

then I had been conscious, had ceased. Not knowing, in the

helplessness of my ignorance, what I should do, I remained as I was,

still and silent, for a time that seemed endless. At last, overcome

by some emotion which I could not at the moment understand, I slowly

sank to my knees and bowed my head. Covering my face with my hands,

I tried to recall the prayers of my youth. It was not, I am certain,

that fear in any form had come upon me, or that I hesitated or

faltered in my intention. That much I know now; I knew it even then.

It was, I believe, that the prolonged impressive gloom and mystery

had at last touched me to the quick. The bending of the knees was

but symbolical of the bowing of the spirit to a higher Power. When I

had realized that much, I felt more content than I had done since I

had entered the church, and with the renewed consciousness of

courage, took my hands from my face, and lifted again my bowed head.

Impulsively I sprang to my feet and stood erect—waiting. All seemed

to have changed since I had dropped on my knees. The points of light

about time church, which had been eclipsed, had come again, and were

growing in power to a partial revealing of the dim expanse. Before

me was the table with the open book, on which were laid the gold and

silver rings and the two crowns of flowers. There were also two tall

candles, with tiniest flames of blue—the only living light to be

seen.

Out of the darkness stepped the same tall figure in the gorgeous

robes and the triple hat. He led by the hand my Lady, still clad in

her Shroud; but over it, descending from the crown of her head, was a

veil of very old and magnificent lace of astonishing fineness. Even

in that dim light I could note the exquisite beauty of the fabric.

The veil was fastened with a bunch of tiny sprays of orange-blossom

mingled with cypress and laurel—a strange combination. In her hand

she carried a great bouquet of the same. Its sweet intoxicating

odour floated up to my nostrils. It and the sentiment which its very

presence evoked made me quiver.

Yielding to the guiding of the hand which held hers, she stood at my

left side before the table. Her guide then took his place behind

her. At either end of the table, to right and left of us, stood a

long-bearded priest in splendid robes, and wearing the hat with

depending veil of black. One of them, who seemed to be the more

important of the two, and took the initiative, signed to us to put

our right hands on the open book. My Lady, of course, understood the

ritual, and knew the words which the priest was speaking, and of her

own accord put out her hand. My guide at the same moment directed my

hand to the same end. It thrilled me to touch my Lady’s hand, even

under such mysterious conditions.

After the priest had signed us each thrice on the forehead with the

sign of the Cross, he gave to each of us a tiny lighted taper brought

to him for the purpose. The lights were welcome, not so much for the

solace of the added light, great as that was, but because it allowed

us to see a little more of each other’s faces. It was rapture to me

to see the face of my Bride; and from the expression of her face I

was assured that she felt as I did. It gave me an inexpressible

pleasure when, as her eyes rested on me, there grew a faint blush

over the grey pallor of her cheeks.

The priest then put in solemn voice to each of us in turn, beginning

with me, the questions of consent which are common to all such

rituals. I answered as well as I could, following the murmured words

of my guide. My Lady answered out proudly in a voice which, though

given softly, seemed to ring. It was a concern—even a grief—to me

that I could not, in the priest’s questioning, catch her name, of

which, strangely enough,—I was ignorant. But, as I did not know the

language, and as the phrases were not in accord literally with our

own ritual, I could not make out which word was the name.

After some prayers and blessings, rhythmically spoken or sung by an

invisible choir, the priest took the rings from the open book, and,

after signing my forehead thrice with the gold one as he repeated the

blessing in each case, placed it on my right hand; then he gave my

Lady the silver one, with the same ritual thrice repeated. I suppose

it was the blessing which is the effective point in making two into

one.

After this, those who stood behind us exchanged our rings thrice,

taking them from one finger and placing them on the other, so that at

the end my wife wore the gold ring and I the silver one.

Then came a chant, during which the priest swung the censer himself,

and my wife and I held our tapers. After that he blessed us, the

responses coming from the voices of the unseen singers in the

darkness.

After a long ritual of prayer and blessing, sung in triplicate, the

priest took the crowns of flowers, and put one on the head of each,

crowning me first, and with the crown tied with gold. Then he signed

and blessed us each thrice. The guides, who stood behind us,

exchanged our crowns thrice, as they had exchanged the rings; so that

at the last, as I was glad to see, my wife wore the crown of gold,

and I that of silver.

Then there came, if it is possible to describe such a thing, a hush

over even that stillness, as though some form of added solemnity were

to be gone through. I was not surprised, therefore, when the priest

took in his hands the great golden chalice. Kneeling, my wife and I

partook together thrice.

When we had risen from our knees and stood for a little while, the

priest took my left hand in his right, and I, by direction of my

guide, gave my right hand to my wife. And so in a line, the priest

leading, we circled round the table in rhythmic measure. Those who

supported us moved behind us, holding the crowns over our heads, and

replacing them when we stopped.

After a hymn, sung through the darkness, the priest took off our

crowns. This was evidently the conclusion of the ritual, for the

priest placed us in each other’s arms to embrace each other. Then he

blessed us, who were now man and wife!

The lights went out at once, some as if extinguished, others slowly

fading down to blackness.

Left in the dark, my wife and I sought each other’s arms again, and

stood together for a few moments heart to heart, tightly clasping

each other, and kissed each other fervently.

Instinctively we turned to the door of the church, which was slightly

open, so that we could see the moonlight stealing in through the

aperture. With even steps, she holding me tightly by the left arm—

which is the wife’s arm, we passed through the old church and out

into the free air.

Despite all that the gloom had brought me, it was sweet to be in the

open air and together—this quite apart from our new relations to

each other. The moon rode high, and the full light, coming after the

dimness or darkness in the church, seemed as bright as day. I could

now, for the first time, see my wife’s face properly. The glamour of

the moonlight may have served to enhance its ethereal beauty, but

neither moonlight nor sunlight could do justice to that beauty in its

living human splendour. As I gloried in her starry eyes I could

think of nothing else; but when for a moment my eyes, roving round

for the purpose of protection, caught sight of her whole figure,

there was a pang to my heart. The brilliant moonlight showed every

detail in terrible effect, and I could see that she wore only her

Shroud. In the moment of darkness, after the last benediction,

before she returned to my arms, she must have removed her bridal

veil. This may, of course, have been in accordance with the

established ritual of her church; but, all the same, my heart was

sore. The glamour of calling her my very own was somewhat obscured

by the bridal adornment being shorn. But it made no difference in

her sweetness to me. Together we went along the path through the

wood, she keeping equal step with me in wifely way.

When we had come through the trees near enough to see the roof of the

Castle, now gilded with the moonlight, she stopped, and looking at me

with eyes full of love, said:

“Here I must leave you!”

“What?” I was all aghast, and I felt that my chagrin was expressed

in the tone of horrified surprise in my voice. She went on quickly:

“Alas! It is impossible that I should go farther—at present!”

“But what is to prevent you?” I queried. “You are now my wife. This

is our wedding-night; and surely your place is with me!” The wail in

her voice as she answered touched me to the quick:

“Oh, I know, I know! There is no dearer wish in my heart—there can

be none—than to share my husband’s home. Oh, my dear, my dear, if

you only knew what it would be to me to be with you always! But

indeed I may not—not yet! I am not free! If you but knew how much

that which has happened to-night has cost me—or how much cost to

others as well as to myself may be yet to come—you would understand.

Rupert”—it was the first time she had ever addressed me by name, and

naturally it thrilled me through and through—“Rupert, my husband,

only that I trust you with all the faith which is in perfect love—

mutual love, I dare not have done what I have done this night. But,

dear, I know that you will bear me out; that your wife’s honour is

your honour, even as your honour is mine. My honour is given to

this; and you can help me—the only help I can have at present—by

trusting me. Be patient, my beloved, be patient! Oh, be patient for

a little longer! It shall not be for long. So soon as ever my soul

is freed I shall come to you, my husband; and we shall never part

again. Be content for a while! Believe me that I love you with my

very soul; and to keep away from your dear side is more bitter for me

than even it can be for you! Think, my dear one, I am not as other

women are, as some day you shall clearly understand. I am at the

present, and shall be for a little longer, constrained by duties and

obligations put upon me by others, and for others, and to which I am

pledged by the most sacred promises—given not only by myself, but by

others—and which I must not forgo. These forbid me to do as I wish.

Oh, trust me, my beloved—my husband!”

She held out her hands appealingly. The moonlight, falling through

the thinning forest, showed her white cerements. Then the

recollection of all she must have suffered—the awful loneliness in

that grim tomb in the Crypt, the despairing agony of one who is

helpless against the unknown—swept over me in a wave of pity. What

could I do but save her from further pain? And this could only be by

showing her my faith and trust. If she was to go back to that

dreadful charnel-house, she would at least take with her the

remembrance that one who loved her and whom she loved—to whom she

had been lately bound in the mystery of marriage—trusted her to the

full. I loved her more than myself—more than my own soul; and I was

moved by pity so great that all possible selfishness was merged in

its depths. I bowed my head before her—my Lady and my Wife—as I

said:

“So be it, my beloved. I trust you to the full, even as you trust

me. And that has been proven this night, even to my own doubting

heart. I shall wait; and as I know you wish it, I shall wait as

patiently as I can. But till you come to me for good and all, let me

see you or hear from you when you can. The time, dear wife, must go

heavily with me as I think of you suffering and lonely. So be good

to me, and let not too long a time elapse between my glimpses of

hope. And, sweetheart, when you DO come to me, it shall be for

ever!” There was something in the intonation of the last sentence—I

felt its sincerity myself—some implied yearning for a promise, that

made her beautiful eyes swim. The glorious stars in them were

blurred as she answered with a fervour which seemed to me as more

than earthly:

“For ever! I swear it!”

With one long kiss, and a straining in each others arms, which left

me tingling for long after we had lost sight of each other, we

parted. I stood and watched her as her white figure, gliding through

the deepening gloom, faded as the forest thickened. It surely was no

optical delusion or a phantom of the mind that her shrouded arm was

raised as though in blessing or farewell before the darkness

swallowed her up.

BOOK VI: THE PURSUIT IN THE FOREST

RUPERT’S JOURNAL—Continued.

July 3, 1907.

There is no anodyne but work to pain of the heart; and my pain is all

of the heart. I sometimes feel that it is rather hard that with so

much to make me happy I cannot know happiness. How can I be happy

when my wife, whom I fondly love, and who I know loves me, is

suffering in horror and loneliness of a kind which is almost beyond

human belief? However, what is my loss is my country’s gain, for the

Land of the Blue Mountains is my country now, despite the fact that I

am still a loyal subject of good King Edward. Uncle Roger took care

of that when he said I should have the consent of the Privy Council

before I might be naturalized anywhere else.

When I got home yesterday morning I naturally could not sleep. The

events of the night and the bitter disappointment that followed my

exciting joy made such a thing impossible. When I drew the curtain

over the window, the reflection of the sunrise was just beginning to

tinge the high-sailing clouds in front of me. I laid down and tried

to rest, but without avail. However, I schooled myself to lie still,

and at last, if I did not sleep, was at least quiescent.

Disturbed by a gentle tap at the door, I sprang up at once and threw

on a dressing gown. Outside, when I opened the door, was Aunt Janet.

She was holding a lighted candle in her hand, for though it was

getting light in the open, the passages were still dark. When she

saw me she seemed to breathe more freely, and asked if she might come

in.

Whilst she sat on the edge of my bed, in her old-time way, she said

in a hushed voice:

“Oh, laddie, laddie, I trust yer burden is no too heavy to bear.”

“My burden! What on earth do you mean, Aunt Janet?” I said in reply.

I did not wish to commit myself by a definite answer, for it was

evident that she had been dreaming or Second Sighting again. She

replied with the grim seriousness usual to her when she touched on

occult matters:

“I saw your hairt bleeding, laddie. I kent it was yours, though how

I kent it I don’t know. It lay on a stone floor in the dark, save

for a dim blue light such as corpse-lights are. On it was placed a

great book, and close around were scattered many strange things,

amongst them two crowns o’ flowers—the one bound wi’ silver, the

other wi’ gold. There was also a golden cup, like a chalice,

o’erturned. The red wine trickled from it an’ mingled wi’ yer

hairt’s bluid; for on the great book was some vast dim weight wrapped

up in black, and on it stepped in turn many men all swathed in black.

An’ as the weight of each came on it the bluid gushed out afresh.

And oh, yer puir hairt, my laddie, was quick and leaping, so that at

every beat it raised the black-clad weight! An’ yet that was not

all, for hard by stood a tall imperial shape o’ a woman, all arrayed

in white, wi’ a great veil o’ finest lace worn o’er a shrood. An’

she was whiter than the snow, an’ fairer than the morn for beauty;

though a dark woman she was, wi’ hair like the raven, an’ eyes black

as the sea at nicht, an’ there was stars in them. An’ at each beat

o’ yer puir bleeding hairt she wrung her white hands, an’ the manin’

o’ her sweet voice rent my hairt in twain. Oh, laddie, laddie! what

does it mean?”

I managed to murmur: “I’m sure I don’t know, Aunt Janet. I suppose

it was all a dream!”

“A dream it was, my dear. A dream or a veesion, whilka matters nane,

for a’ such are warnin’s sent frae God … ” Suddenly she said in

a different voice:

“Laddie, hae ye been fause to any lassie? I’m no blamin’ ye. For ye

men are different frae us women, an’ yer regard on recht and wrang

differs from oors. But oh, laddie, a woman’s tears fa’ heavy when

her hairt is for sair wi’ the yieldin’ to fause words. ‘Tis a heavy

burden for ony man to carry wi’ him as he goes, an’ may well cause

pain to ithers that he fain would spare.” She stopped, and in dead

silence waited for me to speak. I thought it would be best to set

her poor loving heart at rest, and as I could not divulge my special

secret, spoke in general terms:

“Aunt Janet, I am a man, and have led a man’s life, such as it is.

But I can tell you, who have always loved me and taught me to be

true, that in all the world there is no woman who must weep for any

falsity of mine. If close there be any who, sleeping or waking, in

dreams or visions or in reality, weeps because of me, it is surely

not for my doing, but because of something outside me. It may be

that her heart is sore because I must suffer, as all men must in some

degree; but she does not weep for or through any act of mine.”

She sighed happily at my assurance, and looked up through her tears,

for she was much moved; and after tenderly kissing my forehead and

blessing me, stole away. She was more sweet and tender than I have

words to say, and the only regret that I have in all that is gone is

that I have not been able to bring my wife to her, and let her share

in the love she has for me. But that, too, will come, please God!

In the morning I sent a message to Rooke at Otranto, instructing him

by code to bring the yacht to Vissarion in the coming night.

All day I spent in going about amongst the mountaineers, drilling

them and looking after their arms. I COULD not stay still. My only

chance of peace was to work, my only chance of sleep to tire myself

out. Unhappily, I am very strong, so even when I came home at dark I

was quite fresh. However, I found a cable message from Rooke that

the yacht would arrive at midnight.

There was no need to summon the mountaineers, as the men in the

Castle would be sufficient to make preparations for the yacht’s

coming.

LATER.

The yacht has come. At half-past eleven the lookout signalled that a

steamer without lights was creeping in towards the Creek. I ran out

to the Flagstaff, and saw her steal in like a ghost. She is painted

a steely blue-grey, and it is almost impossible to see her at any

distance. She certainly goes wonderfully. Although there was not

enough throb from the engines to mar the absolute stillness, she came

on at a fine speed, and within a few minutes was close to the boom.

I had only time to run down to give orders to draw back the boom when

she glided in and stopped dead at the harbour wall. Rooke steered

her himself, and he says he never was on a boat that so well or so

quickly answered her helm. She is certainly a beauty, and so far as

I can see at night perfect in every detail. I promise myself a few

pleasant hours over her in the daylight. The men seem a splendid

lot.

But I do not feel sleepy; I despair of sleep to-night. But work

demands that I be fit for whatever may come, and so I shall try to

sleep—to rest, at any rate.

RUPERT’S JOURNAL.—Continued.

July 4, 1907.

I was up with the first ray of sunrise, so by the time I had my bath

and was dressed there was ample light. I went down to the dock at

once, and spent the morning looking over the vessel, which fully

justifies Rooke’s enthusiasm about her. She is built on lovely

lines, and I can quite understand that she is enormously fast. Her

armour I can only take on the specifications, but her armament is

really wonderful. And there are not only all the very newest devices

of aggressive warfare—indeed, she has the newest up-to-date

torpedoes and torpedo-guns—but also the old-fashioned rocket-tubes,

which in certain occasions are so useful. She has electric guns and

the latest Massillon water-guns, and Reinhardt electro-pneumatic

“deliverers” for pyroxiline shells. She is even equipped with war-balloons easy of expansion, and with compressible Kitson aeroplanes.

I don’t suppose that there is anything quite like her in the world.

The crew are worthy of her. I can’t imagine where Rooke picked up

such a splendid lot of men. They are nearly all man-of-warsmen; of

various nationalities, but mostly British. All young men—the oldest

of them hasn’t got into the forties—and, so far as I can learn, all

experts of one kind or another in some special subject of warfare.

It will go hard with me, but I shall keep them together.

How I got through the rest of the day I know not. I tried hard not

to create any domestic trouble by my manner, lest Aunt Janet should,

after her lurid dream or vision of last night, attach some new

importance to it. I think I succeeded, for she did not, so far as I

could tell, take any special notice of me. We parted as usual at

half-past ten, and I came here and made this entry in my journal. I

am more restless than ever to-night, and no wonder. I would give

anything to be able to pay a visit to St. Sava’s, and see my wife

again—if it were only sleeping in her tomb. But I dare not do even

that, lest she should come to see me here, and I should miss her. So

I have done what I can. The glass door to the Terrace is open, so

that she can enter at once if she comes. The fire is lit, and the

room is warm. There is food ready in case she should care for it. I

have plenty of light in the room, so that through the aperture where

I have not fully drawn the curtain there may be light to guide her.

Oh, how the time drags! The clock has struck midnight. One, two!

Thank goodness, it will shortly be dawn, and the activity of the day

may begin! Work may again prove, in a way, to be an anodyne. In the

meantime I must write on, lest despair overwhelm me.

Once during the night I thought I heard a footstep outside. I rushed

to the window and looked out, but there was nothing to see, no sound

to hear. That was a little after one o’clock. I feared to go

outside, lest that should alarm her; so I came back to my table. I

could not write, but I sat as if writing for a while. But I could

not stand it, so rose and walked about the room. As I walked I felt

that my Lady—it gives me a pang every time I remember that I do not

know even her name—was not quite so far away from me. It made my

heart beat to think that it might mean that she was coming to me.

Could not I as well as Aunt Janet have a little Second Sight! I went

towards the window, and, standing behind the curtain, listened. Far

away I thought I heard a cry, and ran out on the Terrace; but there

was no sound to be heard, and no sign of any living thing anywhere;

so I took it for granted that it was the cry of some night bird, and

came back to my room, and wrote at my journal till I was calm. I

think my nerves must be getting out of order, when every sound of the

night seems to have a special meaning for me.

RUPERT’S JOURNAL—Continued.

July 7, 1907

When the grey of the morning came, I gave up hope of my wife

appearing, and made up my mind that, so soon as I could get away

without exciting Aunt Janet’s attention, I would go to St. Sava’s. I

always eat a good breakfast, and did I forgo it altogether, it would

be sure to excite her curiosity—a thing I do not wish at present.

As there was still time to wait, I lay down on my bed as I was, and—

such is the way of Fate—shortly fell asleep.

I was awakened by a terrific clattering at my door. When I opened it

I found a little group of servants, very apologetic at awaking me

without instructions. The chief of them explained that a young

priest had come from the Vladika with a message so urgent that he

insisted on seeing me immediately at all hazards. I came out at

once, and found him in the hall of the Castle, standing before the

great fire, which was always lit in the early morning. He had a

letter in his hand, but before giving it to me he said:

“I am sent by the Vladika, who pressed on me that I was not to lose a

single instant in seeing you; that time is of golden price—nay,

beyond price. This letter, amongst other things, vouches for me. A

terrible misfortune has occurred. The daughter of our leader has

disappeared during last night—the same, he commanded me to remind

you, that he spoke of at the meeting when he would not let the

mountaineers fire their guns. No sign of her can be found, and it is

believed that she has been carried off by the emissaries of the

Sultan of Turkey, who once before brought our nations to the verge of

war by demanding her as a wife. I was also to say that the Vladika

Plamenac would have come himself, but that it was necessary that he

should at once consult with the Archbishop, Stevan Palealogue, as to

what step is best to take in this dire calamity. He has sent out a

search-party under the Archimandrite of Spazac, Petrof Vlastimir, who

is to come on here with any news he can get, as you have command of

the signalling, and can best spread the news. He knows that you,

Gospodar, are in your great heart one of our compatriots, and that

you have already proved your friendship by many efforts to strengthen

our hands for war. And as a great compatriot, he calls on you to aid

us in our need.” He then handed me the letter, and stood by

respectfully whilst I broke the seal and read it. It was written in

great haste, and signed by the Vladika.

“Come with us now in our nation’s peril. Help us to rescue what we

most adore, and henceforth we shall hold you in our hearts. You

shall learn how the men of the Blue Mountains can love faith and

valour. Come!”

This was a task indeed—a duty worthy of any man. It thrilled me to

the core to know that the men of the Blue Mountains had called on me

in their dire need. It woke all the fighting instinct of my Viking

forbears, and I vowed in my heart that they should be satisfied with

my work. I called to me the corps of signallers who were in the

house, and led them to the Castle roof, taking with me the young

messenger-priest.

“Come with me,” I said to him, “and see how I answer the Vladika’s

command.”

The National flag was run up—the established signal that the nation

was in need. Instantly on every summit near and far was seen the

flutter of an answering flag. Quickly followed the signal that

commanded the call to arms.

One by one I gave the signallers orders in quick succession, for the

plan of search unfolded itself to me as I went on. The arms of the

semaphore whirled in a way that made the young priest stare. One by

one, as they took their orders, the signallers seemed to catch fire.

Instinctively they understood the plan, and worked like demigods.

They knew that so widespread a movement had its best chance in

rapidity and in unity of action.

From the forest which lay in sight of the Castle came a wild

cheering, which seemed to interpret the former stillness of the

hills. It was good to feel that those who saw the signals—types of

many—were ready. I saw the look of expectation on the face of the

messenger-priest, and rejoiced at the glow that came as I turned to

him to speak. Of course, he wanted to know something of what was

going on. I saw the flashing of my own eyes reflected in his as I

spoke:

“Tell the Vladika that within a minute of his message being read the

Land of the Blue Mountains was awake. The mountaineers are already

marching, and before the sun is high there will be a line of guards

within hail of each other round the whole frontier—from Angusa to

Ilsin; from Ilsin to Bajana; from Bajana to Ispazar; from Ispazar to

Volok; from Volok to Tatra; from Tatra to Domitan; from Domitan to

Gravaja; and from Gravaja back to Angusa. The line is double. The

old men keep guard on the line, and the young men advance. These

will close in at the advancing line, so that nothing can escape them.

They will cover mountain-top and forest depth, and will close in

finally on the Castle here, which they can behold from afar. My own

yacht is here, and will sweep the coast from end to end. It is the

fastest boat afloat, and armed against a squadron. Here will all

signals come. In an hour where we stand will be a signal bureau,

where trained eyes will watch night and day till the lost one has

been found and the outrage has been avenged. The robbers are even

now within a ring of steel, and cannot escape.”

The young priest, all on fire, sprang on the battlements and shouted

to the crowd, which was massing round the Castle in the gardens far

below. The forest was giving up its units till they seemed like the

nucleus of an army. The men cheered lustily, till the sound swung

high up to us like the roaring of a winter sea. With bared heads

they were crying:

“God and the Blue Mountains! God and the Blue Mountains!”

I ran down to them as quickly as I could, and began to issue their

instructions. Within a time to be computed by minutes the whole

number, organized by sections, had started to scour the neighbouring

mountains. At first they had only understood the call to arms for

general safety. But when they learned that the daughter of a chief

had been captured, they simply went mad. From something which the

messenger first said, but which I could not catch or did not

understand, the blow seemed to have for them some sort of personal

significance which wrought them to a frenzy.

When the bulk of the men had disappeared, I took with me a few of my

own men and several of the mountaineers whom I had asked to remain,

and together we went to the hidden ravine which I knew. We found the

place empty; but there were unmistakable signs that a party of men

had been encamped there for several days. Some of our men, who were

skilled in woodcraft and in signs generally, agreed that there must

have been some twenty of them. As they could not find any trail

either coming to or going from the place, they came to the conclusion

that they must have come separately from different directions and

gathered there, and that they must have departed in something of the

same mysterious way.

However, this was, at any rate, some sort of a beginning, and the men

separated, having agreed amongst themselves to make a wide cast round

the place in the search for tracks. Whoever should find a trail was

to follow with at least one comrade, and when there was any definite

news, it was to be signalled to the Castle.

I myself returned at once, and set the signallers to work to spread

amongst our own people such news as we had.

When presently such discoveries as had been made were signalled with

flags to the Castle, it was found that the marauders had, in their

flight, followed a strangely zigzag course. It was evident that, in

trying to baffle pursuit, they had tried to avoid places which they

thought might be dangerous to them. This may have been simply a

method to disconcert pursuit. If so, it was, in a measure,

excellent, for none of those immediately following could possibly

tell in what direction they were heading. It was only when we worked

the course on the great map in the signaller’s room (which was the

old guard room of the Castle) that we could get an inkling of the

general direction of their flight. This gave added trouble to the

pursuit; for the men who followed, being ignorant of their general

intent, could not ever take chance to head them off, but had to be

ready to follow in any or every direction. In this manner the

pursuit was altogether a stern chase, and therefore bound to be a

long one.

As at present we could not do anything till the intended route was

more marked, I left the signalling corps to the task of receiving and

giving information to the moving bands, so that, if occasion served,

they might head off the marauders. I myself took Rooke, as captain

of the yacht, and swept out of the creek. We ran up north to

Dalairi, then down south to Olesso, and came back to Vissarion. We

saw nothing suspicious except, far off to the extreme southward, one

warship which flew no flag. Rooke, however, who seemed to know ships

by instinct, said she was a Turk; so on our return we signalled along

the whole shore to watch her. Rooke held The Lady—which was the

name I had given the armoured yacht—in readiness to dart out in case

anything suspicious was reported. He was not to stand on any

ceremony, but if necessary to attack. We did not intend to lose a

point in this desperate struggle which we had undertaken. We had

placed in different likely spots a couple of our own men to look

after the signalling.

When I got back I found that the route of the fugitives, who had now

joined into one party, had been definitely ascertained. They had

gone south, but manifestly taking alarm from the advancing line of

guards, had headed up again to the north-east, where the country was

broader and the mountains wilder and less inhabited.

Forthwith, leaving the signalling altogether in the hands of the

fighting priests, I took a small chosen band of the mountaineers of

our own district, and made, with all the speed we could, to cut

across the track of the fugitives a little ahead of them. The

Archimandrite (Abbot) of Spazac, who had just arrived, came with us.

He is a splendid man—a real fighter as well as a holy cleric, as

good with his handjar as with his Bible, and a runner to beat the

band. The marauders were going at a fearful pace, considering that

they were all afoot; so we had to go fast also! Amongst these

mountains there is no other means of progressing. Our own men were

so aflame with ardour that I could not but notice that they, more

than any of the others whom I had seen, had some special cause for

concern.

When I mentioned it to the Archimandrite, who moved by my side, he

answered:

“All natural enough; they are not only fighting for their country,

but for their own!” I did not quite understand his answer, and so

began to ask him some questions, to the effect that I soon began to

understand a good deal more than he did.

Letter from Archbishop Stevan Palealogue, Head of the Eastern Church

of the Blue Mountains, to the Lady Janet MacKelpie, Vissarion.

Written July 9, 1907.

HONOURED LADY,

As you wish for an understanding regarding the late lamentable

occurrence in which so much danger was incurred to this our Land of

the Blue Mountains, and one dear to us, I send these words by request

of the Gospodar Rupert, beloved of our mountaineers.

When the Voivode Peter Vissarion made his journey to the great nation

to whom we looked in our hour of need, it was necessary that he

should go in secret. The Turk was at our gates, and full of the

malice of baffled greed. Already he had tried to arrange a marriage

with the Voivodin, so that in time to come he, as her husband, might

have established a claim to the inheritance of the land. Well he

knew, as do all men, that the Blue Mountaineers owe allegiance to

none that they themselves do not appoint to rulership. This has been

the history in the past. But now and again an individual has arisen

or come to the front adapted personally for such government as this

land requires. And so the Lady Teuta, Voivodin of the Blue

Mountains, was put for her proper guarding in the charge of myself as

Head of the Eastern Church in the Land of the Blue Mountains, steps

being taken in such wise that no capture of her could be effected by

unscrupulous enemies of this our Land. This task and guardianship

was gladly held as an honour by all concerned. For the Voivodin

Teuta of Vissarion must be taken as representing in her own person

the glory of the old Serb race, inasmuch as being the only child of

the Voivode Vissarion, last male of his princely race—the race which

ever, during the ten centuries of our history, unflinchingly gave

life and all they held for the protection, safety, and well-being of

the Land of the Blue Mountains. Never during those centuries had any

one of the race been known to fail in patriotism, or to draw back

from any loss or hardship enjoined by high duty or stress of need.

Moreover, this was the race of that first Voivode Vissarion, of whom,

in legend, it was prophesied that he—once known as “The Sword of

Freedom,” a giant amongst men—would some day, when the nation had

need of him, come forth from his water-tomb in the lost Lake of Reo,

and lead once more the men of the Blue Mountains to lasting victory.

This noble race, then, had come to be known as the last hope of the

Land. So that when the Voivode was away on his country’s service,

his daughter should be closely guarded. Soon after the Voivode had

gone, it was reported that he might be long delayed in his

diplomacies, and also in studying the system of Constitutional

Monarchy, for which it had been hoped to exchange our imperfect

political system. I may say inter alia that he was mentioned as to

be the first king when the new constitution should have been

arranged.

Then a great misfortune came on us; a terrible grief overshadowed the

land. After a short illness, the Voivodin Teuta Vissarion died

mysteriously of a mysterious ailment. The grief of the mountaineers

was so great that it became necessary for the governing Council to

warn them not to allow their sorrow to be seen. It was imperatively

necessary that the fact of her death should be kept secret. For

there were dangers and difficulties of several kinds. In the first

place it was advisable that even her father should be kept in

ignorance of his terrible loss. It was well known that he held her

as the very core of his heart and that if he should hear of her

death, he would be too much prostrated to be able to do the intricate

and delicate work which he had undertaken. Nay, more: he would

never remain afar off, under the sad circumstances, but would

straightway return, so as to be in the land where she lay. Then

suspicions would crop up, and the truth must shortly be known afield,

with the inevitable result that the Land would become the very centre

of a war of many nations.

In the second place, if the Turks were to know that the race of

Vissarion was becoming extinct, this would encourage them to further

aggression, which would become immediate should they find out that

the Voivode was himself away. It was well known that they were

already only suspending hostilities until a fitting opportunity

should arise. Their desire for aggression had become acute after the

refusal of the nation, and of the girl herself, that she should

become a wife of the Sultan.

The dead girl had been buried in the Crypt of the church of St. Sava,

and day after day and night after night, singly and in parties, the

sorrowing mountaineers had come to pay devotion and reverence at her

tomb. So many had wished to have a last glimpse of her face that the

Vladika had, with my own consent as Archbishop, arranged for a glass

cover to be put over the stone coffin wherein her body lay.

After a little time, however, there came a belief to all concerned in

the guarding of the body—these, of course, being the priests of

various degrees of dignity appointed to the task—that the Voivodin

was not really dead, but only in a strangely-prolonged trance.

Thereupon a new complication arose. Our mountaineers are, as perhaps

you know, by nature deeply suspicious—a characteristic of all brave

and self-sacrificing people who are jealous of their noble heritage.

Having, as they believed, seen the girl dead, they might not be

willing to accept the fact of her being alive. They might even

imagine that there was on foot some deep, dark plot which was, or

might be, a menace, now or hereafter, to their independence. In any

case, there would be certain to be two parties on the subject, a

dangerous and deplorable thing in the present condition of affairs.

As the trance, or catalepsy, whatever it was, continued for many

days, there had been ample time for the leaders of the Council, the

Vladika, the priesthood represented by the Archimandrite of Spazac,

myself as Archbishop and guardian of the Voivodin in her father’s

absence, to consult as to a policy to be observed in case of the girl

awaking. For in such case the difficulty of the situation would be

multiplied indefinitely. In the secret chambers of St. Sava’s we had

many secret meetings, and were finally converging on agreement when

the end of the trance came.

The girl awoke!

She was, of course, terribly frightened when she found herself in a

tomb in the Crypt. It was truly fortunate that the great candles

around her tomb had been kept lighted, for their light mitigated the

horror of the place. Had she waked in darkness, her reason might

have become unseated.

She was, however, a very noble girl; brave, with extraordinary will,

and resolution, and self-command, and power of endurance. When she

had been taken into one of the secret chambers of the church, where

she was warmed and cared for, a hurried meeting was held by the

Vladika, myself, and the chiefs of the National Council. Word had

been at once sent to me of the joyful news of her recovery; and with

the utmost haste I came, arriving in time to take a part in the

Council.

At the meeting the Voivodin was herself present, and full confidence

of the situation was made to her. She herself proposed that the

belief in her death should be allowed to prevail until the return of

her father, when all could be effectively made clear. To this end

she undertook to submit to the terrific strain which such a

proceeding would involve. At first we men could not believe that any

woman could go through with such a task, and some of us did not

hesitate to voice our doubts—our disbelief. But she stood to her

guns, and actually down-faced us. At the last we, remembering things

that had been done, though long ages ago, by others of her race, came

to believe not merely in her self-belief and intention, but even in

the feasibility of her plan. She took the most solemn oaths not to

betray the secret under any possible stress.

The priesthood undertook through the Vladika and myself to further a

ghostly belief amongst the mountaineers which would tend to prevent a

too close or too persistent observation. The Vampire legend was

spread as a protection against partial discovery by any mischance,

and other weird beliefs were set afoot and fostered. Arrangements

were made that only on certain days were the mountaineers to be

admitted to the Crypt, she agreeing that for these occasions she was

to take opiates or carry out any other aid to the preservation of the

secret. She was willing, she impressed upon us, to make any personal

sacrifice which might be deemed necessary for the carrying out her

father’s task for the good of the nation.

Of course, she had at first terrible frights lying alone in the

horror of the Crypt. But after a time the terrors of the situation,

if they did not cease, were mitigated. There are secret caverns off

the Crypt, wherein in troublous times the priests and others of high

place have found safe retreat. One of these was prepared for the

Voivodin, and there she remained, except for such times as she was on

show—and certain other times of which I shall tell you. Provision

was made for the possibility of any accidental visit to the church.

At such times, warned by an automatic signal from the opening door,

she was to take her place in the tomb. The mechanism was so arranged

that the means to replace the glass cover, and to take the opiate,

were there ready to her hand. There was to be always a watch of

priests at night in the church, to guard her from ghostly fears as

well as from more physical dangers; and if she was actually in her

tomb, it was to be visited at certain intervals. Even the draperies

which covered her in the sarcophagus were rested on a bridge placed

from side to side just above her, so as to hide the rising and

falling of her bosom as she slept under the narcotic.

After a while the prolonged strain began to tell so much on her that

it was decided that she should take now and again exercise out of

doors. This was not difficult, for when the Vampire story which we

had spread began to be widely known, her being seen would be accepted

as a proof of its truth. Still, as there was a certain danger in her

being seen at all, we thought it necessary to exact from her a solemn

oath that so long as her sad task lasted she should under no

circumstances ever wear any dress but her shroud—this being the only

way to insure secrecy and to prevail against accident.

There is a secret way from the Crypt to a sea cavern, whose entrance

is at high-tide under the water-line at the base of the cliff on

which the church is built. A boat, shaped like a coffin, was

provided for her; and in this she was accustomed to pass across the

creek whenever she wished to make excursion. It was an excellent

device, and most efficacious in disseminating the Vampire belief.

This state of things had now lasted from before the time when the

Gospodar Rupert came to Vissarion up to the day of the arrival of the

armoured yacht.

That night the priest on duty, on going his round of the Crypt just

before dawn, found the tomb empty. He called the others, and they

made full search. The boat was gone from the cavern, but on making

search they found it on the farther side of the creek, close to the

garden stairs. Beyond this they could discover nothing. She seemed

to have disappeared without leaving a trace.

Straightway they went to the Vladika, and signalled to me by the

fire-signal at the monastery at Astrag, where I then was. I took a

band of mountaineers with me, and set out to scour the country. But

before going I sent an urgent message to the Gospodar Rupert, asking

him, who showed so much interest and love to our Land, to help us in

our trouble. He, of course, knew nothing then of all have now told

you. Nevertheless, he devoted himself whole-heartedly to our needs—

as doubtless you know.

But the time had now come close when the Voivode Vissarion was about

to return from his mission; and we of the council of his daughter’s

guardianship were beginning to arrange matters so that at his return

the good news of her being still alive could be made public. With

her father present to vouch for her, no question as to truth could

arise.

But by some means the Turkish “Bureau of Spies” must have got

knowledge of the fact already. To steal a dead body for the purpose

of later establishing a fictitious claim would have been an

enterprise even more desperate than that already undertaken. We

inferred from many signs, made known to us in an investigation, that

a daring party of the Sultan’s emissaries had made a secret incursion

with the object of kidnapping the Voivodin. They must have been bold

of heart and strong of resource to enter the Land of the Blue

Mountains on any errand, let alone such a desperate one as this. For

centuries we have been teaching the Turk through bitter lessons that

it is neither a safe task nor an easy one to make incursion here.

How they did it we know not—at present; but enter they did, and,

after waiting in some secret hiding-place for a favourable

opportunity, secured their prey. We know not even now whether they

had found entrance to the Crypt and stole, as they thought, the dead

body, or whether, by some dire mischance, they found her abroad—

under her disguise as a ghost. At any rate, they had captured her,

and through devious ways amongst the mountains were bearing her back

to Turkey. It was manifest that when she was on Turkish soil the

Sultan would force a marriage on her so as eventually to secure for

himself or his successors as against all other nations a claim for

the suzerainty or guardianship of the Blue Mountains.

Such was the state of affairs when the Gospodar Rupert threw himself

into the pursuit with fiery zeal and the Berserk passion which he

inherited from Viking ancestors, whence of old came “The Sword of

Freedom” himself.

But at that very time was another possibility which the Gospodar was

himself the first to realize. Failing the getting the Voivodin safe

to Turkish soil, the ravishers might kill her! This would be

entirely in accord with the base traditions and history of the

Moslems. So, too, it would accord with Turkish customs and the

Sultan’s present desires. It would, in its way, benefit the ultimate

strategetic ends of Turkey. For were once the Vissarion race at an

end, the subjection of the Land of the Blue Mountains might, in their

view, be an easier task than it had yet been found to be.

Such, illustrious lady, were the conditions of affairs when the

Gospodar Rupert first drew his handjar for the Blue Mountains and

what it held most dear.

PALEALOGUE,

Archbishop of the Eastern Church, in the Land of the Blue Mountains.

RUPERT’S JOURNAL—Continued.

July 8, 1907.

I wonder if ever in the long, strange history of the world had there

come to any other such glad tidings as came to me—and even then

rather inferentially than directly—from the Archimandrite’s answers

to my questioning. Happily I was able to restrain myself, or I

should have created some strange confusion which might have evoked

distrust, and would certainly have hampered us in our pursuit. For a

little I could hardly accept the truth which wove itself through my

brain as the true inwardness of each fact came home to me and took

its place in the whole fabric. But even the most welcome truth has

to be accepted some time by even a doubting heart. My heart,

whatever it may have been, was not then a doubting heart, but a very,

very grateful one. It was only the splendid magnitude of the truth

which forbade its immediate acceptance. I could have shouted for

joy, and only stilled myself by keeping my thoughts fixed on the

danger which my wife was in. My wife! My wife! Not a Vampire; not

a poor harassed creature doomed to terrible woe, but a splendid

woman, brave beyond belief, patriotic in a way which has but few

peers even in the wide history of bravery! I began to understand the

true meaning of the strange occurrences that have come into my life.

Even the origin and purpose of that first strange visit to my room

became clear. No wonder that the girl could move about the Castle in

so mysterious a manner. She had lived there all her life, and was

familiar with the secret ways of entrance and exit. I had always

believed that the place must have been honeycombed with secret

passages. No wonder that she could find a way to the battlements,

mysterious to everybody else. No wonder that she could meet me at

the Flagstaff when she so desired.

To say that I was in a tumult would be to but faintly express my

condition. I was rapt into a heaven of delight which had no measure

in all my adventurous life—the lifting of the veil which showed that

my wife—mine—won in all sincerity in the very teeth of appalling

difficulties and dangers—was no Vampire, no corpse, no ghost or

phantom, but a real woman of flesh and blood, of affection, and love,

and passion. Now at last would my love be crowned indeed when,

having rescued her from the marauders, I should bear her to my own

home, where she would live and reign in peace and comfort and honour,

and in love and wifely happiness if I could achieve such a blessing

for her—and for myself.

But here a dreadful thought flashed across me, which in an instant

turned my joy to despair, my throbbing heart to ice:

“As she is a real woman, she is in greater danger than ever in the

hands of Turkish ruffians. To them a woman is in any case no more

than a sheep; and if they cannot bring her to the harem of the

Sultan, they may deem it the next wisest step to kill her. In that

way, too, they might find a better chance of escape. Once rid of her

the party could separate, and there might be a chance of some of them

finding escape as individuals that would not exist for a party. But

even if they did not kill her, to escape with her would be to condemn

her to the worst fate of all the harem of the Turk! Lifelong misery

and despair—however long that life might be—must be the lot of a

Christian woman doomed to such a lot. And to her, just happily

wedded, and after she had served her country in such a noble way as

she had done, that dreadful life of shameful slavery would be a

misery beyond belief.

“She must be rescued—and quickly! The marauders must be caught

soon, and suddenly, so that they may have neither time nor

opportunity to harm her, as they would be certain to do if they have

warning of immediate danger.

“On! on!”

And “on” it was all through that terrible night as well as we could

through the forest.

It was a race between the mountaineers and myself as to who should be

first. I understood now the feeling that animated them, and which

singled them out even from amongst their fiery comrades, when the

danger of the Voivodin became known. These men were no mean

contestants even in such a race, and, strong as I am, it took my

utmost effort to keep ahead of them. They were keen as leopards, and

as swift. Their lives had been spent among the mountains, and their

hearts and souls on were in the chase. I doubt not that if the death

of any one of us could have through any means effected my wife’s

release, we should, if necessary, have fought amongst ourselves for

the honour.

From the nature of the work before us our party had to keep to the

top of the hills. We had not only to keep observation on the flying

party whom we followed, and to prevent them making discovery of us,

but we had to be always in a position to receive and answer signals

made to us from the Castle, or sent to us from other eminences.

Letter from Petrof Vlastimir, Archimandrite of Spazac, to the Lady

Janet MacKelpie, of Vissarion.

Written July 8, 1907.

GREAT LADY,

I am asked to write by the Vladika, and have permission of the

Archbishop. I have the honour of transmitting to you the record of

the pursuit of the Turkish spies who carried off the Voivodin Teuta,

of the noble House of Vissarion. The pursuit was undertaken by the

Gospodar Rupert, who asked that I would come with his party, since

what he was so good as to call my “great knowledge of the country and

its people” might serve much. It is true that I have had much

knowledge of the Land of the Blue Mountains and its people, amongst

which and whom my whole life has been passed. But in such a cause no

reason was required. There was not a man in the Blue Mountains who

would not have given his life for the Voivodin Teuta, and when they

heard that she had not been dead, as they thought, but only in a

trance, and that it was she whom the marauders had carried off, they

were in a frenzy. So why should I—to whom has been given the great

trust of the Monastery of Spazac—hesitate at such a time? For

myself, I wanted to hurry on, and to come at once to the fight with

my country’s foes; and well I knew that the Gospodar Rupert, with a

lion’s heart meet for his giant body, would press on with a matchless

speed. We of the Blue Mountains do not lag when our foes are in

front of us; most of all do we of the Eastern Church press on when

the Crescent wars against the Cross!

We took with us no gear or hamper of any kind; no coverings except

what we stood in; no food—nothing but our handjars and our rifles,

with a sufficiency of ammunition. Before starting, the Gospodar gave

hurried orders by signal from the Castle to have food and ammunition

sent to us (as we might signal) by the nearest hamlet.

It was high noon when we started, only ten strong—for our leader

would take none but approved runners who could shoot straight and use

the handjar as it should be used. So as we went light, we expected

to go fast. By this time we knew from the reports signalled to

Vissarion that the enemies were chosen men of no despicable prowess.

The Keeper of the Green Flag of Islam is well served, and as though

the Turk is an infidel and a dog, he is sometimes brave and strong.

Indeed, except when he passes the confines of the Blue Mountains, he

has been known to do stirring deeds. But as none who have dared to

wander in amongst our hills ever return to their own land, we may not

know of how they speak at home of their battles here. Still, these

men were evidently not to be despised; and our Gospodar, who is a

wise man as well as a valiant, warned us to be prudent, and not to

despise our foes over much. We did as he counselled, and in proof we

only took ten men, as we had only twenty against us. But then there

was at stake much beyond life, and we took no risks. So, as the

great clock at Vissarion clanged of noon, the eight fastest runners

of the Blue Mountains, together with the Gospodar Rupert and myself,

swept out on our journey. It had been signalled to us that the

course which the marauders had as yet taken in their flight was a

zigzag one, running eccentrically at all sorts of angles in all sorts

of directions. But our leader had marked out a course where we might

intercept our foes across the main line of their flight; and till we

had reached that region we paused not a second, but went as fast as

we could all night long. Indeed, it was amongst us a race as was the

Olympic race of old Greece, each one vying with his fellows, though

not in jealous emulation, but in high spirit, to best serve his

country and the Voivodin Teuta. Foremost amongst us went the

Gospodar, bearing himself as a Paladin of old, his mighty form

pausing for no obstacle. Perpetually did he urge us on. He would

not stop or pause for a moment, but often as he and I ran together—

for, lady, in my youth I was the fleetest of all in the race, and

even that now can head a battalion when duty calls—he would ask me

certain questions as to the Lady Teuta and of the strange manner of

her reputed death, as it was gradually unfolded in my answers to his

questioning. And as each new phase of knowledge came to him, he

would rush on as one possessed of fiends: whereat our mountaineers,

who seem to respect even fiends for their thoroughness, would strive

to keep pace with him till they too seemed worked into diabolic

possession. And I myself, left alone in the calmness of sacerdotal

office, forgot even that. With surging ears and eyes that saw blood,

I rushed along with best of them.

Then truly the spirit of a great captain showed itself in the

Gospodar, for when others were charged with fury he began to force

himself into calm, so that out of his present self-command and the

memory of his exalted position came a worthy strategy and thought for

every contingency that might arise. So that when some new direction

was required for our guidance, there was no hesitation in its coming.

We, nine men of varying kinds, all felt that we had a master; and so,

being willing to limit ourselves to strict obedience, we were free to

use such thoughts as well as such powers as we had to the best

advantage of the doing.

We came across the trail of the flying marauders on the second

morning after the abduction, a little before noon. It was easy

enough to see, for by this time the miscreants were all together, and

our people, who were woodlanders, were able to tell much of the party

that passed. These were evidently in a terrified hurry, for they had

taken no precautions such as are necessary baffle pursuit, and all of

which take time. Our foresters said that two went ahead and two

behind. In the centre went the mass, moving close together, as

though surrounding their prisoner. We caught not even a single

glimpse her—could not have, they encompassed her so closely. But

our foresters saw other than the mass; the ground that had been

passed was before them. They knew that the prisoner had gone

unwillingly—nay, more: one of them said as he rose from his knees,

where he had been examining of the ground:

“The misbegotten dogs have been urging her on with their yataghans!

There are drops of blood, though there are no blood-marks on her

feet.”

Whereupon the Gospodar flamed with passion. His teeth ground

together, and with a deep-breathed “On, on!” he sprang off again,

handjar in hand, on the track.

Before long we saw the party in the distance. They this were far

below us in a deep valley, although the track of their going passed

away to the right hand. They were making for the base of the great

cliff, which rose before us all. Their reason was twofold, as we

soon knew. Far off down the valley which they were crossing we saw

signs of persons coming in haste, who must be of the search party

coming from the north. Though the trees hid them, we could not

mistake the signs. I was myself forester enough to have no doubt.

Again, it was evident that the young Voivodin could travel no longer

at the dreadful pace at which they had been going. Those blood-marks

told their own tale! They meant to make a last stand here in case

they should be discovered.

Then it was that he, who amongst us all had been most fierce and most

bent on rapid pursuit, became the most the calm. Raising his hand

for silence—though, God knows, we were and had been silent enough

during that long rush through the forest—he said, in a low, keen

whisper which cut the silence like a knife:

“My friends, the time is come for action. God be thanked, who has

now brought us face to face with our foes! But we must be careful

here—not on our own account, for we wish nothing more than to rush

on and conquer or die—but for the sake of her whom you love, and

whom I, too, love. She is in danger from anything which may give

warning to those fiends. If they know or even suspect for an instant

that we are near, they will murder her … “

Here his voice broke for an instant with the extremity of his passion

or the depth of his feeling—I hardly know which; I think both acted

on him.

“We know from those blood-marks what they can do—even to her.” His

teeth ground together again, but he went on without stopping further:

“Let us arrange the battle. Though we are but little distance from

them as the crow flies, the way is far to travel. There is, I can

see, but one path down to the valley from this side. That they have

gone by, and that they will sure to guard—to watch, at any rate.

Let us divide, as to surround them. The cliff towards which they

make runs far to the left without a break. That to the right we

cannot see from this spot; but from the nature of the ground it is

not unlikely that it turns round in this direction, making the hither

end of the valley like a vast pocket or amphitheatre. As they have

studied the ground in other places, they may have done so in this,

and have come hither as to a known refuge. Let one man, a marksman,

stay here.”

As he spoke a man stepped to the front. He was, I knew, an excellent

shot.

“Let two others go to the left and try to find a way down the cliff

before us. When they have descended to the level of the valley—path

or no path—let them advance cautiously and secretly, keeping their

guns in readiness. But they must not fire till need. Remember, my

brothers,” said, turning to those who stepped out a pace or two to

the left, “that the first shot gives the warning which will be the

signal for the Voivodin’s death. These men will not hesitate. You

must judge yourselves of the time to shoot. The others of us will

move to the right and try to find a path on that side. If the valley

be indeed a pocket between the cliffs, we must find a way down that

is not a path!”

As he spoke thus there was a blaze in his eyes that betokened no good

to aught that might stand in his way. I ran by his side as we moved

to the right.

It was as he surmised about the cliff. When we got a little on our

way we saw how the rocky formation trended to our right, till,

finally, with a wide curve, it came round to the other side.

It was a fearful valley that, with its narrow girth and its towering

walls that seemed to topple over. On the farther side from us the

great trees that clothed the slope of the mountain over it grew down

to the very edge of the rock, so that their spreading branches hung

far over the chasm. And, so far as we could understand, the same

condition existed on our own side. Below us the valley was dark even

in the daylight. We could best tell the movement of the flying

marauders by the flashes of the white shroud of their captive in the

midst of them.

From where we were grouped, amid the great tree-trunks on the very

brow of the cliff, we could, when our eyes were accustomed to the

shadow, see them quite well. In great haste, and half dragging, half

carrying the Voivodin, they crossed the open space and took refuge in

a little grassy alcove surrounded, save for its tortuous entrance, by

undergrowth. From the valley level it was manifestly impossible to

see them, though we from our altitude could see over the stunted

undergrowth. When within the glade, they took their hands from her.

She, shuddering instinctively, withdrew to a remote corner of the

dell.

And then, oh, shame on their manhood!—Turks and heathens though they

were—we could see that they had submitted her to the indignity of

gagging her and binding her hands!

Our Voivodin Teuta bound! To one and all of us it was like lashing

us across the face. I heard the Gospodar’s teeth grind again. But

once more he schooled himself to calmness ere he said:

“It is, perhaps, as well, great though the indignity be. They are

seeking their own doom, which is coming quickly … Moreover, they

are thwarting their own base plans. Now that she is bound they will

trust to their binding, so that they will delay their murderous

alternative to the very last moment. Such is our chance of rescuing

her alive!”

For a few moments he stood as still as a stone, as though revolving

something in his mind whilst he watched. I could see that some grim

resolution was forming in his mind, for his eyes ranged to the top of

the trees above cliff, and down again, very slowly this time, as

though measuring and studying the detail of what was in front of him.

Then he spoke:

“They are in hopes that the other pursuing party may not come across

them. To know that, they are waiting. If those others do not come

up the valley, they will proceed on their way. They will return up

the path the way they came. There we can wait them, charge into the

middle of them when she is opposite, and cut down those around her.

Then the others will open fire, and we shall be rid of them!

Whilst he was speaking, two of the men of our party, who I knew to be

good sharpshooters, and who had just before lain on their faces and

had steadied their rifles to shoot, rose to their feet.

“Command us, Gospodar!” they said simply, as they stood to attention.

“Shall we go to the head of the ravine road and there take hiding?”

He thought for perhaps a minute, whilst we all stood as silent as

images. I could hear our hearts beating. Then he said:

“No, not yet. There is time for that yet. They will not—cannot

stir or make plans in any way till they know whether the other party

is coming towards them or not. From our height here we can see what

course the others are taking long before those villains do. Then we

can make our plans and be ready in time.

We waited many minutes, but could see no further signs the other

pursuing party. These had evidently adopted greater caution in their

movements as they came closer to where they expected to find the

enemy. The marauders began to grow anxious. Even at our distance we

could gather as much from their attitude and movements.

Presently, when the suspense of their ignorance grew too much for

them, they drew to the entrance of the glade, which was the farthest

place to which, without exposing themselves to anyone who might come

to the valley, they could withdraw from their captive. Here they

consulted together. We could follow from their gestures what they

were saying, for as they did not wish their prisoner to hear, their

gesticulation was enlightening to us as to each other. Our people,

like all mountaineers, have good eyes, and the Gospodar is himself an

eagle in this as in other ways. Three men stood back from the rest.

They stacked their rifles so that they could seize them easily. Then

they drew their scimitars, and stood ready, as though on guard.

These were evidently the appointed murderers. Well they knew their

work; for though they stood in a desert place with none within long

distance except the pursuing party, of whose approach they would have

good notice, they stood so close to their prisoner that no marksman

in the world—now or that ever had been; not William Tell himself—

could have harmed any of them without at least endangering her. Two

of them turned the Voivodin round so that her face was towards the

precipice—in which position she could not see what was going on—

whilst he who was evidently leader of the gang explained, in gesture,

that the others were going to spy upon the pursuing party. When they

had located them he, or one of his men, would come out of the opening

of the wood wherein they had had evidence of them, and hold up his

hand.

That was to be the signal for the cutting of the victim’s throat—

such being the chosen method (villainous even for heathen murderers)

of her death. There was not one of our men who did not grind his

teeth when we witnessed the grim action, only too expressive, of the

Turk as he drew his right hand, clenched as though he held a yataghan

in it, across his throat.

At the opening of the glade all the spying party halted whilst the

leader appointed to each his place of entry of the wood, the front of

which extended in an almost straight across the valley from cliff to

cliff.

The men, stooping low when in the open, and taking instant advantage

of every little obstacle on the ground, seemed to fade like spectres

with incredible swiftness across the level mead, and were swallowed

up in the wood.

When they had disappeared the Gospodar Rupert revealed to us the

details of the plan of action which he had revolving in his mind. He

motioned us to follow him: we threaded a way between the tree-trunks, keeping all the while on the very edge of the cliff, so that

the space below was all visible to us. When we had got round the

curve sufficiently to see the whole of the wood on the valley level,

without losing sight of the Voivodin and her appointed assassins, we

halted under his direction. There was an added advantage of this

point over the other, for we could see directly the rising of the

hill-road, up which farther side ran the continuation of the mountain

path which the marauders had followed. It was somewhere on that path

that the other pursuing party had hoped to intercept the fugitives.

The Gospodar spoke quickly, though in a voice of command which true

soldiers love to hear:

“Brothers, the time has come when we can strike a blow for Teuta and

the Land. Do you two, marksmen, take position here facing the wood.”

The two men here lay down and got their rifles ready. “Divide the

frontage of the wood between you; arrange between yourselves the

limits of your positions. The very instant one of the marauders

appears, cover him; drop him before he emerges from the wood. Even

then still watch and treat similarly whoever else may take his place.

Do this if they come singly till not a man is left. Remember,

brothers, that brave hearts alone will not suffice at this grim

crisis. In this hour the best safety of the Voivodin is in the calm

spirit and the steady eye!” Then he turned to the rest of us, and

spoke to me:

“Archimandrite of Plazac, you who are interpreter to God of the

prayers of so many souls, my own hour has come. If I do not return,

convey my love to my Aunt Janet—Miss MacKelpie, at Vissarion. There

is but one thing left to us if we wish to save the Voivodin. Do you,

when the time comes, take these men and join the watcher at the top

of the ravine road. When the shots are fired, do you out handjar,

and rush the ravine and across the valley. Brothers, you may be in

time to avenge the Voivodin, if you cannot save her. For me there

must be a quicker way, and to it I go. As there is not, and will not

be, time to traverse the path, I must take a quicker way. Nature

finds me a path that man has made it necessary for me to travel. See

that giant beech-tree that towers above the glade where the Voivodin

is held? There is my path! When you from here have marked the

return of the spies, give me a signal with your hat—do not use a

handkerchief, as others might see its white, and take warning. Then

rush that ravine. I shall take that as the signal for my descent by

the leafy road. If I can do naught else, I can crush the murderers

with my falling weight, even if I have to kill her too. At least we

shall die together—and free. Lay us together in the tomb at St.

Sava’s. Farewell, if it be the last!”

He threw down the scabbard in which he carried his handjar, adjusted

the naked weapon in his belt behind his back, and was gone!

We who were not watching the wood kept our eyes fixed on the great

beech-tree, and with new interest noticed the long trailing branches

which hung low, and swayed even in the gentle breeze. For a few

minutes, which seemed amazingly long, we saw no sign of him. Then,

high up on one of the great branches which stood clear of obscuring

leaves, we saw something crawling flat against the bark. He was well

out on the branch, hanging far over the precipice. He was looking

over at us, and I waved my hand so that he should know we saw him.

He was clad in green—his usual forest dress—so that there was not

any likelihood of any other eyes noticing him. I took off my hat,

and held it ready to signal with when the time should come. I

glanced down at the glade and saw the Voivodin standing, still safe,

with her guards so close to her as to touch. Then I, too, fixed my

eyes on the wood.

Suddenly the man standing beside me seized my arm and pointed. I

could just see through the trees, which were lower than elsewhere in

the front of the wood, a Turk moving stealthily; so I waved my hat.

At the same time a rifle underneath me cracked. A second or two

later the spy pitched forward on his face and lay still. At the same

instant my eyes sought the beech-tree, and I saw the closelying

figure raise itself and slide forward to a joint of the branch. Then

the Gospodar, as he rose, hurled himself forward amid the mass of the

trailing branches. He dropped like a stone, and my heart sank.

But an instant later he seemed in poise. He had clutched the thin,

trailing branches as he fell; and as he sank a number of leaves which

his motion had torn off floated out round him.

Again the rifle below me cracked, and then again, and again, and

again. The marauders had taken warning, and were coming out in mass.

But my own eyes were fixed on the tree. Almost as a thunderbolt

falls fell the giant body of the Gospodar, his size lost in the

immensity of his surroundings. He fell in a series of jerks, as he

kept clutching the trailing beech-branches whilst they lasted, and

then other lesser verdure growing out from the fissures in the rock

after the lengthening branches had with all their elasticity reached

their last point.

At length—for though this all took place in a very few seconds the

gravity of the crisis prolonged them immeasurably—there came a large

space of rock some three times his own length. He did not pause, but

swung himself to one side, so that he should fall close to the

Voivodin and her guards. These men did not seem to notice, for their

attention was fixed on the wood whence they expected their messenger

to signal. But they raised their yataghans in readiness. The shots

had alarmed them; and they meant to do the murder now—messenger or

no messenger

But though the men did not see the danger from above, the Voivodin

did. She raised her eyes quickly at the first sound, and even from

where we were, before we began to run towards the ravine path, I

could see the triumphant look in her glorious eyes when she

recognized the identity of the man who was seemingly coming straight

down from Heaven itself to help her—as, indeed, she, and we too, can

very well imagine that he did; for if ever heaven had a hand in a

rescue on earth, it was now.

Even during the last drop from the rocky foliage the Gospodar kept

his head. As he fell he pulled his handjar free, and almost as he

was falling its sweep took off the head of one of the assassins. As

he touched ground he stumbled for an instant, but it was towards his

enemies. Twice with lightning rapidity the handjar swept the air,

and at each sweep a head rolled on the sward.

The Voivodin held up her tied hands. Again the handjar flashed, this

time downwards, and the lady was free. Without an instant’s pause

the Gospodar tore off the gag, and with his left arm round her and

handjar in right hand, stood face toward his living foes. The

Voivodin stooped suddenly, and then, raising the yataghan which had

fallen from the hand of one of the dead marauders, stood armed beside

him.

The rifles were now cracking fast, as the marauders—those that were

left of them—came rushing out into the open. But well the marksmen

knew their work. Well they bore in mind the Gospodar’s command

regarding calmness. They kept picking off the foremost men only, so

that the onward rush never seemed to get more forward.

As we rushed down the ravine we could see clearly all before us. But

now, just as we were beginning to fear lest some mischance might

allow some of them to reach the glade, there was another cause of

surprise—of rejoicing.

From the face of the wood seemed to burst all at once a body of men,

all wearing the national cap, so we knew them as our own. They were

all armed with the handjar only, and they came like tigers. They

swept on the rushing Turks as though, for all their swiftness, they

were standing still—literally wiping them out as a child wipes a

lesson from its slate.

A few seconds later these were followed by a tall figure with long

hair and beard of black mingled with grey. Instinctively we all, as

did those in the valley, shouted with joy. For this was the Vladika

Milosh Plamenac himself.

I confess that, knowing what I knew, I was for a short space of time

anxious lest, in the terrific excitement in which we were all lapped,

someone might say or do something which might make for trouble later

on. The Gospodar’s splendid achievement, which was worthy of any

hero of old romance, had set us all on fire. He himself must have

been wrought to a high pitch of excitement to dare such an act; and

it is not at such a time that discretion must be expected from any

man. Most of all did I fear danger from the womanhood of the

Voivodin. Had I not assisted at her marriage, I might not have

understood then what it must have been to her to be saved from such a

doom at such a time by such a man, who was so much to her, and in

such a way. It would have been only natural if at such a moment of

gratitude and triumph she had proclaimed the secret which we of the

Council of the Nation and her father’s Commissioners had so

religiously kept. But none of us knew then either the Voivodin or

the Gospodar Rupert as we do now. It was well that they were as they

are, for the jealousy and suspicion of our mountaineers might, even

at such a moment, and even whilst they throbbed at such a deed, have

so manifested themselves as to have left a legacy of distrust. The

Vladika and I, who of all (save the two immediately concerned) alone

knew, looked at each other apprehensively. But at that instant the

Voivodin, with a swift glance at her husband, laid a finger on her

lip; and he, with quick understanding, gave assurance by a similar

sign. Then she sank before him on one knee, and, raising his hand to

her lips, kissed it, and spoke:

“Gospodar Rupert, I owe you all that a woman may owe, except to God.

You have given me life and honour! I cannot thank you adequately for

what you have done; my father will try to do so when he returns. But

I am right sure that the men of the Blue Mountains, who so value

honour, and freedom, and liberty, and bravery, will hold you in their

hearts for ever!”

This was so sweetly spoken, with lips that trembled and eyes that

swam in tears, so truly womanly and so in accord with the custom of

our nation regarding the reverence that women owe to men, that the

hearts of our mountaineers were touched to the quick. Their noble

simplicity found expression in tears. But if the gallant Gospodar

could have for a moment thought that so to weep was unmanly, his

error would have had instant correction. When the Voivodin had risen

to her feet, which she did with queenly dignity, the men around

closed in on the Gospodar like a wave of the sea, and in a second

held him above their heads, tossing on their lifted hands as if on

stormy breakers. It was as though the old Vikings of whom we have

heard, and whose blood flows in Rupert’s veins, were choosing a chief

in old fashion. I was myself glad that the men were so taken up with

the Gospodar that they did not see the glory of the moment in the

Voivodin’s starry eyes; for else they might have guessed the secret.

I knew from the Vladika’s look that he shared my own satisfaction,

even as he had shared my anxiety.

As the Gospodar Rupert was tossed high on the lifted hands of the

mountaineers, their shouts rose to such a sudden volume that around

us, as far as I could see, the frightened birds rose from the forest,

and their noisy alarm swelled the tumult.

The Gospodar, ever thoughtful for others, was the first to calm

himself.

“Come, brothers,” he said, “let us gain the hilltop, where we can

signal to the Castle. It is right that the whole nation should share

in the glad tidings that the Voivodin Teuta of Vissarion is free.

But before we go, let us remove the arms and clothing of these

carrion marauders. We may have use for them later on.”

The mountaineers set him down, gently enough. And he, taking the

Voivodin by the hand, and calling the Vladika and myself close to

them, led the way up the ravine path which the marauders had

descended, and thence through the forest to the top of the hill that

dominated the valley. Here we could, from an opening amongst the

trees, catch a glimpse far off of the battlements of Vissarion.

Forthwith the Gospodar signalled; and on the moment a reply of their

awaiting was given. Then the Gospodar signalled the glad news. It

was received with manifest rejoicing. We could not hear any sound so

far away, but we could see the movement of lifted faces and waving

hands, and knew that it was well. But an instant after came a calm

so dread that we knew before the semaphore had begun to work that

there was bad news in store for us. When the news did come, a bitter

wailing arose amongst us; for the news that was signalled ran:

“The Voivode has been captured by the Turks on his return, and is

held by them at Ilsin.”

In an instant the temper of the mountaineers changed. It was as

though by a flash summer had changed to winter, as though the yellow

glory of the standing corn had been obliterated by the dreary waste

of snow. Nay, more: it was as when one beholds the track of the

whirlwind when the giants of the forest are levelled with the sward.

For a few seconds there was silence; and then, with an angry roar, as

when God speaks in the thunder, came the fierce determination of the

men of the Blue Mountains:

“To Ilsin! To Ilsin!” and a stampede in the direction of the south

began. For, Illustrious Lady, you, perhaps, who have been for so

short a time at Vissarion, may not know that at the extreme southern

point of the Land of the Blue Mountains lies the little port of

Ilsin, which long ago we wrested from the Turk.

The stampede was checked by the command, “Halt!” spoken in a

thunderous voice by the Gospodar. Instinctively all stopped. The

Gospodar Rupert spoke again:

“Had we not better know a little more before we start on our journey?

I shall get by semaphore what details are known. Do you all proceed

in silence and as swiftly as possible. The Vladika and I will wait

here till we have received the news and have sent some instructions,

when we shall follow, and, if we can, overtake you. One thing: be

absolutely silent on what has been. Be secret of every detail—even

as to the rescue of the Voivodin—except what I send.”

Without a word—thus showing immeasurable trust—the whole body—not

a very large one, it is true—moved on, and the Gospodar began

signalling. As I was myself expert in the code, I did not require

any explanation, but followed question and answer on either side.

The first words the Gospodar Rupert signalled were:

“Silence, absolute and profound, as to everything which has been.”

Then he asked for details of the capture of the Voivode. The answer

ran:

“He was followed from Flushing, and his enemies advised by the spies

all along the route. At Ragusa quite a number of strangers—

travellers seemingly—went on board the packet. When he got out, the

strangers debarked too, and evidently followed him, though, as yet,

we have no details. He disappeared at Ilsin from the Hotel Reo,

whither he had gone. All possible steps are being taken to trace his

movements, and strictest silence and secrecy are observed.”

His answer was:

“Good! Keep silent and secret. Am hurrying back. Signal request to

Archbishop and all members of National Council to come to Gadaar with

all speed. There the yacht will meet him. Tell Rooke take yacht all

speed to Gadaar; there meet Archbishop and Council—give him list of

names—and return full speed. Have ready plenty arms, six flying

artillery. Two hundred men, provisions three days. Silence,

silence. All depends on that. All to go on as usual at Castle,

except to those in secret.”

When the receipt of his message had been signalled, we three—for, of

course, the Voivodin was with us; she had refused to leave the

Gospodar—set out hot-foot after our comrades. But by the time we

had descended the hill it was evident that the Voivodin could not

keep up the terrific pace at which we were going. She struggled

heroically, but the long journey she had already taken, and the

hardship and anxiety she had suffered, had told on her. The Gospodar

stopped, and said that it would be better that he should press on—it

was, perhaps, her father’s life—and said he would carry her.

“No, no!” she answered. “Go on! I shall follow with the Vladika.

And then you can have things ready to get on soon after the

Archbishop and Council arrive.” They kissed each other after, on her

part, a shy glance at me; and he went on the track of our comrades at

a great pace. I could see him shortly after catch them up,—though

they, too, were going fast. For a few minutes they ran together, he

speaking—I could note it from the way they kept turning their heads

towards him. Then he broke away from them hurriedly. He went like a

stag breaking covert, and was soon out of sight. They halted a

moment or two. Then some few ran on, and all the rest came back

towards us. Quickly they improvised a litter with cords and

branches, and insisted that the Voivodin should use it. In an

incredibly short time we were under way again, and proceeding with

great rapidity towards Vissarion. The men took it in turns to help

with the litter; I had the honour of taking a hand in the work

myself.

About a third of the way out from Vissarion a number of our people

met us. They were fresh, and as they carried the litter, we who were

relieved were free for speed. So we soon arrived at the Castle.

Here we found all humming like a hive of bees. The yacht, which

Captain Rooke had kept fired ever since the pursuing party under the

Gospodar had left Vissarion, was already away, and tearing up the

coast at a fearful rate. The rifles and ammunition were stacked on

the quay. The field-guns, too, were equipped, and the cases of

ammunition ready to ship. The men, two hundred of them, were paraded

in full kit, ready to start at a moment’s notice. The provision for

three days was all ready to put aboard, and barrels of fresh water to

trundle aboard when the yacht should return. At one end of the quay,

ready to lift on board, stood also the Gospodar’s aeroplane, fully

equipped, and ready, if need were, for immediate flight.

I was glad to see that the Voivodin seemed none the worse for her

terrible experience. She still wore her shroud; but no one seemed to

notice it as anything strange. The whisper had evidently gone round

of what had been. But discretion ruled the day. She and the

Gospodar met as two who had served and suffered in common; but I was

glad to notice that both kept themselves under such control that none

of those not already in the secret even suspected that there was any

love between them, let alone marriage.

We all waited with what patience we could till word was signalled

from the Castle tower that the yacht had appeared over the northern

horizon, and was coming down fast, keeping inshore as she came.

When she arrived, we heard to our joy that all concerned had done

their work well. The Archbishop was aboard, and of the National

Council not one was missing. The Gospodar hurried them all into the

great hall of the Castle, which had in the meantime been got ready.

I, too, went with him, but the Voivodin remained without.

When all were seated, he rose and said:

“My Lord Archbishop, Vladika, and Lords of the Council all, I have

dared to summon you in this way because time presses, and the life of

one you all love—the Voivode Vissarion—is at stake. This audacious

attempt of the Turk is the old aggression under a new form. It is a

new and more daring step than ever to try to capture your chief and

his daughter, the Voivodin, whom you love. Happily, the latter part

of the scheme is frustrated. The Voivodin is safe and amongst us.

But the Voivode is held prisoner—if, indeed, he be still alive. He

must be somewhere near Ilsin—but where exactly we know not as yet.

We have an expedition ready to start the moment we receive your

sanction—your commands. We shall obey your wishes with our lives.

But as the matter is instant, I would venture to ask one question,

and one only: ‘Shall we rescue the Voivode at any cost that may

present itself?’ I ask this, for the matter has now become an

international one, and, if our enemies are as earnest as we are, the

issue is war!

Having so spoken, and with a dignity and force which is

inexpressible, he withdrew; and the Council, having appointed a

scribe—the monk Cristoferos, whom I had suggested—began its work.

The Archbishop spoke:

“Lords of the Council of the Blue Mountains, I venture to ask you

that the answer to the Gospodar Rupert be an instant ‘Yes!’ together

with thanks and honour to that gallant Englisher, who has made our

cause his own, and who has so valiantly rescued our beloved Voivodin

from the ruthless hands of our enemies.” Forthwith the oldest member

of the Council—Nicolos of Volok—rose, and, after throwing a

searching look round the faces of all, and seeing grave nods of

assent—for not a word was spoken—said to him who held the door:

“Summon the Gospodar Rupert forthwith!” When Rupert entered, he

spoke to him:

“Gospodar Rupert, the Council of the Blue Mountains has only one

answer to give: Proceed! Rescue the Voivode Vissarion, whatever the

cost may be! You hold henceforth in your hand the handjar of our

nation, as already, for what you have done in your valiant rescue of

our beloved Voivodin, your breast holds the heart of our people.

Proceed at once! We give you, I fear, little time; but we know that

such is your own wish. Later, we shall issue formal authorization,

so that if war may ensue, our allies may understand that you have

acted for the nation, and also such letters credential as may be

required by you in this exceptional service. These shall follow you

within an hour. For our enemies we take no account. See, we draw

the handjar that we offer you.” As one man all in the hall drew

their handjars, which flashed as a blaze of lightning.

There did not seem to be an instant’s delay. The Council broke up,

and its members, mingling with the people without, took active part

in the preparations. Not many minutes had elapsed when the yacht,

manned and armed and stored as arranged, was rushing out of the

creek. On the bridge, beside Captain Rooke, stood the Gospodar

Rupert and the still-shrouded form of the Voivodin Teuta. I myself

was on the lower deck with the soldiers, explaining to certain of

them the special duties which they might be called on to fulfil. I

held the list which the Gospodar Rupert had prepared whilst we were

waiting for the yacht to arrive from Gadaar.

PETROF VLASTIMIR.

FROM RUPERT’S JOURNAL—Continued.

July 9, 1907.

We went at a terrific pace down the coast, keeping well inshore so as

to avoid, if possible, being seen from the south. Just north of

Ilsin a rocky headland juts out, and that was our cover. On the

north of the peninsula is a small land-locked bay, with deep water.

It is large enough to take the yacht, though a much larger vessel

could not safely enter. We ran in, and anchored close to the shore,

which has a rocky frontage—a natural shelf of rock, which is

practically the same as a quay. Here we met the men who had come

from Ilsin and the neighbourhood in answer to our signalling earlier

in the day. They gave us the latest information regarding the

kidnapping of the Voivode, and informed us that every man in that

section of the country was simply aflame about it. They assured us

that we could rely on them, not merely to fight to the death, but to

keep silence absolutely. Whilst the seamen, under the direction of

Rooke, took the aeroplane on shore and found a suitable place for it,

where it was hidden from casual view, but from which it could be

easily launched, the Vladika and I—and, of course, my wife—were

hearing such details as were known of the disappearance of her

father.

It seems that he travelled secretly in order to avoid just such a

possibility as has happened. No one knew of his coming till he came

to Fiume, whence he sent a guarded message to the Archbishop, which

the latter alone would understand. But this Turkish agents were

evidently on his track all the time, and doubtless the Bureau of

Spies was kept well advised. He landed at Ilsin from a coasting

steamer from Ragusa to the Levant.

For two days before his coming there had been quite an unusual number

of arrivals at the little port, at which arrivals are rare. And it

turned out that the little hotel—the only fairly good one in Ilsin—

was almost filled up. Indeed, only one room was left, which the

Voivode took for the night. The innkeeper did not know the Voivode

in his disguise, but suspected who it was from the description. He

dined quietly, and went to bed. His room was at the back, on the

ground-floor, looking out on the bank of the little River Silva,

which here runs into the harbour. No disturbance was heard in the

night. Late in the morning, when the elderly stranger had not made

his appearance, inquiry was made at his door. He did not answer, so

presently the landlord forced the door, and found the room empty.

His luggage was seemingly intact, only the clothes which he had worn

were gone. A strange thing was that, though the bed had been slept

in and his clothes were gone, his night-clothes were not to be found,

from which it was argued by the local authorities, when they came to

make inquiry, that he had gone or been taken from the room in his

night-gear, and that his clothes had been taken with him. There was

evidently some grim suspicion on the part of the authorities, for

they had commanded absolute silence on all in the house. When they

came to make inquiry as to the other guests, it was found that one

and all had gone in the course of the morning, after paying their

bills. None of them had any heavy luggage, and there was nothing

remaining by which they might be traced or which would afford any

clue to their identity. The authorities, having sent a confidential

report to the seat of government, continued their inquiries, and even

now all available hands were at work on the investigation. When I

had signalled to Vissarion, before my arrival there, word had been

sent through the priesthood to enlist in the investigation the

services of all good men, so that every foot of ground in that

section of the Blue Mountains was being investigated. The port-master was assured by his watchmen that no vessel, large or small,

had heft the harbour during the night. The inference, therefore, was

that the Voivode’s captors had made inland with him—if, indeed, they

were not already secreted in or near the town.

Whilst we were receiving the various reports, a hurried message came

that it was now believed that the whole party were in the Silent

Tower. This was a well-chosen place for such an enterprise. It was

a massive tower of immense strength, built as a memorial—and also as

a “keep”—after one of the massacres of the invading Turks.

It stood on the summit of a rocky knoll some ten miles inland from

the Port of Ilsin. It was a place shunned as a rule, and the country

all around it was so arid and desolate that there were no residents

near it. As it was kept for state use, and might be serviceable in

time of war, it was closed with massive iron doors, which were kept

locked except upon certain occasions. The keys were at the seat of

government at Plazac. If, therefore, it had been possible to the

Turkish marauders to gain entrance and exit, it might be a difficult

as well as a dangerous task to try to cut the Voivode out. His

presence with them was a dangerous menace to any force attacking

them, for they would hold his life as a threat.

I consulted with the Vladika at once as to what was best to be done.

And we decided that, though we should put a cordon of guards around

it at a safe distance to prevent them receiving warning, we should at

present make no attack.

We made further inquiry as to whether there had been any vessel seen

in the neighbourhood during the past few days, and were informed that

once or twice a warship had been seen on the near side of the

southern horizon. This was evidently the ship which Rooke had seen

on his rush down the coast after the abduction of the Voivodin, and

which he had identified as a Turkish vessel. The glimpses of her

which had been had were all in full daylight—there was no proof that

she had not stolen up during the night-time without lights. But the

Vladika and I were satisfied that the Turkish vessel was watching—

was in league with both parties of marauders—and was intended to

take off any of the strangers, or their prey, who might reach Ilsin

undetected. It was evidently with this view that the kidnappers of

Teuta had, in the first instance, made with all speed for the south.

It was only when disappointed there that they headed up north,

seeking in desperation for some chance of crossing the border. That

ring of steel had so far well served its purpose.

I sent for Rooke, and put the matter before him. He had thought it

out for himself to the same end as we had. His deduction was:

“Let us keep the cordon, and watch for any signal from the Silent

Tower. The Turks will tire before we shall. I undertake to watch

the Turkish warship. During the night I shall run down south,

without lights, and have a look at her, even if I have to wait till

the grey of the dawn to do so. She may see us; but if she does I

shall crawl away at such pace that she shall not get any idea of our

speed. She will certainly come nearer before a day is over, for be

sure the bureau of spies is kept advised, and they know that when the

country is awake each day increases the hazard of them and their

plans being discovered. From their caution I gather that they do not

court discovery; and from that that they do not wish for an open

declaration of war. If this be so, why should we not come out to

them and force an issue if need be?”

When Teuta and I got a chance to be alone, we discussed the situation

in every phase. The poor girl was in a dreadful state of anxiety

regarding her father’s safety. At first she was hardly able to

speak, or even to think, coherently. Her utterance was choked, and

her reasoning palsied with indignation. But presently the fighting

blood of her race restored her faculties, and then her woman’s quick

wit was worth the reasoning of a camp full of men. Seeing that she

was all on fire with the subject, I sat still and waited, taking care

not to interrupt her. For quite a long time she sat still, whilst

the coming night thickened. When she spoke, the whole plan of

action, based on subtle thinking, had mapped itself out in her mind:

“We must act quickly. Every hour increases the risk to my father.”

Here her voice broke for an instant; but she recovered herself and

went on:

“If you go to the ship, I must not go with you. It would not do for

me to be seen. The Captain doubtless knows of both attempts: that

to carry me off as well as that against my father. As yet he is in

ignorance of what has happened. You and your party of brave, loyal

men did their work so well that no news could go forth. So long,

therefore, as the naval Captain is ignorant, he must delay till the

last. But if he saw me he would know that THAT branch of the venture

had miscarried. He would gather from our being here that we had news

of my father’s capture, and as he would know that the marauders would

fail unless they were relieved by force, he would order the captive

to be slain.”

“Yes, dear, to-morrow you had, perhaps, better see the Captain, but

to-night we must try to rescue my father. Here I think I see a way.

You have your aeroplane. Please take me with you into the Silent

Tower.”

“Not for a world of chrysolite!” said I, horrified. She took my hand

and held it tight whilst she went on:

“Dear, I know, I know! Be satisfied. But it is the only way. You

can, I know, get there, and in the dark. But if you were to go in

it, it would give warning to the enemies, and besides, my father

would not understand. Remember, he does not know you; he has never

seen you, and does not, I suppose, even know as yet of your

existence. But he would know me at once, and in any dress. You can

manage to lower me into the Tower by a rope from the aeroplane. The

Turks as yet do not know of our pursuit, and doubtless rely, at all

events in part, on the strength and security of the Tower. Therefore

their guard will be less active than it would at first or later on.

I shall post father in all details, and we shall be ready quickly.

Now, dear, let us think out the scheme together. Let your man’s wit

and experience help my ignorance, and we shall save my father!”

How could I have resisted such pleading—even had it not seemed wise?

But wise it was; and I, who knew what the aeroplane could do under my

own guidance, saw at once the practicalities of the scheme. Of

course there was a dreadful risk in case anything should go wrong.

But we are at present living in a world of risks—and her father’s

life was at stake. So I took my dear wife in my arms, and told her

that my mind was hers for this, as my soul and body already were.

And I cheered her by saying that I thought it might be done.

I sent for Rooke, and told him of the new adventure, and he quite

agreed with me in the wisdom of it. I then told him that he would

have to go and interview the Captain of the Turkish warship in the

morning, if I did not turn up. “I am going to see the Vladika,” I

said. “He will lead our own troops in the attack on the Silent

Tower. But it will rest with you to deal with the warship. Ask the

Captain to whom or what nation the ship belongs. He is sure to

refuse to tell. In such case mention to him that if he flies no

nation’s flag, his vessel is a pirate ship, and that you, who are in

command of the navy of the Blue Mountains, will deal with him as a

pirate is dealt with—no quarter, no mercy. He will temporize, and

perhaps try a bluff; but when things get serious with him he will

land a force, or try to, and may even prepare to shell the town. He

will threaten to, at any rate. In such case deal with him as you

think best, or as near to it as you can.” He answered:

“I shall carry out your wishes with my life. It is a righteous task.

Not that anything of that sort would ever stand in my way. If he

attacks our nation, either as a Turk or a pirate, I shall wipe him

out. We shall see what our own little packet can do. Moreover, any

of the marauders who have entered the Blue Mountains, from sea or

otherwise, shall never get out by sea! I take it that we of my

contingent shall cover the attacking party. It will be a sorry time

for us all if that happens without our seeing you and the Voivodin;

for in such case we shall understand the worst!” Iron as he was, the

man trembled.

“That is so, Rooke,” I said. “We are taking a desperate chance, we

know. But the case is desperate! But we all have our duty to do,

whatever happens. Ours and yours is stern; but when we have done it,

the result will be that life will be easier for others—for those

that are left.”

Before he left, I asked him to send up to me three suits of the

Masterman bullet-proof clothes of which we had a supply on the yacht.

“Two are for the Voivodin and myself,” I said; “the third is for the

Voivode to put on. The Voivodin will take it with her when she

descends from the aeroplane into the Tower.”

Whilst any daylight was left I went out to survey the ground. My

wife wanted to come with me, but I would not let her. “No,” said I;

“you will have at the best a fearful tax on your strength and your

nerves. You will want to be as fresh as is possible when you get on

the aeroplane.” Like a good wife, she obeyed, and lay down to rest

in the little tent provided for her.

I took with me a local man who knew the ground, and who was trusted

to be silent. We made a long detour when we had got as near the

Silent Tower as we could without being noticed. I made notes from my

compass as to directions, and took good notice of anything that could

possibly serve as a landmark. By the time we got home I was pretty

well satisfied that if all should go well I could easily sail over

the Tower in the dark. Then I had a talk with my wife, and gave her

full instructions:

“When we arrive over the Tower,” I said, “I shall lower you with a

long rope. You will have a parcel of food and spirit for your father

in case he is fatigued or faint; and, of course, the bullet-proof

suit, which he must put on at once. You will also have a short rope

with a belt at either end—one for your father, the other for you.

When I turn the aeroplane and come back again, you will have ready

the ring which lies midway between the belts. This you will catch

into the hook at the end of the lowered rope. When all is secure,

and I have pulled you both up by the windlass so as to clear the top,

I shall throw out ballast which we shall carry on purpose, and away

we go! I am sorry it must be so uncomfortable for you both, but

there is no other way. When we get well clear of the Tower, I shall

take you both up on the platform. If necessary, I shall descend to

do it—and then we shall steer for Ilsin.”

“When all is safe, our men will attack the Tower. We must let them

do it, for they expect it. A few men in the clothes and arms which

we took from your captors will be pursued by some of ours. It is all

arranged. They will ask the Turks to admit them, and if the latter

have not learned of your father’s escape, perhaps they will do so.

Once in, our men will try to open the gate. The chances are against

them, poor fellows! but they are all volunteers, and will die

fighting. If they win out, great glory will be theirs.”

“The moon does not rise to-night till just before midnight, so we

have plenty of time. We shall start from here at ten. If all be

well, I shall place you in the Tower with your father in less than a

quarter-hour from that. A few minutes will suffice to clothe him in

bullet-proof and get on his belt. I shall not be away from the Tower

more than a very few minutes, and, please God, long before eleven we

shall be safe. Then the Tower can be won in an attack by our

mountaineers. Perhaps, when the guns are heard on the ship of war—

for there is sure to be firing—the Captain may try to land a shore

party. But Rooke will stand in the way, and if I know the man and

The Lady, we shall not be troubled with many Turks to-night. By

midnight you and your father can be on the way to Vissarion. I can

interview the naval Captain in the morning.”

My wife’s marvellous courage and self-possession stood to her. At

half an hour before the time fixed she was ready for our adventure.

She had improved the scheme in one detail. She had put on her own

belt and coiled the rope round her waist, so the only delay would be

in bringing her father’s belt. She would keep the bullet-proof dress

intended to be his strapped in a packet on her back, so that if

occasion should be favourable he would not want to put it on till he

and she should have reached the platform of the aeroplane. In such

case, I should not steer away from the Tower at all, but would pass

slowly across it and take up the captive and his brave daughter

before leaving. I had learned from local sources that the Tower was

in several stories. Entrance was by the foot, where the great ironclad door was; then came living-rooms and storage, and an open space

at the top. This would probably be thought the best place for the

prisoner, for it was deep-sunk within the massive walls, wherein was

no loophole of any kind. This, if it should so happen, would be the

disposition of things best for our plan. The guards would at this

time be all inside the Tower—probably resting, most of them—so that

it was possible that no one might notice the coming of the airship.

I was afraid to think that all might turn out so well, for in such

case our task would be a simple enough one, and would in all human

probability be crowned with success.

At ten o’clock we started. Teuta did not show the smallest sign of

fear or even uneasiness, though this was the first time she had even

seen an aeroplane at work. She proved to be an admirable passenger

for an airship. She stayed quite still, holding herself rigidly in

the position arranged, by the cords which I had fixed for her.

When I had trued my course by the landmarks and with the compass lit

by the Tiny my electric light in the dark box, I had time to look

about me. All seemed quite dark wherever I looked—to land, or sea,

or sky. But darkness is relative, and though each quarter and spot

looked dark in turn, there was not such absolute darkness as a whole.

I could tell the difference, for instance, between land and sea, no

matter how far off we might be from either. Looking upward, the sky

was dark; yet there was light enough to see, and even distinguish

broad effects. I had no difficulty in distinguishing the Tower

towards which we were moving, and that, after all, was the main

thing. We drifted slowly, very slowly, as the air was still, and I

only used the minimum pressure necessary for the engine. I think I

now understood for the first time the extraordinary value of the

engine with which my Kitson was equipped. It was noiseless, it was

practically of no weight, and it allowed the machine to progress as

easily as the old-fashioned balloon used to drift before a breeze.

Teuta, who had naturally very fine sight, seemed to see even better

than I did, for as we drew nearer to the Tower, and its round, open

top began to articulate itself, she commenced to prepare for her part

of the task. She it was who uncoiled the long drag-rope ready for

her lowering. We were proceeding so gently that she as well as I had

hopes that I might be able to actually balance the machine on the top

of the curving wall—a thing manifestly impossible on a straight

surface, though it might have been possible on an angle.

On we crept—on, and on! There was no sign of light about the Tower,

and not the faintest sound to be heard till we were almost close to

the line of the rising wall; then we heard a sound of something like

mirth, but muffled by distance and thick walls. From it we took

fresh heart, for it told us that our enemies were gathered in the

lower chambers. If only the Voivode should be on the upper stage,

all would be well.

Slowly, almost inch by inch, and with a suspense that was agonizing,

we crossed some twenty or thirty feet above the top of the wall. I

could see as we came near the jagged line of white patches where the

heads of the massacred Turks placed there on spikes in old days

seemed to give still their grim warning. Seeing that they made in

themselves a difficulty of landing on the wall, I deflected the plane

so that, as we crept over the wall, we might, if they became

displaced, brush them to the outside of the wall. A few seconds

more, and I was able to bring the machine to rest with the front of

the platform jutting out beyond the Tower wall. Here I anchored her

fore and aft with clamps which had been already prepared.

Whilst I was doing so Teuta had leaned over the inner edge of the

platform, and whispered as softly as the sigh of a gentle breeze

“Hist! hist!” The answer came in a similar sound from some twenty

feet below us, and we knew that the prisoner was alone. Forthwith,

having fixed the hook of the rope in the ring to which was attached

her belt, I lowered my wife. Her father evidently knew her whisper,

and was ready. The hollow Tower—a smooth cylinder within—sent up

the voices from it faint as were the whispers:

“Father, it is I—Teuta!”

“My child, my brave daughter!”

“Quick, father; strap the belt round you. See that it is secure. We

have to be lifted into the air if necessary. Hold together. It will

be easier for Rupert to lift us to the airship.”

“Rupert?”

“Yes; I shall explain later. Quick, quick! There is not a moment to

lose. He is enormously strong, and can lift us together; but we must

help him by being still, so he won’t have to use the windlass, which

might creak.” As she spoke she jerked slightly at the rope, which

was our preconcerted signal that I was to lift. I was afraid the

windlass might creak, and her thoughtful hint decided me. I bent my

back to the task, and in a few seconds they were on the platform on

which they, at Teuta’s suggestion, lay flat, one at each side of my

seat, so as to keep the best balance possible.

I took off the clamps, lifted the bags of ballast to the top of the

wall, so that there should be no sound of falling, and started the

engine. The machine moved forward a few inches, so that it tilted

towards the outside of the wall. I threw my weight on the front part

of the platform, and we commenced our downward fall at a sharp angle.

A second enlarged the angle, and without further ado we slid away

into the darkness. Then, ascending as we went, when the engine began

to work at its strength, we turned, and presently made straight for

Ilsin.

The journey was short—not many minutes. It almost seemed as if no

time whatever had elapsed till we saw below us the gleam of lights,

and by them saw a great body of men gathered in military array. We

slackened and descended. The crowd kept deathly silence, but when we

were amongst them we needed no telling that it was not due to lack of

heart or absence of joy. The pressure of their hands as they

surrounded us, and the devotion with which they kissed the hands and

feet of both the Voivode and his daughter, were evidence enough for

me, even had I not had my own share of their grateful rejoicing.

In the midst of it all the low, stern voice of Rooke, who had burst a

way to the front beside the Vladika, said:

“Now is the time to attack the Tower. Forward, brothers, but in

silence. Let there not be a sound till you are near the gate; then

play your little comedy of the escaping marauders. And ‘twill be no

comedy for them in the Tower. The yacht is all ready for the

morning, Mr. Sent Leger, in case I do not come out of the scrimmage

if the bluejackets arrive. In such case you will have to handle her

yourself. God keep you, my Lady; and you, too, Voivode! Forward!”

In a ghostly silence the grim little army moved forwards. Rooke and

the men with him disappeared into the darkness in the direction of

the harbour of Ilsin.

FROM THE SCRIPT OF THE VOIVODE, PETER VISSARION,

July 7, 1907.

I had little idea, when I started on my homeward journey, that it

would have such a strange termination. Even I, who ever since my

boyhood have lived in a whirl of adventure, intrigue, or diplomacy—

whichever it may be called—statecraft, and war, had reason to be

surprised. I certainly thought that when I locked myself into my

room in the hotel at Ilsin that I would have at last a spell, however

short, of quiet. All the time of my prolonged negotiations with the

various nationalities I had to be at tension; so, too, on my homeward

journey, lest something at the last moment should happen adversely to

my mission. But when I was safe on my own Land of the Blue

Mountains, and laid my head on my pillow, where only friends could be

around me, I thought I might forget care.

But to wake with a rude hand over my mouth, and to feel myself

grasped tight by so many hands that I could not move a limb, was a

dreadful shock. All after that was like a dreadful dream. I was

rolled in a great rug so tightly that I could hardly breathe, let

alone cry out. Lifted by many hands through the window, which I

could hear was softly opened and shut for the purpose, and carried to

a boat. Again lifted into some sort of litter, on which I was borne

a long distance, but with considerable rapidity. Again lifted out

and dragged through a doorway opened on purpose—I could hear the

clang as it was shut behind me. Then the rug was removed, and I

found myself, still in my night-gear, in the midst of a ring of men.

There were two score of them, all Turks, all strong-looking, resolute

men, armed to the teeth. My clothes, which had been taken from my

room, were thrown down beside me, and I was told to dress. As the

Turks were going from the room—shaped like a vault—where we then

were, the last of them, who seemed to be some sort of officer, said:

“If you cry out or make any noise whatever whilst you are in this

Tower, you shall die before your time!” Presently some food and

water were brought me, and a couple of blankets. I wrapped myself up

and slept till early in the morning. Breakfast was brought, and the

same men filed in. In the presence of them all the same officer

said:

“I have given instructions that if you make any noise or betray your

presence to anyone outside this Tower, the nearest man is to restore

you to immediate quiet with his yataghan. It you promise me that you

will remain quiet whilst you are within the Tower, I can enlarge your

liberties somewhat. Do you promise?” I promised as he wished; there

was no need to make necessary any stricter measure of confinement.

Any chance of escape lay in having the utmost freedom allowed to me.

Although I had been taken away with such secrecy, I knew that before

long there would be pursuit. So I waited with what patience I could.

I was allowed to go on the upper platform—a consideration due, I am

convinced, to my captors’ wish for their own comfort rather than for

mine.

It was not very cheering, for during the daytime I had satisfied

myself that it would be quite impossible for even a younger and more

active man than I am to climb the walls. They were built for prison

purposes, and a cat could not find entry for its claws between the

stones. I resigned myself to my fate as well as I could. Wrapping

my blanket round me, I lay down and looked up at the sky. I wished

to see it whilst I could. I was just dropping to sleep—the

unutterable silence of the place broken only now and again by some

remark by my captors in the rooms below me—when there was a strange

appearance just over me—an appearance so strange that I sat up, and

gazed with distended eyes.

Across the top of the tower, some height above, drifted, slowly and

silently, a great platform. Although the night was dark, it was so

much darker where I was within the hollow of the Tower that I could

actually see what was above me. I knew it was an aeroplane—one of

which I had seen in Washington. A man was seated in the centre,

steering; and beside him was a silent figure of a woman all wrapped

in white. It made my heart beat to see her, for she was figured

something like my Teuta, but broader, less shapely. She leaned over,

and a whispered “Ssh!” crept down to me. I answered in similar way.

Whereupon she rose, and the man lowered her down into the Tower.

Then I saw that it was my dear daughter who had come in this

wonderful way to save me. With infinite haste she helped me to

fasten round my waist a belt attached to a rope, which was coiled

round her; and then the man, who was a giant in strength as well as

stature, raised us both to the platform of the aeroplane, which he

set in motion without an instant’s delay.

Within a few seconds, and without any discovery being made of my

escape, we were speeding towards the sea. The lights of Ilsin were

in front of us. Before reaching the town, however, we descended in

the midst of a little army of my own people, who were gathered ready

to advance upon the Silent Tower, there to effect, if necessary, my

rescue by force. Small chance would there have been of my life in

case of such a struggle. Happily, however, the devotion and courage

of my dear daughter and of her gallant companion prevented such a

necessity. It was strange to me to find such joyous reception

amongst my friends expressed in such a whispered silence. There was

no time for comment or understanding or the asking of questions—I

was fain to take things as they stood, and wait for fuller

explanation.

This came later, when my daughter and I were able to converse alone.

When the expedition went out against the Silent Tower, Teuta and I

went to her tent, and with us came her gigantic companion, who seemed

not wearied, but almost overcome with sleep. When we came into the

tent, over which at a little distance a cordon of our mountaineers

stood on guard, he said to me:

“May I ask you, sir, to pardon me for a time, and allow the Voivodin

to explain matters to you? She will, I know, so far assist me, for

there is so much work still to be done before we are free of the

present peril. For myself, I am almost overcome with sleep. For

three nights I have had no sleep, but all during that time much

labour and more anxiety. I could hold on longer; but at daybreak I

must go out to the Turkish warship that lies in the offing. She is a

Turk, though she does not confess to it; and she it is who has

brought hither the marauders who captured both your daughter and

yourself. It is needful that I go, for I hold a personal authority

from the National Council to take whatever step may be necessary for

our protection. And when I go I should be clear-headed, for war may

rest on that meeting. I shall be in the adjoining tent, and shall

come at once if I am summoned, in case you wish for me before dawn.”

Here my daughter struck in:

“Father, ask him to remain here. We shall not disturb him, I am

sure, in our talking. And, moreover, if you knew how much I owe to

him—to his own bravery and his strength—you would understand how

much safer I feel when he is close to me, though we are surrounded by

an army of our brave mountaineers.”

“But, my daughter,” I said, for I was as yet all in ignorance, “there

are confidences between father and daughter which none other may

share. Some of what has been I know, but I want to know all, and it

might be better that no stranger—however valiant he may be, or no

matter in what measure we are bound to him—should be present.” To

my astonishment, she who had always been amenable to my lightest wish

actually argued with me:

“Father, there are other confidences which have to be respected in

like wise. Bear with me, dear, till I have told you all, and I am

right sure that you will agree with me. I ask it, father.”

That settled the matter, and as I could see that the gallant

gentleman who had rescued me was swaying on his feet as he waited

respectfully, I said to him:

“Rest with us, sir. We shall watch over your sleep.”

Then I had to help him, for almost on the instant he sank down, and I

had to guide him to the rugs spread on the ground. In a few seconds

he was in a deep sleep. As I stood looking at him, till I had

realized that he vas really asleep, I could not help marvelling at

the bounty of Nature that could uphold even such a man as this to the

last moment of work to be done, and then allow so swift a collapse

when all was over, and he could rest peacefully.

He was certainly a splendid fellow. I think I never saw so fine a

man physically in my life. And if the lesson of his physiognomy be

true, he is as sterling inwardly as his external is fair. “Now,”

said I to Teuta, “we are to all intents quite alone. Tell me all

that has been, so that I may understand.”

Whereupon my daughter, making me sit down, knelt beside me, and told

me from end to end the most marvellous story I had ever heard or read

of. Something of it I had already known from the Archbishop

Paleologue’s later letters, but of all else I was ignorant. Far away

in the great West beyond the Atlantic, and again on the fringe of the

Eastern seas, I had been thrilled to my heart’s core by the heroic

devotion and fortitude of my daughter in yielding herself for her

country’s sake to that fearful ordeal of the Crypt; of the grief of

the nation at her reported death, news of which was so mercifully and

wisely withheld from me as long as possible; of the supernatural

rumours that took root so deep; but no word or hint had come to me of

a man who had come across the orbit of her life, much less of all

that has resulted from it. Neither had I known of her being carried

off, or of the thrice gallant rescue of her by Rupert. Little wonder

that I thought so highly of him even at the first moment I had a

clear view of him when he sank down to sleep before me. Why, the man

must be a marvel. Even our mountaineers could not match such

endurance as his. In the course of her narrative my daughter told me

of how, being wearied with her long waiting in the tomb, and waking

to find herself alone when the floods were out, and even the Crypt

submerged, she sought safety and warmth elsewhere; and how she came

to the Castle in the night, and found the strange man alone. I said:

“That was dangerous, daughter, if not wrong. The man, brave and

devoted as he is, must answer me—your father.” At that she was

greatly upset, and before going on with her narrative, drew me close

in her arms, and whispered to me:

“Be gentle to me, father, for I have had much to bear. And be good

to him, for he holds my heart in his breast!” I reassured her with a

gentle pressure—there was no need to speak. She then went on to

tell me about her marriage, and how her husband, who had fallen into

the belief that she was a Vampire, had determined to give even his

soul for her; and how she had on the night of the marriage left him

and gone back to the tomb to play to the end the grim comedy which

she had undertaken to perform till my return; and how, on the second

night after her marriage, as she was in the garden of the Castle—

going, as she shyly told me, to see if all was well with her husband-

-she was seized secretly, muffled up, bound, and carried off. Here

she made a pause and a digression. Evidently some fear lest her

husband and myself should quarrel assailed her, for she said:

“Do understand, father, that Rupert’s marriage to me was in all ways

regular, and quite in accord with our customs. Before we were

married I told the Archbishop of my wish. He, as your representative

during your absence, consented himself, and brought the matter to the

notice of the Vladika and the Archimandrites. All these concurred,

having exacted from me—very properly, I think—a sacred promise to

adhere to my self-appointed task. The marriage itself was orthodox

in all ways—though so far unusual that it was held at night, and in

darkness, save for the lights appointed by the ritual. As to that,

the Archbishop himself, or the Archimandrite of Spazac, who assisted

him, or the Vladika, who acted as Paranymph, will, all or any of

them, give you full details. Your representative made all inquiries

as to Rupert Sent Leger, who lived in Vissarion, though he did not

know who I was, or from his point of view who I had been. But I must

tell you of my rescue.”

And so she went on to tell me of that unavailing journey south by her

captors; of their bafflement by the cordon which Rupert had

established at the first word of danger to “the daughter of our

leader,” though he little knew who the “leader” was, or who was his

“daughter”; of how the brutal marauders tortured her to speed with

their daggers; and how her wounds left blood-marks on the ground as

she passed along; then of the halt in the valley, when the marauders

came to know that their road north was menaced, if not already

blocked; of the choosing of the murderers, and their keeping ward

over her whilst their companions went to survey the situation; and of

her gallant rescue by that noble fellow, her husband—my son I shall

call him henceforth, and thank God that I may have that happiness and

that honour!

Then my daughter went on to tell me of the race back to Vissarion,

when Rupert went ahead of all—as a leader should do; of the

summoning of the Archbishop and the National Council; and of their

placing the nation’s handjar in Rupert’s hand; of the journey to

Ilsin, and the flight of my daughter—and my son—on the aeroplane.

The rest I knew.

As she finished, the sleeping man stirred and woke—broad awake in a

second—sure sign of a man accustomed to campaign and adventure. At

a glance he recalled everything that had been, and sprang to his

feet. He stood respectfully before me for a few seconds before

speaking. Then he said, with an open, engaging smile:

“I see, sir, you know all. Am I forgiven—for Teuta’s sake as well

as my own?” By this time I was also on my feet. A man like that

walks straight into my heart. My daughter, too, had risen, and stood

by my side. I put out my hand and grasped his, which seemed to leap

to meet me—as only the hand of a swordsman can do.

“I am glad you are my son!” I said. It was all I could say, and I

meant it and all it implied. We shook hands warmly. Teuta was

pleased; she kissed me, and then stood holding my arm with one hand,

whilst she linked her other hand in the arm of her husband.

He summoned one of the sentries without, and told him to ask Captain

Rooke to come to him. The latter had been ready for a call, and came

at once. When through the open flap of the tent we saw him coming,

Rupert—as I must call him now, because Teuta wishes it; and I like

to do it myself—said:

“I must be off to board the Turkish vessel before it comes inshore.

Good-bye, sir, in case we do not meet again.” He said the last few

words in so low a voice that I only could hear them. Then he kissed

his wife, and told her he expected to be back in time for breakfast,

and was gone. He met Rooke—I am hardly accustomed to call him

Captain as yet, though, indeed, he well deserves it—at the edge of

the cordon of sentries, and they went quickly together towards the

port, where the yacht was lying with steam up.

BOOK VII: THE EMPIRE OF THE AIR

FROM THE REPORT OF CRISTOFEROS, WAR-SCRIBE TO THE NATIONAL COUNCIL.

July 7, 1907.

When the Gospodar Rupert and Captain Rooke came within hailing

distance of the strange ship, the former hailed her, using one after

another the languages of England, Germany, France, Russia, Turkey,

Greece, Spain, Portugal, and another which I did not know; I think it

must have been American. By this time the whole line of the bulwark

was covered by a row of Turkish faces. When, in Turkish, the

Gospodar asked for the Captain, the latter came to the gangway, which

had been opened, and stood there. His uniform was that of the

Turkish navy—of that I am prepared to swear—but he made signs of

not understanding what had been said; whereupon the Gospodar spoke

again, but in French this time. I append the exact conversation

which took place, none other joining in it. I took down in shorthand

the words of both as they were spoken:

THE GOSPODAR. “Are you the Captain of this ship?”

THE CAPTAIN. “I am.”

GOSPODAR. “To what nationality do you belong?”

CAPTAIN. “It matters not. I am Captain of this ship.”

GOSPODAR. “I alluded to your ship. What national flag is she

under?”

CAPTAIN (throwing his eye over the top-hamper). “I do not see that

any flag is flying.”

GOSPODAR. “I take it that, as commander, you can allow me on board

with my two companions?”

CAPTAIN. “I can, upon proper request being made!”

GOSPODAR (taking off his cap). “I ask your courtesy, Captain. I am

the representative and accredited officer of the National Council of

the Land of the Blue Mountains, in whose waters you now are; and on

their account I ask for a formal interview on urgent matters.”

The Turk, who was, I am bound to say, in manner most courteous as

yet, gave some command to his officers, whereupon the companion-ladders and stage were lowered and the gangway manned, as is usual

for the reception on a ship of war of an honoured guest.

CAPTAIN. “You are welcome, sir—you and your two companions—as you

request.”

The Gospodar bowed. Our companion-ladder was rigged on the instant,

and a launch lowered. The Gospodar and Captain Rooke—taking me with

them—entered, and rowed to the warship, where we were all honourably

received. There were an immense number of men on board, soldiers as

well as seamen. It looked more like a warlike expedition than a

fighting-ship in time of peace. As we stepped on the deck, the

seamen and marines, who were all armed as at drill, presented arms.

The Gospodar went first towards the Captain, and Captain Rooke and I

followed close behind him. The Gospodar spoke:

“I am Rupert Sent Leger, a subject of his Britannic Majesty,

presently residing at Vissarion, in the Land of the Blue Mountains.

I am at present empowered to act for the National Council in all

matters. Here is my credential!” As he spoke he handed to the

Captain a letter. It was written in five different languages—

Balkan, Turkish, Greek, English, and French. The Captain read it

carefully all through, forgetful for the moment that he had seemingly

been unable to understand the Gospodar’s question spoken in the

Turkish tongue. Then he answered:

“I see the document is complete. May I ask on what subject you wish

to see me?”

GOSPODAR. “You are here in a ship of war in Blue Mountain waters,

yet you fly no flag of any nation. You have sent armed men ashore in

your boats, thus committing an act of war. The National Council of

the Land of the Blue Mountains requires to know what nation you

serve, and why the obligations of international law are thus broken.”

The Captain seemed to wait for further speech, but the Gospodar

remained silent; whereupon the former spoke.

CAPTAIN. “I am responsible to my own—chiefs. I refuse to answer

your question.”

The Gospodar spoke at once in reply.

GOSPODAR. “Then, sir, you, as commander of a ship—and especially a

ship of war—must know that in thus violating national and maritime

laws you, and all on board this ship, are guilty of an act of piracy.

This is not even piracy on the high seas. You are not merely within

territorial waters, but you have invaded a national port. As you

refuse to disclose the nationality of your ship, I accept, as you

seem to do, your status as that of a pirate, and shall in due season

act accordingly.”

CAPTAIN (with manifest hostility). “I accept the responsibility of

my own acts. Without admitting your contention, I tell you now that

whatever action you take shall be at your own peril and that of your

National Council. Moreover, I have reason to believe that my men who

were sent ashore on special service have been beleaguered in a tower

which can be seen from the ship. Before dawn this morning firing was

heard from that direction, from which I gather that attack was made

on them. They, being only a small party, may have been murdered. If

such be so, I tell you that you and your miserable little nation, as

you call it, shall pay such blood-money as you never thought of. I

am responsible for this, and, by Allah! there shall be a great

revenge. You have not in all your navy—if navy you have at all—

power to cope with even one ship like this, which is but one of many.

My guns shall be trained on Ilsin, to which end I have come inshore.

You and your companions have free conduct back to port; such is due

to the white flag which you fly. Fifteen minutes will bring you back

whence you came. Go! And remember that whatever you may do amongst

your mountain defiles, at sea you cannot even defend yourselves.”

GOSPODAR (slowly and in a ringing voice). “The Land of the Blue

Mountains has its own defences on sea and land. Its people know how

to defend themselves.”

CAPTAIN (taking out his watch). “It is now close on five bells. At

the first stroke of six bells our guns shall open fire.”

GOSPODAR (calmly). “It is my last duty to warn you, sir—and to warn

all on this ship—that much may happen before even the first stroke

of six bells. Be warned in time, and give over this piratical

attack, the very threat of which may be the cause of much bloodshed.”

CAPTAIN (violently). “Do you dare to threaten me, and, moreover, my

ship’s company? We are one, I tell you, in this ship; and the last

man shall perish like the first ere this enterprise fail. Go!”

With a bow, the Gospodar turned and went down the ladder, we

following him. In a couple of minutes the yacht was on her way to

the port.

FROM RUPERT’S JOURNAL.

July 10, 1907.

When we turned shoreward after my stormy interview with the pirate

Captain—I can call him nothing else at present, Rooke gave orders to

a quartermaster on the bridge, and The Lady began to make to a little

northward of Ilsin port. Rooke himself went aft to the wheel-house,

taking several men with him.

When we were quite near the rocks—the water is so deep here that

there is no danger—we slowed down, merely drifting along southwards

towards the port. I was myself on the bridge, and could see all over

the decks. I could also see preparations going on upon the warship.

Ports were opened, and the great guns on the turrets were lowered for

action. When we were starboard broadside on to the warship, I saw

the port side of the steering-house open, and Rooke’s men sliding out

what looked like a huge grey crab, which by tackle from within the

wheel-house was lowered softly into the sea. The position of the

yacht hid the operation from sight of the warship. The doors were

shut again, and the yacht’s pace began to quicken. We ran into the

port. I had a vague idea that Rooke had some desperate project on

hand. Not for nothing had he kept the wheel-house locked on that

mysterious crab.

All along the frontage was a great crowd of eager men. But they had

considerately left the little mole at the southern entrance, whereon

was a little tower, on whose round top a signal-gun was placed, free

for my own use. When I was landed on this pier I went along to the

end, and, climbing the narrow stair within, went out on the sloping

roof. I stood up, for I was determined to show the Turks that I was

not afraid for myself, as they would understand when the bombardment

should begin. It was now but a very few minutes before the fatal

hour—six bells. But all the same I was almost in a state of

despair. It was terrible to think of all those poor souls in the

town who had done nothing wrong, and who were to be wiped out in the

coming blood-thirsty, wanton attack. I raised my glasses to see how

preparations were going on upon the warship.

As I looked I had a momentary fear that my eyesight was giving way.

At one moment I had the deck of the warship focussed with my glasses,

and could see every detail as the gunners waited for the word to

begin the bombardment with the great guns of the barbettes. The next

I saw nothing but the empty sea. Then in another instant there was

the ship as before, but the details were blurred. I steadied myself

against the signal-gun, and looked again. Not more than two, or at

the most three, seconds had elapsed. The ship was, for the moment,

full in view. As I looked, she gave a queer kind of quick shiver,

prow and stern, and then sideways. It was for all the world like a

rat shaken in the mouth of a skilled terrier. Then she remained

still, the one placid thing to be seen, for all around her the sea

seemed to shiver in little independent eddies, as when water is

broken without a current to guide it.

I continued to look, and when the deck was, or seemed, quite still—

for the shivering water round the ship kept catching my eyes through

the outer rays of the lenses—I noticed that nothing was stirring.

The men who had been at the guns were all lying down; the men in the

fighting-tops had leaned forward or backward, and their arms hung

down helplessly. Everywhere was desolation—in so far as life was

concerned. Even a little brown bear, which had been seated on the

cannon which was being put into range position, had jumped or fallen

on deck, and lay there stretched out—and still. It was evident that

some terrible shock had been given to the mighty war-vessel. Without

a doubt or a thought why I did so, I turned my eyes towards where The

Lady lay, port broadside now to the inside, in the harbour mouth. I

had the key now to the mystery of Rooke’s proceedings with the great

grey crab.

As I looked I saw just outside the harbour a thin line of cleaving

water. This became more marked each instant, till a steel disc with

glass eyes that shone in the light of the sun rose above the water.

It was about the size of a beehive, and was shaped like one. It made

a straight line for the aft of the yacht. At the same moment, in

obedience to some command, given so quietly that I did not hear it,

the men went below—all save some few, who began to open out doors in

the port side of the wheel-house. The tackle was run out through an

opened gangway on that side, and a man stood on the great hook at the

lower end, balancing himself by hanging on the chain. In a few

seconds he came up again. The chain tightened and the great grey

crab rose over the edge of the deck, and was drawn into the wheel-house, the doors of which were closed, shutting in a few only of the

men.

I waited, quite quiet. After a space of a few minutes, Captain Rooke

in his uniform walked out of the wheel-house. He entered a small

boat, which had been in the meantime lowered for the purpose, and was

rowed to the steps on the mole. Ascending these, he came directly

towards the signal-tower. When he had ascended and stood beside me,

he saluted.

“Well?” I asked.

“All well, sir,” he answered. “We shan’t have any more trouble with

that lot, I think. You warned that pirate—I wish he had been in

truth a clean, honest, straightforward pirate, instead of the measly

Turkish swab he was—that something might occur before the first

stroke of six bells. Well, something has occurred, and for him and

all his crew that six bells will never sound. So the Lord fights for

the Cross against the Crescent! Bismillah. Amen!” He said this in

a manifestly formal way, as though declaiming a ritual. The next

instant he went on in the thoroughly practical conventional way which

was usual to him:

“May I ask a favour, Mr. Sent Leger?”

“A thousand, my dear Rooke,” I said. “You can’t ask me anything

which I shall not freely grant. And I speak within my brief from the

National Council. You have saved Ilsin this day, and the Council

will thank you for it in due time.”

“Me, sir?” he said, with a look of surprise on his face which seemed

quite genuine. “If you think that, I am well out of it. I was

afraid, when I woke, that you might court-martial me!”

“Court-martial you! What for?” I asked, surprised in my turn.

“For going to sleep on duty, sir! And the fact is, I was worn out in

the attack on the Silent Tower last night, and when you had your

interview with the pirate—all good pirates forgive me for the

blasphemy! Amen!—and I knew that everything was going smoothly, I

went into the wheel-house and took forty winks.” He said all this

without moving so much as an eyelid, from which I gathered that he

wished absolute silence to be observed on my part. Whilst I was

revolving this in my mind he went on:

“Touching that request, sir. When I have left you and the Voivode—

and the Voivodin, of course—at Vissarion, together with such others

as you may choose to bring there with you, may I bring the yacht back

here for a spell? I rather think that there is a good deal of

cleaning up to be done, and the crew of The Lady with myself are the

men to do it. We shall be back by nightfall at the creek.”

“Do as you think best, Admiral Rooke,” I said.

“Admiral?”

“Yes, Admiral. At present I can only say that tentatively, but by

to-morrow I am sure the National Council will have confirmed it. I

am afraid, old friend, that your squadron will be only your flagship

for the present; but later we may do better.”

“So long as I am Admiral, your honour, I shall have no other flagship

than The Lady. I am not a young man, but, young or old, my pennon

shall float over no other deck. Now, one other favour, Mr. Sent

Leger? It is a corollary of the first, so I do not hesitate to ask.

May I appoint Lieutenant Desmond, my present First Officer, to the

command of the battleship? Of course, he will at first only command

the prize crew; but in such case he will fairly expect the

confirmation of his rank later. I had better, perhaps, tell you,

sir, that he is a very capable seaman, learned in all the sciences

that pertain to a battleship, and bred in the first navy in the

world.”

“By all means, Admiral. Your nomination shall, I think I may promise

you, be confirmed.”

Not another word we spoke. I returned with him in his boat to The

Lady, which was brought to the dock wall, where we were received with

tumultuous cheering.

I hurried off to my Wife and the Voivode. Rooke, calling Desmond to

him, went on the bridge of The Lady, which turned, and went out at

terrific speed to the battleship, which was already drifting up

northward on the tide.

FROM THE REPORT OF CRISTOFEROS, SCRIBE OF THE NATIONAL COUNCIL OF THE

LAND OF THE BLUE MOUNTAINS.

July 8, 1907.

The meeting of the National Council, July 6, was but a continuation

of that held before the rescue of the Voivodin Vissarion, the members

of the Council having been during the intervening night housed in the

Castle of Vissarion. When, in the early morning, they met, all were

jubilant; for late at night the fire-signal had flamed up from Ilsin

with the glad news that the Voivode Peter Vissarion was safe, having

been rescued with great daring on an aeroplane by his daughter and

the Gospodar Rupert, as the people call him—Mister Rupert Sent

Leger, as he is in his British name and degree.

Whilst the Council was sitting, word came that a great peril to the

town of Ilsin had been averted. A war-vessel acknowledging to no

nationality, and therefore to be deemed a pirate, had threatened to

bombard the town; but just before the time fixed for the fulfilment

of her threat, she was shaken to such an extent by some sub-aqueous

means that, though she herself was seemingly uninjured, nothing was

left alive on board. Thus the Lord preserves His own! The

consideration of this, as well as the other incident, was postponed

until the coming Voivode and the Gospodar Rupert, together with who

were already on their way hither.

THE SAME (LATER IN THE SAME DAY).

The Council resumed its sitting at four o’clock. The Voivode Peter

Vissarion and the Voivodin Teuta had arrived with the “Gospodar

Rupert,” as the mountaineers call him (Mr. Rupert Sent Leger) on the

armoured yacht he calls The Lady. The National Council showed great

pleasure when the Voivode entered the hall in which the Council met.

He seemed much gratified by the reception given to him. Mr. Rupert

Sent Leger, by the express desire of the Council, was asked to be

present at the meeting. He took a seat at the bottom of the hall,

and seemed to prefer to remain there, though asked by the President

of the Council to sit at the top of the table with himself and the

Voivode.

When the formalities of such Councils had been completed, the Voivode

handed to the President a memorandum of his report on his secret

mission to foreign Courts on behalf of the National Council. He then

explained at length, for the benefit of the various members of the

Council, the broad results of his mission. The result was, he said,

absolutely satisfactory. Everywhere he had been received with

distinguished courtesy, and given a sympathetic hearing. Several of

the Powers consulted had made delay in giving final answers, but

this, he explained, was necessarily due to new considerations arising

from the international complications which were universally dealt

with throughout the world as “the Balkan Crisis.” In time, however

(the Voivode went on), these matters became so far declared as to

allow the waiting Powers to form definite judgment—which, of course,

they did not declare to him—as to their own ultimate action. The

final result—if at this initial stage such tentative setting forth

of their own attitude in each case can be so named—was that he

returned full of hope (founded, he might say, upon a justifiable

personal belief) that the Great Powers throughout the world—North,

South, East, and West—were in thorough sympathy with the Land of the

Blue Mountains in its aspirations for the continuance of its freedom.

“I also am honoured,” he continued, “to bring to you, the Great

Council of the nation, the assurance of protection against unworthy

aggression on the part of neighbouring nations of present greater

strength.”

Whilst he was speaking, the Gospodar Rupert was writing a few words

on a strip of paper, which he sent up to the President. When the

Voivode had finished speaking, there was a prolonged silence. The

President rose, and in a hush said that the Council would like to

hear Mr. Rupert Sent Leger, who had a communication to make regarding

certain recent events.

Mr. Rupert Sent Leger rose, and reported how, since he had been

entrusted by the Council with the rescue of the Voivode Peter of

Vissarion, he had, by aid of the Voivodin, effected the escape of the

Voivode from the Silent Tower; also that, following this happy event,

the mountaineers, who had made a great cordon round the Tower so soon

as it was known that the Voivode had been imprisoned within it, had

stormed it in the night. As a determined resistance was offered by

the marauders, who had used it as a place of refuge, none of these

escaped. He then went on to tell how he sought interview with the

Captain of the strange warship, which, without flying any flag,

invaded our waters. He asked the President to call on me to read the

report of that meeting. This, in obedience to his direction, I did.

The acquiescent murmuring of the Council showed how thoroughly they

endorsed Mr. Sent Leger’s words and acts.

When I resumed my seat, Mr. Sent Leger described how, just before the

time fixed by the “pirate Captain”—so he designated him, as did

every speaker thereafter—the warship met with some under-sea

accident, which had a destructive effect on all on board her. Then

he added certain words, which I give verbatim, as I am sure that

others will some time wish to remember them in their exactness:

“By the way, President and Lords of the Council, I trust I may ask

you to confirm Captain Rooke, of the armoured yacht The Lady, to be

Admiral of the Squadron of the Land of the Blue Mountains, and also

Captain (tentatively) Desmond, late First-Lieutenant of The Lady, to

the command of the second warship of our fleet—the as yet unnamed

vessel, whose former Captain threatened to bombard Ilsin. My Lords,

Admiral Rooke has done great service to the Land of the Blue

Mountains, and deserves well at your hands. You will have in him, I

am sure, a great official. One who will till his last breath give

you good and loyal service.”

He had sat down, the President put to the Council resolutions, which

were passed by acclamation. Admiral Rooke was given command of the

navy, and Captain Desmond confirmed in his appointment to the

captaincy of the new ship, which was, by a further resolution, named

The Gospodar Rupert.

In thanking the Council for acceding to his request, and for the

great honour done him in the naming of the ship, Mr. Sent Leger said:

“May I ask that the armoured yacht The Lady be accepted by you, the

National Council, on behalf of the nation, as a gift on behalf of the

cause of freedom from the Voivodin Teuta?”

In response to the mighty cheer of the Council with which the

splendid gift was accepted the Gospodar Rupert—Mr. Sent Leger—

bowed, and went quietly out of the room.

As no agenda of the meeting had been prepared, there was for a time,

not silence, but much individual conversation. In the midst of it

the Voivode rose up, whereupon there was a strict silence. All

listened with an intensity of eagerness whilst he spoke.

“President and Lords of the Council, Archbishop, and Vladika, I

should but ill show my respect did I hesitate to tell you at this the

first opportunity I have had of certain matters personal primarily to

myself, but which, in the progress of recent events, have come to

impinge on the affairs of the nation. Until I have done so, I shall

not feel that I have done a duty, long due to you or your

predecessors in office, and which I hope you will allow me to say

that I have only kept back for purposes of statecraft. May I ask

that you will come back with me in memory to the year 1890, when our

struggle against Ottoman aggression, later on so successfully brought

to a close, was begun. We were then in a desperate condition. Our

finances had run so low that we could not purchase even the bread

which we required. Nay, more, we could not procure through the

National Exchequer what we wanted more than bread—arms of modern

effectiveness; for men may endure hunger and yet fight well, as the

glorious past of our country has proved again and again and again.

But when our foes are better armed than we are, the penalty is

dreadful to a nation small as our own is in number, no matter how

brave their hearts. In this strait I myself had to secretly raise a

sufficient sum of money to procure the weapons we needed. To this

end I sought the assistance of a great merchant-prince, to whom our

nation as well as myself was known. He met me in the same generous

spirit which he had shown to other struggling nationalities

throughout a long and honourable career. When I pledged to him as

security my own estates, he wished to tear up the bond, and only

under pressure would he meet my wishes in this respect. Lords of the

Council, it was his money, thus generously advanced, which procured

for us the arms with which we hewed out our freedom.

“Not long ago that noble merchant—and here I trust you will pardon

me that I am so moved as to perhaps appear to suffer in want of

respect to this great Council—this noble merchant passed to his

account—leaving to a near kinsman of his own the royal fortune which

he had amassed. Only a few hours ago that worthy kinsman of the

benefactor of our nation made it known to me that in his last will he

had bequeathed to me, by secret trust, the whole of those estates

which long ago I had forfeited by effluxion of time, inasmuch as I

had been unable to fulfil the terms of my voluntary bond. It grieves

me to think that I have had to keep you so long in ignorance of the

good thought and wishes and acts of this great man.

“But it was by his wise counsel, fortified by my own judgment, that I

was silent; for, indeed, I feared, as he did, lest in our troublous

times some doubting spirit without our boundaries, or even within it,

might mistrust the honesty of my purposes for public good, because I

was no longer one whose whole fortune was invested within our

confines. This prince-merchant, the great English Roger Melton—let

his name be for ever graven on the hearts of our people!—kept silent

during his own life, and enjoined on others to come after him to keep

secret from the men of the Blue Mountains that secret loan made to me

on their behalf, lest in their eyes I, who had striven to be their

friend and helper, should suffer wrong repute. But, happily, he has

left me free to clear myself in your eyes. Moreover, by arranging to

have—under certain contingencies, which have come to pass—the

estates which were originally my own retransferred to me, I have no

longer the honour of having given what I could to the national cause.

All such now belongs to him; for it was his money—and his only—

which purchased our national armament.

“His worthy kinsman you already know, for he has not only been

amongst you for many months, but has already done you good service in

his own person. He it was who, as a mighty warrior, answered the

summons of the Vladika when misfortune came upon my house in the

capture by enemies of my dear daughter, the Voivodin Teuta, whom you

hold in your hearts; who, with a chosen band of our brothers, pursued

the marauders, and himself, by a deed of daring and prowess, of which

poets shall hereafter sing, saved her, when hope itself seemed to be

dead, from their ruthless hands, and brought her back to us; who

administered condign punishment to the miscreants who had dared to so

wrong her. He it was who later took me, your servant, out of the

prison wherein another band of Turkish miscreants held me captive;

rescued me, with the help of my dear daughter, whom he had already

freed, whilst I had on my person the documents of international

secrecy of which I have already advised you—rescued me whilst I had

been as yet unsubjected to the indignity of search.

“Beyond this you know now that of which I was in partial ignorance:

how he had, through the skill and devotion of your new Admiral,

wrought destruction on a hecatomb of our malignant foes. You who

have received for the nation the splendid gift of the little warship,

which already represents a new era in naval armament, can understand

the great-souled generosity of the man who has restored the vast

possessions of my House. On our way hither from Ilsin, Rupert Sent

Leger made known to me the terms of the trust of his noble uncle,

Roger Melton, and—believe me that he did so generously, with a joy

that transcended my own—restored to the last male of the Vissarion

race the whole inheritance of a noble line.

“And now, my Lords of the Council, I come to another matter, in which

I find myself in something of a difficulty, for I am aware that in

certain ways you actually know more of it than even I myself do. It

is regarding the marriage of my daughter to Rupert Sent Leger. It is

known to me that the matter has been brought before you by the

Archbishop, who, as guardian of my daughter during my absence on the

service of the nation, wished to obtain your sanction, as till my

return he held her safety in trust. This was so, not from any merit

of mine, but because she, in her own person, had undertaken for the

service of our nation a task of almost incredible difficulty. My

Lords, were she child of another father, I should extol to the skies

her bravery, her self-devotion, her loyalty to the land she loves.

Why, then, should I hesitate to speak of her deeds in fitting terms,

since it is my duty, my glory, to hold them in higher honour than can

any in this land? I shall not shame her—or even myself—by being

silent when such a duty urges me to speak, as Voivode, as trusted

envoy of our nation, as father. Ages hence loyal men and women of

our Land of the Blue Mountains will sing her deeds in song and tell

them in story. Her name, Teuta, already sacred in these regions,

where it was held by a great Queen, and honoured by all men, will

hereafter be held as a symbol and type of woman’s devotion. Oh, my

Lords, we pass along the path of life, the best of us but a little

time marching in the sunlight between gloom and gloom, and it is

during that march that we must be judged for the future. This brave

woman has won knightly spurs as well as any Paladin of old. So is it

meet that ere she might mate with one worthy of her you, who hold in

your hands the safety and honour of the State, should give your

approval. To you was it given to sit in judgment on the worth of

this gallant Englisher, now my son. You judged him then, before you

had seen his valour, his strength, and skill exercised on behalf of a

national cause. You judged wisely, oh, my brothers, and out of a

grateful heart I thank you one and all for it. Well has he justified

your trust by his later acts. When, in obedience to the summons of

the Vladika, he put the nation in a blaze and ranged our boundaries

with a ring of steel, he did so unknowing that what was dearest to

him in the world was at stake. He saved my daughter’s honour and

happiness, and won her safety by an act of valour that outvies any

told in history. He took my daughter with him to bring me out from

the Silent Tower on the wings of the air, when earth had for me no

possibility of freedom—I, that had even then in my possession the

documents involving other nations which the Soldan would fain have

purchased with the half of his empire.

“Henceforth to me, Lords of the Council, this brave man must ever be

as a son of my heart, and I trust that in his name grandsons of my

own may keep in bright honour the name which in glorious days of old

my fathers made illustrious. Did I know how adequately to thank you

for your interest in my child, I would yield up to you my very soul

in thanks.”

The speech of the Voivode was received with the honour of the Blue

Mountains—the drawing and raising of handjars

FROM RUPERT’S JOURNAL.

July 14, 1907.

For nearly a week we waited for some message from Constantinople,

fully expecting either a declaration of war, or else some inquiry so

couched as to make war an inevitable result. The National Council

remained on at Vissarion as the guests of the Voivode, to whom, in

accordance with my uncle’s will, I had prepared to retransfer all

his estates. He was, by the way, unwilling at first to accept, and

it was only when I showed him Uncle Roger’s letter, and made him read

the Deed of Transfer prepared in anticipation by Mr. Trent, that he

allowed me to persuade him. Finally he said:

“As you, my good friends, have so arranged, I must accept, be it only

in honour to the wishes of the dead. But remember, I only do so but

for the present, reserving to myself the freedom to withdraw later if

I so desire.”

But Constantinople was silent. The whole nefarious scheme was one of

the “put-up jobs” which are part of the dirty work of a certain order

of statecraft—to be accepted if successful; to be denied in case of

failure.

The matter stood thus: Turkey had thrown the dice—and lost. Her

men were dead; her ship was forfeit. It was only some ten days after

the warship was left derelict with every living thing—that is,

everything that had been living—with its neck broken, as Rooke

informed me, when he brought the ship down the creek, and housed it

in the dock behind the armoured gates—that we saw an item in The

Roma copied from The Constantinople Journal of July 9:

“LOSS OF AN OTTOMAN IRONCLAD WITH ALL HANDS.

“News has been received at Constantinople of the total loss, with all

hands, of one of the newest and finest warships in the Turkish fleet-

-The Mahmoud, Captain Ali Ali—which foundered in a storm on the

night of July 5, some distance off Cabrera, in the Balearic Isles.

There were no survivors, and no wreckage was discovered by the ships

which went in relief—the Pera and the Mustapha—or reported from

anywhere along the shores of the islands, of which exhaustive search

was made. The Mahmoud was double-manned, as she carried a full extra

crew sent on an educational cruise on the most perfectly

scientifically equipped warship on service in the Mediterranean

waters.”

When the Voivode and I talked over the matter, he said:

“After all, Turkey is a shrewd Power. She certainly seems to know

when she is beaten, and does not intend to make a bad thing seem

worse in the eyes of the world.”

Well, ‘tis a bad wind that blows good to nobody. As The Mahmoud was

lost off the Balearics, it cannot have been her that put the

marauders on shore and trained her big guns on Ilsin. We take it,

therefore, that the latter must have been a pirate, and as we have

taken her derelict in our waters, she is now ours in all ways.

Anyhow, she is ours, and is the first ship of her class in the navy

of the Blue Mountains. I am inclined to think that even if she was—

or is still—a Turkish ship, Admiral Rooke would not be inclined to

let her go. As for Captain Desmond, I think he would go straight out

of his mind if such a thing was to be even suggested to him.

It will be a pity if we have any more trouble, for life here is very

happy with us all now. The Voivode is, I think, like a man in a

dream. Teuta is ideally happy, and the real affection which sprang

up between them when she and Aunt Janet met is a joy to think of. I

had posted Teuta about her, so that when they should meet my wife

might not, by any inadvertence, receive or cause any pain. But the

moment Teuta saw her she ran straight over to her and lifted her in

her strong young arms, and, raising her up as one would lift a child,

kissed her. Then, when she had put her sitting in the chair from

which she had arisen when we entered the room, she knelt down before

her, and put her face down in her lap. Aunt Janet’s face was a

study; I myself could hardly say whether at the first moment surprise

or joy predominated. But there could be no doubt about it the

instant after. She seemed to beam with happiness. When Teuta knelt

to her, she could only say:

“My dear, my dear, I am glad! Rupert’s wife, you and I must love

each other very much.” Seeing that they were laughing and crying in

each other’s arms, I thought it best to come away and leave them

alone. And I didn’t feel a bit lonely either when I was out of sight

of them. I knew that where those two dear women were there was a

place for my own heart.

When I came back, Teuta was sitting on Aunt Janet’s knee. It seemed

rather stupendous for the old lady, for Teuta is such a splendid

creature that even when she sits on my own knee and I catch a glimpse

of us in some mirror, I cannot but notice what a nobly-built girl she

is.

My wife was jumping up as soon as I was seen, but Aunt Janet held her

tight to her, and said:

“Don’t stir, dear. It is such happiness to me to have you there.

Rupert has always been my ‘little boy,’ and, in spite of all his

being such a giant, he is so still. And so you, that he loves, must

be my little girl—in spite of all your beauty and your strength—and

sit on my knee, till you can place there a little one that shall be

dear to us all, and that shall let me feel my youth again. When

first I saw you I was surprised, for, somehow, though I had never

seen you nor even heard of you, I seemed to know your face. Sit

where you are, dear. It is only Rupert—and we both love him.”

Teuta looked at me, flushing rosily; but she sat quiet, and drew the

old lady’s white head on her young breast.

JANET MACKELPIE’S NOTES.

July 8, 1907.

I used to think that whenever Rupert should get married or start on

the way to it by getting engaged—I would meet his future wife with

something of the same affection that I have always had for himself.

But I know now that what was really in my mind was jealousy, and that

I was really fighting against my own instincts, and pretending to

myself that I was not jealous. Had I ever had the faintest idea that

she would be anything the least like Teuta, that sort of feeling

should never have had even a foothold. No wonder my dear boy is in

love with her, for, truth to tell, I am in love with her myself. I

don’t think I ever met a creature—a woman creature, of course, I

mean—with so many splendid qualities. I almost fear to say it, lest

it should seem to myself wrong; but I think she is as good as a woman

as Rupert is as a man. And what more than that can I say? I thought

I loved her and trusted her, and knew her all I could, until this

morning.

I was in my own room, as it is still called. For, though Rupert

tells me in confidence that under his uncle’s will the whole estate

of Vissarion, Castle and all, really belongs to the Voivode, and

though the Voivode has been persuaded to accept the position, he (the

Voivode) will not allow anything to be changed. He will not even

hear a word of my going, or changing my room, or anything. And

Rupert backs him up in it, and Teuta too. So what am I to do but let

the dears have their way?

Well, this morning, when Rupert was with the Voivode at a meeting of

the National Council in the Great Hall, Teuta came to me, and (after

closing the door and bolting it, which surprised me a little) came

and knelt down beside me, and put her face in my lap. I stroked her

beautiful black hair, and said:

“What is it, Teuta darling? Is there any trouble? And why did you

bolt the door? Has anything happened to Rupert?” When she looked up

I saw that her beautiful black eyes, with the stars in them, were

overflowing with tears not yet shed. But she smiled through them,

and the tears did not fall. When I saw her smile my heart was eased,

and I said without thinking: “Thank God, darling, Rupert is all

right.”

“I thank God, too, dear Aunt Janet!” she said softly; and I took her

in my arms and laid her head on my breast.

“Go on, dear,” I said; “tell me what it is that troubles you?” This

time I saw the tears drop, as she lowered her head and hid her face

from me.

“I’m afraid I have deceived you, Aunt Janet, and that you will not—

cannot—forgive me.”

“Lord save you, child!” I said, “there’s nothing that you could do

that I could not and would not forgive. Not that you would ever do

anything base, for that is the only thing that is hard to forgive.

Tell me now what troubles you.”

She looked up in my eyes fearlessly, this time with only the signs of

tears that had been, and said proudly:

“Nothing base, Aunt Janet. My father’s daughter would not willingly

be base. I do not think she could. Moreover, had I ever done

anything base I should not be here, for—for—I should never have

been Rupert’s wife!”

“Then what is it? Tell your old Aunt Janet, dearie.” She answered

me with another question:

“Aunt Janet, do you know who I am, and how I first met Rupert?”

“You are the Voivodin Teuta Vissarion—the daughter of the Voivode—

Or, rather, you were; you are now Mrs. Rupert Sent Leger. For he is

still an Englishman, and a good subject of our noble King.”

“Yes, Aunt Janet,” she said, “I am that, and proud to be it—prouder

than I would be were I my namesake, who was Queen in the old days.

But how and where did I see Rupert first?” I did not know, and

frankly told her so. So she answered her question herself:

“I saw him first in his own room at night.” I knew in my heart that

in whatever she did had been nothing wrong, so I sat silent waiting

for her to go on:

“I was in danger, and in deadly fear. I was afraid I might die—not

that I fear death—and I wanted help and warmth. I was not dressed

as I am now!”

On the instant it came to me how I knew her face, even the first time

I had seen it. I wished to help her out of the embarrassing part of

her confidence, so I said:

“Dearie, I think I know. Tell me, child, will you put on the frock .

. . the dress … costume you wore that night, and let me see you

in it? It is not mere idle curiosity, my child, but something far,

far above such idle folly.”

“Wait for me a minute, Aunt Janet,” she said, as she rose up; “I

shall not be long.” Then she left the room.

In a very few minutes she was back. Her appearance might have

frightened some people, for she was clad only in a shroud. Her feet

were bare, and she walked across the room with the gait of an

empress, and stood before me with her eyes modestly cast down. But

when presently she looked up and caught my eyes, a smile rippled over

her face. She threw herself once more before me on her knees, and

embraced me as she said:

“I was afraid I might frighten you, dear.” I knew I could truthfully

reassure her as to that, so I proceeded to do so:

“Do not worry yourself, my dear. I am not by nature timid. I come

of a fighting stock which has sent out heroes, and I belong to a

family wherein is the gift of Second Sight. Why should we fear? We

know! Moreover, I saw you in that dress before. Teuta, I saw you

and Rupert married!” This time she herself it was that seemed

disconcerted.

“Saw us married! How on earth did you manage to be there?”

“I was not there. My Seeing was long before! Tell me, dear, what

day, or rather what night, was it that you first saw Rupert?” She

answered sadly:

“I do not know. Alas! I lost count of the days as I lay in the tomb

in that dreary Crypt.”

“Was your—your clothing wet that night?” I asked.

“Yes. I had to leave the Crypt, for a great flood was out, and the

church was flooded. I had to seek help—warmth—for I feared I might

die. Oh, I was not, as I have told you, afraid of death. But I had

undertaken a terrible task to which I had pledged myself. It was for

my father’s sake, and the sake of the Land, and I felt that it was a

part of my duty to live. And so I lived on, when death would have

been relief. It was to tell you all about this that I came to your

room to-day. But how did you see me—us—married?”

“Ah, my child!” I answered, “that was before the marriage took place.

The morn after the night that you came in the wet, when, having been

troubled in uncanny dreaming, I came to see if Rupert was a’richt, I

lost remembrance o’ my dreaming, for the floor was all wet, and that

took off my attention. But later, the morn after Rupert used his

fire in his room for the first time, I told him what I had dreamt;

for, lassie, my dear, I saw ye as bride at that weddin’ in fine lace

o’er yer shrood, and orange-flowers and ithers in yer black hair; an’

I saw the stars in yer bonny een—the een I love. But oh, my dear,

when I saw the shrood, and kent what it might mean, I expeckit to see

the worms crawl round yer feet. But do ye ask yer man to tell ye

what I tell’t him that morn. ‘Twill interest ye to know how the

hairt o’ men can learn by dreams. Has he ever tellt ye aught o’

this?”

“No, dear,” she said simply. “I think that perhaps he was afraid

that one or other of us, if not both, might be upset by it if he did.

You see, he did not tell you anything at all of our meeting, though I

am sure that he will be glad when he knows that we both know all

about it, and have told each other everything.”

That was very sweet of her, and very thoughtful in all ways, so I

said that which I thought would please her best—that is, the truth:

“Ah, lassie, that is what a wife should be—what a wife should do.

Rupert is blessed and happy to have his heart in your keeping.”

I knew from the added warmth of her kiss what I had said had pleased

her.

Letter from Ernest Roger Halbard Melton, Humcroft, Salop, to Rupert

Sent Leger, Vissarion, Land of the Blue Mountains.

July 29, 1907.

MY DEAR COUSIN RUPERT,

We have heard such glowing accounts of Vissarion that I am coming out

to see you. As you are yourself now a landowner, you will understand

that my coming is not altogether a pleasure. Indeed, it is a duty

first. When my father dies I shall be head of the family—the family

of which Uncle Roger, to whom we were related, was a member. It is

therefore meet and fitting that I should know something of our family

branches and of their Seats. I am not giving you time for much

warning, so am coming on immediately—in fact, I shall arrive almost

as soon as this letter. But I want to catch you in the middle of

your tricks. I hear that the Blue Mountaineer girls are peaches, so

don’t send them ALL away when you hear I’m coming!

Do send a yacht up to Fiume to meet me. I hear you have all sorts of

craft at Vissarion. The MacSkelpie, I hear, said you received her as

a Queen; so I hope you will do the decent by one of your own flesh

and blood, and the future Head of the House at that. I shan’t bring

much of a retinue with me. I wasn’t made a billionaire by old

Roger, so can only take my modest “man Friday”—whose name is

Jenkinson, and a Cockney at that. So don’t have too much gold lace

and diamond-hilted scimitars about, like a good chap, or else he’ll

want the very worst—his wyges ryzed. That old image Rooke that came

over for Miss McS., and whom by chance I saw at the attorney man’s,

might pilot me down from Fiume. The old gentleman-by-Act-of-Parliament Mr. Bingham Trent (I suppose he has hyphened it by this

time) told me that Miss McS. said he “did her proud” when she went

over under his charge. I shall be at Fiume on the evening of

Wednesday, and shall stay at the Europa, which is, I am told, the

least indecent hotel in the place. So you know where to find me, or

any of your attendant demons can know, in case I am to suffer

“substituted service.”

Your affectionate Cousin,

ERNEST ROGER HALBARD MELTON.

Letter from Admiral Rooke to the Gospodar Rupert.

August 1, 1907.

SIR,

In obedience to your explicit direction that I should meet Mr. Ernest

R. H. Melton at Fiume, and report to you exactly what occurred,

“without keeping anything back,”—as you will remember you said, I

beg to report.

I brought the steam-yacht Trent to Fiume, arriving there on the

morning of Thursday. At 11.30 p.m. I went to meet the train from

St. Peter, due 11.40. It was something late, arriving just as the

clock was beginning to strike midnight. Mr. Melton was on board, and

with him his valet Jenkinson. I am bound to say that he did not seem

very pleased with his journey, and expressed much disappointment at

not seeing Your Honour awaiting him. I explained, as you directed,

that you had to attend with the Voivode Vissarion and the Vladika the

National Council, which met at Plazac, or that otherwise you would

have done yourself the pleasure of coming to meet him. I had, of

course, reserved rooms (the Prince of Wales’s suite), for him at the

Re d’Ungheria, and had waiting the carriage which the proprietor had

provided for the Prince of Wales when he stayed there. Mr. Melton

took his valet with him (on the box-seat), and I followed in a

Stadtwagen with the luggage. When I arrived, I found the maitre

d’hotel in a stupor of concern. The English nobleman, he said, had

found fault with everything, and used to him language to which he was

not accustomed. I quieted him, telling him that the stranger was

probably unused to foreign ways, and assuring him that Your Honour

had every faith in him. He announced himself satisfied and happy at

the assurance. But I noticed that he promptly put everything in the

hands of the headwaiter, telling him to satisfy the milor at any

cost, and then went away to some urgent business in Vienna. Clever

man!

I took Mr. Melton’s orders for our journey in the morning, and asked

if there was anything for which he wished. He simply said to me:

“Everything is rotten. Go to hell, and shut the door after you!”

His man, who seems a very decent little fellow, though he is as vain

as a peacock, and speaks with a Cockney accent which is simply

terrible, came down the passage after me, and explained “on his own,”

as he expressed it, that his master, “Mr. Ernest,” was upset by the

long journey, and that I was not to mind. I did not wish to make him

uncomfortable, so I explained that I minded nothing except what Your

Honour wished; that the steam-yacht would be ready at 7 a.m.; and

that I should be waiting in the hotel from that time on till Mr.

Melton cared to start, to bring him aboard.

In the morning I waited till the man Jenkinson came and told me that

Mr. Ernest would start at ten. I asked if he would breakfast on

board; he answered that he would take his cafe-complet at the hotel,

but breakfast on board.

We left at ten, and took the electric pinnace out to the Trent, which

lay, with steam up, in the roads. Breakfast was served on board, by

his orders, and presently he came up on the bridge, where I was in

command. He brought his man Jenkinson with him. Seeing me there,

and not (I suppose) understanding that I was in command, he

unceremoniously ordered me to go on the deck. Indeed, he named a

place much lower. I made a sign of silence to the quartermaster at

the wheel, who had released the spokes, and was going, I feared, to

make some impertinent remark. Jenkinson joined me presently, and

said, as some sort of explanation of his master’s discourtesy (of

which he was manifestly ashamed), if not as an amende:

“The governor is in a hell of a wax this morning.”

When we got in sight of Meleda, Mr. Melton sent for me and asked me

where we were to land. I told him that, unless he wished to the

contrary, we were to run to Vissarion; but that my instructions were

to land at whatever port he wished. Whereupon he told me that he

wished to stay the night at some place where he might be able to see

some “life.” He was pleased to add something, which I presume he

thought jocular, about my being able to “coach” him in such matters,

as doubtless even “an old has-been like you” had still some sort of

an eye for a pretty girl. I told him as respectfully as I could that

I had no knowledge whatever on such subjects, which were possibly of

some interest to younger men, but of none to me. He said no more; so

after waiting for further orders, but without receiving any, I said:

“I suppose, sir, we shall run to Vissarion?”

“Run to the devil, if you like!” was his reply, as he turned away.

When we arrived in the creek at Vissarion, he seemed much milder—

less aggressive in his manner; but when he heard that you were

detained at Plazac, he got rather “fresh”—I use the American term—

again. I greatly feared there would be a serious misfortune before

we got into the Castle, for on the dock was Julia, the wife of

Michael, the Master of the Wine, who is, as you know, very beautiful.

Mr. Melton seemed much taken with her; and she, being flattered by

the attention of a strange gentleman and Your Honour’s kinsman, put

aside the stand-offishness of most of the Blue Mountain women.

Whereupon Mr. Melton, forgetting himself, took her in his arms and

kissed her. Instantly there was a hubbub. The mountaineers present

drew their handjars, and almost on the instant sudden death appeared

to be amongst us. Happily the men waited as Michael, who had just

arrived on the quay-wall as the outrage took place, ran forward,

wheeling his handjar round his head, and manifestly intending to

decapitate Mr. Melton. On the instant—I am sorry to say it, for it

created a terribly bad effect—Mr. Melton dropped on his knees in a

state of panic. There was just this good use in it—that there was a

pause of a few seconds. During that time the little Cockney valet,

who has the heart of a man in him, literally burst his way forward,

and stood in front of his master in boxing attitude, calling out:

“‘Ere, come on, the ‘ole lot of ye! ‘E ain’t done no ‘arm. He honly

kissed the gal, as any man would. If ye want to cut off somebody’s

‘ed, cut off mine. I ain’t afride!” There was such genuine pluck in

this, and it formed so fine a contrast to the other’s craven attitude

(forgive me, Your Honour; but you want the truth!), that I was glad

he was an Englishman, too. The mountaineers recognized his spirit,

and saluted with their handjars, even Michael amongst the number.

Half turning his head, the little man said in a fierce whisper:

“Buck up, guv’nor! Get up, or they’ll slice ye! ‘Ere’s Mr. Rooke;

‘e’ll see ye through it.”

By this time the men were amenable to reason, and when I reminded

them that Mr. Melton was Your Honour’s cousin, they put aside their

handjars and went about their work. I asked Mr. Melton to follow,

and led the way to the Castle.

When we got close to the great entrance within the walled courtyard,

we found a large number of the servants gathered, and with them many

of the mountaineers, who have kept an organized guard all round the

Castle ever since the abducting of the Voivodin. As both Your Honour

and the Voivode were away at Plazac, the guard had for the time been

doubled. When the steward came and stood in the doorway, the

servants stood off somewhat, and the mountaineers drew back to the

farther sides and angles of the courtyard. The Voivodin had, of

course, been informed of the guest’s (your cousin) coming, and came

to meet him in the old custom of the Blue Mountains. As Your Honour

only came to the Blue Mountains recently, and as no occasion has been

since then of illustrating the custom since the Voivode was away, and

the Voivodin then believed to be dead, perhaps I, who have lived here

so long, may explain:

When to an old Blue Mountain house a guest comes whom it is wished to

do honour, the Lady, as in the vernacular the mistress of the house

is called, comes herself to meet the guest at the door—or, rather,

OUTSIDE the door—so that she can herself conduct him within. It is

a pretty ceremony, and it is said that of old in kingly days the

monarch always set much store by it. The custom is that, when she

approaches the honoured guest (he need not be royal), she bends—or

more properly kneels—before him and kisses his hand. It has been

explained by historians that the symbolism is that the woman, showing

obedience to her husband, as the married woman of the Blue Mountains

always does, emphasizes that obedience to her husband’s guest. The

custom is always observed in its largest formality when a young wife

receives for the first time a guest, and especially one whom her

husband wishes to honour. The Voivodin was, of course, aware that

Mr. Melton was your kinsman, and naturally wished to make the

ceremony of honour as marked as possible, so as to show overtly her

sense of her husband’s worth.

When we came into the courtyard, I held back, of course, for the

honour is entirely individual, and is never extended to any other, no

matter how worthy he may be. Naturally Mr. Melton did not know the

etiquette of the situation, and so for that is not to be blamed. He

took his valet with him when, seeing someone coming to the door, he

went forward. I thought he was going to rush to his welcomer. Such,

though not in the ritual, would have been natural in a young kinsman

wishing to do honour to the bride of his host, and would to anyone

have been both understandable and forgivable. It did not occur to me

at the time, but I have since thought that perhaps he had not then

heard of Your Honour’s marriage, which I trust you will, in justice

to the young gentleman, bear in mind when considering the matter.

Unhappily, however, he did not show any such eagerness. On the

contrary, he seemed to make a point of showing indifference. It

seemed to me myself that he, seeing somebody wishing to make much of

him, took what he considered a safe opportunity of restoring to

himself his own good opinion, which must have been considerably

lowered in the episode of the Wine Master’s wife.

The Voivodin, thinking, doubtless, Your Honour, to add a fresh lustre

to her welcome, had donned the costume which all her nation has now

come to love and to accept as a dress of ceremonial honour. She wore

her shroud. It moved the hearts of all of us who looked on to see

it, and we appreciated its being worn for such a cause. But Mr.

Melton did not seem to care. As he had been approaching she had

begun to kneel, and was already on her knees whilst he was several

yards away. There he stopped and turned to speak to his valet, put a

glass in his eye, and looked all round him and up and down—indeed,

everywhere except at the Great Lady, who was on her knees before him,

waiting to bid him welcome. I could see in the eyes of such of the

mountaineers as were within my range of vision a growing animosity;

so, hoping to keep down any such expression, which I knew would cause

harm to Your Honour and the Voivodin, I looked all round them

straight in their faces with a fixed frown, which, indeed, they

seemed to understand, for they regained, and for the time maintained,

their usual dignified calm. The Voivodin, may I say, bore the trial

wonderfully. No human being could see that she was in any degree

pained or even surprised. Mr. Melton stood looking round him so long

that I had full time to regain my own attitude of calm. At last he

seemed to come back to the knowledge that someone was waiting for

him, and sauntered leisurely forward. There was so much insolence—

mind you, not insolence that was intended to appear as such—in his

movement that the mountaineers began to steal forward. When he was

close up to the Voivodin, and she put out her hand to take his, he

put forward ONE FINGER! I could hear the intake of the breath of the

men, now close around, for I had moved forward, too. I thought it

would be as well to be close to your guest, lest something should

happen to him. The Voivodin still kept her splendid self-control.

Raising the finger put forward by the guest with the same deference

as though it had been the hand of a King, she bent her head down and

kissed it. Her duty of courtesy now done, she was preparing to rise,

when he put his hand into his pocket, and, pulling out a sovereign,

offered it to her. His valet moved his hand forward, as if to pull

back his arm, but it was too late. I am sure, Your Honour, that no

affront was intended. He doubtless thought that he was doing a

kindness of the sort usual in England when one “tips” a housekeeper.

But all the same, to one in her position, it was an affront, an

insult, open and unmistakable. So it was received by the

mountaineers, whose handjars flashed out as one. For a second it was

so received even by the Voivodin, who, with face flushing scarlet,

and the stars in her eves flaming red, sprang to her feet. But in

that second she had regained herself, and to all appearances her

righteous anger passed away. Stooping, she took the hand of her

guest and raised it—you know how strong she is—and, holding it in

hers, led him into the doorway, saying:

“You are welcome, kinsman of my husband, to the house of my father,

which is presently my husband’s also. Both are grieved that, duty

having called them away for the time, they are unable to be here to

help me to greet you.”

I tell you, Your Honour, that it was a lesson in self-respect which

anyone who saw it can never forget. As to me, it makes my flesh

quiver, old as I am, with delight, and my heart leap.

May I, as a faithful servant who has had many years of experience,

suggest that Your Honour should seem—for the present, at any rate—

not to know any of these things which I have reported, as you wished

me to do. Be sure that the Voivodin will tell you her gracious self

aught that she would wish you to know. And such reticence on your

part must make for her happiness, even if it did not for your own.

So that you may know all, as you desired, and that you may have time

to school yourself to whatever attitude you think best to adopt, I

send this off to you at once by fleet messenger. Were the aeroplane

here, I should take it myself. I leave here shortly to await the

arrival of Sir Colin at Otranto.

Your Honour’s faithful servant,

ROOKE.

JANET MACKELPIE’S NOTES.

August 9, 1907.

To me it seems very providential that Rupert was not at home when

that dreadful young man Ernest Melton arrived, though it is possible

that if Rupert had been present he would not have dared to conduct

himself so badly. Of course, I heard all about it from the maids;

Teuta never opened her lips to me on the subject. It was bad enough

and stupid enough for him to try to kiss a decent young woman like

Julia, who is really as good as gold and as modest as one of our own

Highland lassies; but to think of him insulting Teuta! The little

beast! One would think that a champion idiot out of an Equatorial

asylum would know better! If Michael, the Wine Master, wanted to

kill him, I wonder what my Rupert and hers would have done? I am

truly thankful that he was not present. And I am thankful, too, that

I was not present either, for I should have made an exhibition of

myself, and Rupert would not have liked that. He—the little beast!

might have seen from the very dress that the dear girl wore that

there was something exceptional about her. But on one account I

should have liked to see her. They tell me that she was, in her true

dignity, like a Queen, and that her humility in receiving her

husband’s kinsman was a lesson to every woman in the Land. I must be

careful not to let Rupert know that I have heard of the incident.

Later on, when it is all blown over and the young man has been got

safely away, I shall tell him of it. Mr. Rooke—Lord High Admiral

Rooke, I should say—must be a really wonderful man to have so held

himself in check; for, from what I have heard of him, he must in his

younger days have been worse than Old Morgan of Panama. Mr. Ernest

Roger Halbard Melton, of Humcroft, Salop, little knows how near he

was to being “cleft to the chine” also.

Fortunately, I had heard of his meeting with Teuta before he came to

see me, for I did not get back from my walk till after he had

arrived. Teuta’s noble example was before me, and I determined that

I, too, would show good manners under any circumstances. But I

didn’t know how mean he is. Think of his saying to me that Rupert’s

position here must be a great source of pride to me, who had been his

nursery governess. He said “nursemaid” first, but then stumbled in

his words, seeming to remember something. I did not turn a hair, I

am glad to say. It is a mercy Uncle Colin was not here, for I

honestly believe that, if he had been, he would have done the

“cleaving to the chine” himself. It has been a narrow escape for

Master Ernest, for only this morning Rupert had a message, sent on

from Gibraltar, saying that he was arriving with his clansmen, and

that they would not be far behind his letter. He would call at

Otranto in case someone should come across to pilot him to Vissarion.

Uncle told me all about that young cad having offered him one finger

in Mr. Trent’s office, though, of course, he didn’t let the cad see

that he noticed it. I have no doubt that, when he does arrive, that

young man, if he is here still, will find that he will have to behave

himself, if it be only on Sir Colin’s account alone.

THE SAME (LATER).

I had hardly finished writing when the lookout on the tower announced

that the Teuta, as Rupert calls his aeroplane, was sighted crossing

the mountains from Plazac. I hurried up to see him arrive, for I had

not as yet seen him on his “aero.” Mr. Ernest Melton came up, too.

Teuta was, of course, before any of us. She seems to know by

instinct when Rupert is coming.

It was certainly a wonderful sight to see the little aeroplane, with

outspread wings like a bird in flight, come sailing high over the

mountains. There was a head-wind, and they were beating against it;

otherwise we should not have had time to get to the tower before the

arrival.

When once the “aero” had begun to drop on the near side of the

mountains, however, and had got a measure of shelter from them, her

pace was extraordinary. We could not tell, of course, what sort of

pace she came at from looking at herself. But we gathered some idea

from the rate at which the mountains and hills seemed to slide away

from under her. When she got over the foot-hills, which are about

ten miles away, she came on at a swift glide that seemed to throw the

distance behind her. When quite close, she rose up a little till she

was something higher than the Tower, to which she came as straight as

an arrow from the bow, and glided to her moorings, stopping dead as

Rupert pulled a lever, which seemed to turn a barrier to the wind.

The Voivode sat beside Rupert, but I must say that he seemed to hold

on to the bar in front of him even more firmly than Rupert held to

his steering-gear.

When they had alighted, Rupert greeted his cousin with the utmost

kindness, and bade him welcome to Vissarion.

“I see,” he said, “you have met Teuta. Now you may congratulate me,

if you wish.”

Mr. Melton made a long rodomontade about her beauty, but presently,

stumbling about in his speech, said something regarding it being

unlucky to appear in grave-clothes. Rupert laughed, and clapped him

on the shoulder as he answered:

“That pattern of frock is likely to become a national dress for loyal

women of the Blue Mountains. When you know something of what that

dress means to us all at present you will understand. In the

meantime, take it that there is not a soul in the nation that does

not love it and honour her for wearing it.” To which the cad

replied:

“Oh, indeed! I thought it was some preparation for a fancy-dress

ball.” Rupert’s comment on this ill-natured speech was (for him)

quite grumpily given:

“I should not advise you to think such things whilst you are in this

part of the world, Ernest. They bury men here for much less.”

The cad seemed struck with something—either what Rupert had said or

his manner of saying it—for he was silent for several seconds before

he spoke.

“I’m very tired with that long journey, Rupert. Would you and Mrs.

Sent Leger mind if I go to my own room and turn in? My man can ask

for a cup of tea and a sandwich for me.”

RUPERT’S JOURNAL.

August 10, 1907.

When Ernest said he wished to retire it was about the wisest thing he

could have said or done, and it suited Teuta and me down to the

ground. I could see that the dear girl was agitated about something,

so thought it would be best for her to be quiet, and not worried with

being civil to the Bounder. Though he is my cousin, I can’t think of

him as anything else. The Voivode and I had certain matters to

attend to arising out of the meeting of the Council, and when we were

through the night was closing in. When I saw Teuta in our own rooms

she said at once:

“Do you mind, dear, if I stay with Aunt Janet to-night? She is very

upset and nervous, and when I offered to come to her she clung to me

and cried with relief.”

So when I had had some supper, which I took with the Voivode, I came

down to my old quarters in the Garden Room, and turned in early.

I was awakened a little before dawn by the coming of the fighting

monk Theophrastos, a notable runner, who had an urgent message for

me. This was the letter to me given to him by Rooke. He had been

cautioned to give it into no other hand, but to find me wherever I

might be, and convey it personally. When he had arrived at Plazac I

had left on the aeroplane, so he had turned back to Vissarion.

When I read Rooke’s report of Ernest Melton’s abominable conduct I

was more angry with him than I can say. Indeed, I did not think

before that that I could be angry with him, for I have always

despised him. But this was too much. However, I realized the wisdom

of Rooke’s advice, and went away by myself to get over my anger and

reacquire my self-mastery. The aeroplane Teuta was still housed on

the tower, so I went up alone and took it out.

When I had had a spin of about a hundred miles I felt better. The

bracing of the wind and the quick, exhilarating motion restored me to

myself, and I felt able to cope with Master Ernest, or whatever else

chagrinable might come along, without giving myself away. As Teuta

had thought it better to keep silence as to Ernest’s affront, I felt

I must not acknowledge it; but, all the same, I determined to get rid

of him before the day was much older.

When I had had my breakfast I sent word to him by a servant that I

was coming to his rooms, and followed not long behind the messenger.

He was in a suit of silk pyjamas, such as not even Solomon in all his

glory was arrayed in. I closed the door behind me before I began to

speak. He listened, at first amazed, then disconcerted, then angry,

and then cowering down like a whipped hound. I felt that it was a

case for speaking out. A bumptious ass like him, who deliberately

insulted everyone he came across—for if all or any of his efforts in

that way were due to mere elemental ignorance he was not fit to live,

but should be silenced on sight as a modern Caliban—deserved neither

pity nor mercy. To extend to him fine feeling, tolerance, and such-like gentlenesses would be to deprive the world of them without

benefit to any. So well as I can remember, what I said was something

like this:

“Ernest, as you say, you’ve got to go, and to go quick, you

understand. I dare say you look on this as a land of barbarians, and

think that any of your high-toned refinements are thrown away on

people here. Well, perhaps it is so. Undoubtedly, the structure of

the country is rough; the mountains may only represent the glacial

epoch; but so far as I can gather from some of your exploits—for I

have only learned a small part as yet—you represent a period a good

deal farther back. You seem to have given our folk here an

exhibition of the playfulness of the hooligan of the Saurian stage of

development; but the Blue Mountains, rough as they are, have come up

out of the primeval slime, and even now the people aim at better

manners. They may be rough, primitive, barbarian, elemental, if you

will, but they are not low down enough to tolerate either your ethics

or your taste. My dear cousin, your life is not safe here! I am

told that yesterday, only for the restraint exercised by certain

offended mountaineers on other grounds than your own worth, you would

have been abbreviated by the head. Another day of your fascinating

presence would do away with this restraint, and then we should have a

scandal. I am a new-comer here myself—too new a comer to be able to

afford a scandal of that kind—and so I shall not delay your going.

Believe me, my dear cousin, Ernest Roger Halbard Melton, of Humcroft,

Salop, that I am inconsolable about your resolution of immediate

departure, but I cannot shut my eyes to its wisdom. At present the

matter is altogether amongst ourselves, and when you have gone—if it

be immediately—silence will be observed on all hands for the sake of

the house wherein you are a guest; but if there be time for scandal

to spread, you will be made, whether you be alive or dead, a European

laughing-stock. Accordingly, I have anticipated your wishes, and

have ordered a fast steam yacht to take you to Ancona, or to whatever

other port you may desire. The yacht will be under the command of

Captain Desmond, of one of our battleships—a most determined

officer, who will carry out any directions which may be given to him.

This will insure your safety so far as Italian territory. Some of

his officials will arrange a special carriage for you up to Flushing,

and a cabin on the steamer to Queenboro’. A man of mine will travel

on the train and steamer with you, and will see that whatever you may

wish in the way of food or comfort will be provided. Of course, you

understand, my dear cousin, that you are my guest until you arrive in

London. I have not asked Rooke to accompany you, as when he went to

meet you, it was a mistake. Indeed, there might have been a danger

to you which I never contemplated—a quite unnecessary danger, I

assure you. But happily Admiral Rooke, though a man of strong

passions, has wonderful self-control.”

“Admiral Rooke?” he queried. “Admiral?”

“Admiral, certainly,” I replied, “but not an ordinary Admiral—one of

many. He is THE Admiral—the Lord High Admiral of the Land of the

Blue Mountains, with sole control of its expanding navy. When such a

man is treated as a valet, there may be … But why go into this?

It is all over. I only mention it lest anything of a similar kind

should occur with Captain Desmond, who is a younger man, and

therefore with probably less self-repression.”

I saw that he had learned his lesson, and so said no more on the

subject.

There was another reason for his going which I did not speak of. Sir

Colin MacKelpie was coming with his clansmen, and I knew he did not

like Ernest Melton. I well remembered that episode of his offering

one finger to the old gentleman in Mr. Trent’s office, and, moreover,

I had my suspicions that Aunt Janet’s being upset was probably in

some measure due to some rudeness of his that she did not wish to

speak about. He is really an impossible young man, and is far better

out of this country than in it. If he remained here, there would be

some sort of a tragedy for certain.

I must say that it was with a feeling of considerable relief that I

saw the yacht steam out of the creek, with Captain Desmond on the

bridge and my cousin beside him.

Quite other were my feelings when, an hour after, The Lady came

flying into the creek with the Lord High Admiral on the bridge, and

beside him, more splendid and soldier-like than ever, Sir Colin

MacKelpie. Mr. Bingham Trent was also on the bridge.

The General was full of enthusiasm regarding his regiment, for in

all, those he brought with him and those finishing their training at

home, the force is near the number of a full regiment. When we were

alone he explained to me that all was arranged regarding the non-commissioned officers, but that he had held over the question of

officers until we should have had a suitable opportunity of talking

the matter over together. He explained to me his reasons, which were

certainly simple and cogent. Officers, according to him, are a

different class, and accustomed to a different standard altogether of

life and living, of duties and pleasures. They are harder to deal

with and more difficult to obtain. “There was no use,” he said, “in

getting a lot of failures, with old-crusted ways of their own

importance. We must have young men for our purpose—that is, men not

old, but with some experience—men, of course, who know how to behave

themselves, or else, from what little I have seen of the Blue

Mountaineers, they wouldn’t last long here if they went on as some of

them do elsewhere. I shall start things here as you wish me to, for

I am here, my dear boy, to stay with you and Janet, and we shall, if

it be given to us by the Almighty, help to build up together a new

‘nation’—an ally of Britain, who will stand at least as an outpost

of our own nation, and a guardian of our eastern road. When things

are organized here on the military side, and are going strong, I

shall, if you can spare me, run back to London for a few weeks.

Whilst I am there I shall pick up a lot of the sort of officers we

want. I know that there are loads of them to be had. I shall go

slowly, however, and carefully, too, and every man I bring back will

be recommended to me by some old soldier whom I know, and who knows

the man he recommends, and has seen him work. We shall have, I dare

say, an army for its size second to none in the world, and the day

may come when your old country will be proud of your new one. Now

I’m off to see that all is ready for my people—your people now.”

I had had arrangements made for the comfort of the clansmen and the

women, but I knew that the good old soldier would see for himself

that his men were to be comfortable. It was not for nothing that he

was—is—looked on as perhaps the General most beloved by his men in

the whole British Army.

When he had gone, and I was alone, Mr. Trent, who had evidently been

waiting for the opportunity, came to me. When we had spoken of my

marriage and of Teuta, who seems to have made an immense impression

on him, he said suddenly:

“I suppose we are quite alone, and that we shall not be interrupted?”

I summoned the man outside—there is always a sentry on guard outside

my door or near me, wherever I may be—and gave orders that I was not

to be disturbed until I gave fresh orders. “If,” I said, “there be

anything pressing or important, let the Voivodin or Miss MacKelpie

know. If either of them brings anyone to me, it will be all right.”

When we were quite alone Mr. Trent took a slip of paper and some

documents from the bag which was beside him. He then read out items

from the slip, placing as he did so the documents so checked over

before him.

1. New Will made on marriage, to be signed presently.

2. Copy of the Reconveyance of Vissarion estates to Peter

Vissarion, as directed by Will of Roger Melton.

3. Report of Correspondence with Privy Council, and proceedings

following.

Taking up the last named, he untied the red tape, and, holding the

bundle in his hand, went on:

“As you may, later on, wish to examine the details of the

Proceedings, I have copied out the various letters, the originals of

which are put safely away in my strong-room where, of course, they

are always available in case you may want them. For your present

information I shall give you a rough synopsis of the Proceedings,

referring where advisable to this paper.

“On receipt of your letter of instructions regarding the Consent of

the Privy Council to your changing your nationality in accordance

with the terms of Roger Melton’s Will, I put myself in communication

with the Clerk of the Privy Council, informing him of your wish to be

naturalized in due time to the Land of the Blue Mountains. After

some letters between us, I got a summons to attend a meeting of the

Council.

“I attended, as required, taking with me all necessary documents, and

such as I conceived might be advisable to produce, if wanted.

“The Lord President informed me that the present meeting of the

Council was specially summoned in obedience to the suggestion of the

King, who had been consulted as to his personal wishes on the

subject—should he have any. The President then proceeded to inform

me officially that all Proceedings of the Privy Council were

altogether confidential, and were not to be made public under any

circumstances. He was gracious enough to add:

“‘The circumstances of this case, however, are unique; and as you act

for another, we have thought it advisable to enlarge your permission

in the matter, so as to allow you to communicate freely with your

principal. As that gentleman is settling himself in a part of the

world which has been in the past, and may be again, united to this

nation by some common interest, His Majesty wishes Mr. Sent Leger to

feel assured of the good-will of Great Britain to the Land of the

Blue Mountains, and even of his own personal satisfaction that a

gentleman of so distinguished a lineage and such approved personal

character is about to be—within his own scope—a connecting-link

between the nations. To which end he has graciously announced that,

should the Privy Council acquiesce in the request of

Denaturalization, he will himself sign the Patent therefor.

“‘The Privy Council has therefore held private session, at which the

matter has been discussed in its many bearings; and it is content

that the change can do no harm, but may be of some service to the two

nations. We have, therefore, agreed to grant the prayer of the

Applicant; and the officials of the Council have the matter of the

form of Grant in hand. So you, sir, may rest satisfied that as soon

as the formalities—which will, of course, require the formal signing

of certain documents by the Applicant—can be complied with, the

Grant and Patent will obtain.’”

Having made this statement in formal style, my old friend went on in

more familiar way:

“And so, my dear Rupert, all is in hand; and before very long you

will have the freedom required under the Will, and will be at liberty

to take whatever steps may be necessary to be naturalized in your new

country.

“I may tell you, by the way, that several members of the Council made

very complimentary remarks regarding you. I am forbidden to give

names, but I may tell you facts. One old Field-Marshal, whose name

is familiar to the whole world, said that he had served in many

places with your father, who was a very valiant soldier, and that he

was glad that Great Britain was to have in the future the benefit of

your father’s son in a friendly land now beyond the outposts of our

Empire, but which had been one with her in the past, and might be

again.

“So much for the Privy Council. We can do no more at present until

you sign and have attested the documents which I have brought with

me.

“We can now formally complete the settlement of the Vissarion

estates, which must be done whilst you are a British citizen. So,

too, with the Will, the more formal and complete document, which is

to take the place of that short one which you forwarded to me the day

after your marriage. It may be, perhaps, necessary or advisable

that, later on, when you are naturalized here, you shall make a new

Will in strictest accordance with local law.”

TEUTA SENT LEGER’S DIARY.

August 19, 1907.

We had a journey to-day that was simply glorious. We had been

waiting to take it for more than a week. Rupert not only wanted the

weather suitable, but he had to wait till the new aeroplane came

home. It is more than twice as big as our biggest up to now. None

of the others could take all the party which Rupert wanted to go.

When he heard that the aero was coming from Whitby, where it was sent

from Leeds, he directed by cable that it should be unshipped at

Otranto, whence he took it here all by himself. I wanted to come

with him, but he thought it better not. He says that Brindisi is too

busy a place to keep anything quiet—if not secret—and he wants to

be very dark indeed about this, as it is worked by the new radium

engine. Ever since they found radium in our own hills he has been

obsessed by the idea of an aerial navy for our protection. And after

to-day’s experiences I think he is right. As he wanted to survey the

whole country at a glimpse, so that the general scheme of defence

might be put in hand, we had to have an aero big enough to take the

party as well as fast enough to do it rapidly, and all at once. We

had, in addition to Rupert, my father, and myself, Sir Colin and Lord

High Admiral Rooke (I do like to give that splendid old fellow his

full title!). The military and naval experts had with them

scientific apparatus of various kinds, also cameras and range-finders, so that they could mark their maps as they required.

Rupert, of course, drove, and I acted as his assistant. Father, who

has not yet become accustomed to aerial travel, took a seat in the

centre (which Rupert had thoughtfully prepared for him), where there

is very little motion. I must say I was amazed to see the way that

splendid old soldier Sir Colin bore himself. He had never been on an

aeroplane before, but, all the same, he was as calm as if he was on a

rock. Height or motion did not trouble him. Indeed, he seemed to

ENJOY himself all the time. The Admiral is himself almost an expert,

but in any case I am sure he would have been unconcerned, just as he

was in the Crab as Rupert has told me.

We left just after daylight, and ran down south. When we got to the

east of Ilsin, we kept slightly within the border-line, and went

north or east as it ran, making occasional loops inland over the

mountains and back again. When we got up to our farthest point

north, we began to go much slower. Sir Colin explained that for the

rest all would be comparatively plain-sailing in the way of defence;

but that as any foreign Power other than the Turk must attack from

seaward, he would like to examine the seaboard very carefully in

conjunction with the Admiral, whose advice as to sea defence would be

invaluable.

Rupert was fine. No one could help admiring him as he sat working

his lever and making the great machine obey every touch. He was

wrapped up in his work. I don’t believe that whilst he was working

he ever thought of even me. He IS splendid!

We got back just as the sun was dropping down over the Calabrian

Mountains. It is quite wonderful how the horizon changes when you

are sailing away up high on an aeroplane. Rupert is going to teach

me how to manage one all by myself, and when I am fit he will give me

one, which he is to have specially built for me.

I think I, too, have done some good work—at least, I have got some

good ideas—from our journey to-day. Mine are not of war, but of

peace, and I think I see a way by which we shall be able to develop

our country in a wonderful way. I shall talk the idea over with

Rupert to-night, when we are alone. In the meantime Sir Colin and

Admiral Rooke will think their plans over individually, and to-morrow

morning together. Then the next day they, too, are to go over their

idea with Rupert and my father, and something may be decided then.

RUPERT’S JOURNAL—Continued.

August 21, 1907.

Our meeting on the subject of National Defence, held this afternoon,

went off well. We were five in all, for with permission of the

Voivode and the two fighting-men, naval and military, I brought Teuta

with me. She sat beside me quite quietly, and never made a remark of

any kind till the Defence business had been gone through. Both Sir

Colin and Admiral Rooke were in perfect agreement as to the immediate

steps to be taken for defence. In the first instance, the seaboard

was to be properly fortified in the necessary places, and the navy

largely strengthened. When we had got thus far I asked Rooke to tell

of the navy increase already in hand. Whereupon he explained that,

as we had found the small battleship The Lady of an excellent type

for coast defence, acting only in home waters, and of a size to take

cover where necessary at many places on our own shores, we had

ordered nine others of the same pattern. Of these the first four

were already in hand, and were proceeding with the greatest

expedition. The General then supplemented this by saying that big

guns could be used from points judiciously chosen on the seaboard,

which was in all so short a length that no very great quantity of

armament would be required.

“We can have,” he said, “the biggest guns of the most perfect kind

yet accomplished, and use them from land batteries of the most up-to-date pattern. The one serious proposition we have to deal with is

the defence of the harbour—as yet quite undeveloped—which is known

as the ‘Blue Mouth.’ Since our aerial journey I have been to it by

sea with Admiral Rooke in The Lady, and then on land with the

Vladika, who was born on its shores, and who knows every inch of it.

“It is worth fortifying—and fortifying well, for as a port it is

peerless in Mediterranean seas. The navies of the world might ride

in it, land-locked, and even hidden from view seawards. The

mountains which enclose it are in themselves absolute protection. In

addition, these can only be assailed from our own territory. Of

course, Voivode, you understand when I say ‘our’ I mean the Land of

the Blue Mountains, for whose safety and well-being I am alone

concerned. Any ship anchoring in the roads of the Blue Mouth would

have only one need—sufficient length of cable for its magnificent

depth.

“When proper guns are properly placed on the steep cliffs to north

and south of the entrance, and when the rock islet between has been

armoured and armed as will be necessary, the Mouth will be

impregnable. But we should not depend on the aiming of the entrance

alone. At certain salient points—which I have marked upon this map-

-armour-plated sunken forts within earthworks should be established.

There should be covering forts on the hillsides, and, of course, the

final summits protected. Thus we could resist attack on any side or

all sides—from sea or land. That port will yet mean the wealth as

well as the strength of this nation, so it will be well to have it

properly protected. This should be done soon, and the utmost secrecy

observed in the doing of it, lest the so doing should become a matter

of international concern.”

Here Rooke smote the table hard.

“By God, that is true! It has been the dream of my own life for this

many a year.”

In the silence which followed the sweet, gentle voice of Teuta came

clear as a bell:

“May I say a word? I am emboldened to, as Sir Colin has spoken so

splendidly, and as the Lord High Admiral has not hesitated to mention

his dreaming. I, too, have had a dream—a day-dream—which came in a

flash, but no less a dream, for all that. It was when we hung on the

aeroplane over the Blue Mouth. It seemed to me in an instant that I

saw that beautiful spot as it will some time be—typical, as Sir

Colin said, of the wealth as well as the strength of this nation; a

mart for the world whence will come for barter some of the great

wealth of the Blue Mountains. That wealth is as yet undeveloped.

But the day is at hand when we may begin to use it, and through that

very port. Our mountains and their valleys are clad with trees of

splendid growth, virgin forests of priceless worth; hard woods of all

kinds, which have no superior throughout the world. In the rocks,

though hidden as yet, is vast mineral wealth of many kinds. I have

been looking through the reports of the geological exports of the

Commission of Investigation which my husband organized soon after he

came to live here, and, according to them, our whole mountain ranges

simply teem with vast quantities of minerals, almost more precious

for industry than gold and silver are for commerce—though, indeed,

gold is not altogether lacking as a mineral. When once our work on

the harbour is done, and the place has been made secure against any

attempt at foreign aggression, we must try to find a way to bring

this wealth of woods and ores down to the sea.

“And then, perhaps, may begin the great prosperity of our Land, of

which we have all dreamt.”

She stopped, all vibrating, almost choked with emotion. We were all

moved. For myself, I was thrilled to the core. Her enthusiasm was

all-sweeping, and under its influence I found my own imagination

expanding. Out of its experiences I spoke:

“And there is a way. I can see it. Whilst our dear Voivodin was

speaking, the way seemed to clear. I saw at the back of the Blue

Mouth, where it goes deepest into the heart of the cliffs, the

opening of a great tunnel, which ran upward over a steep slope till

it debouched on the first plateau beyond the range of the

encompassing cliffs.

Thither came by various rails of steep gradient, by timber-shoots and

cable-rails, by aerial cables and precipitating tubes, wealth from

over ground and under it; for as our Land is all mountains, and as

these tower up to the clouds, transport to the sea shall be easy and

of little cost when once the machinery is established. As everything

of much weight goes downward, the cars of the main tunnel of the port

shall return upward without cost. We can have from the mountains a

head of water under good control, which will allow of endless

hydraulic power, so that the whole port and the mechanism of the town

to which it will grow can be worked by it.

“This work can be put in hand at once. So soon as the place shall be

perfectly surveyed and the engineering plans got ready, we can start

on the main tunnel, working from the sea-level up, so that the cost

of the transport of material will be almost nil. This work can go on

whilst the forts are building; no time need be lost.

“Moreover, may I add a word on National Defence? We are, though old

in honour, a young nation as to our place amongst Great Powers. And

so we must show the courage and energy of a young nation. The Empire

of the Air is not yet won. Why should not we make a bid for it? As

our mountains are lofty, so shall we have initial power of attack or

defence. We can have, in chosen spots amongst the clouds, depots of

war aeroplanes, with which we can descend and smite our enemies

quickly on land or sea. We shall hope to live for Peace; but woe to

those who drive us to War!”

There is no doubt that the Vissarions are a warlike race. As I

spoke, Teuta took one of my hands and held it hard. The old Voivode,

his eyes blazing, rose and stood beside me and took the other. The

two old fighting-men of the land and the sea stood up and saluted.

This was the beginning of what ultimately became “The National

Committee of Defence and Development.”

I had other, and perhaps greater, plans for the future in my mind;

but the time had not come for their utterance.

To me it seems not only advisable, but necessary, that the utmost

discretion be observed by all our little group, at all events for the

present. There seems to be some new uneasiness in the Blue

Mountains. There are constant meetings of members of the Council,

but no formal meeting of the Council, as such, since the last one at

which I was present. There is constant coming and going amongst the

mountaineers, always in groups, small or large. Teuta and I, who

have been about very much on the aeroplane, have both noticed it.

But somehow we—that is, the Voivode and myself—are left out of

everything; but we have not said as yet a word on the subject to any

of the others. The Voivode notices, but he says nothing; so I am

silent, and Teuta does whatever I ask. Sir Colin does not notice

anything except the work he is engaged on—the planning the defences

of the Blue Mouth. His old scientific training as an engineer, and

his enormous experience of wars and sieges—for he was for nearly

fifty years sent as military representative to all the great wars—

seem to have become directed on that point. He is certainly planning

it all out in a wonderful way. He consults Rooke almost hourly on

the maritime side of the question. The Lord High Admiral has been a

watcher all his life, and very few important points have ever escaped

him, so that he can add greatly to the wisdom of the defensive

construction. He notices, I think, that something is going on

outside ourselves; but he keeps a resolute silence.

What the movement going on is I cannot guess. It is not like the

uneasiness that went before the abduction of Teuta and the Voivode,

but it is even more pronounced. That was an uneasiness founded on

some suspicion. This is a positive thing, and has definite meaning—

of some sort. We shall, I suppose, know all about it in good time.

In the meantime we go on with our work. Happily the whole Blue Mouth

and the mountains round it are on my own property, the portion

acquired long ago by Uncle Roger, exclusive of the Vissarion estate.

I asked the Voivode to allow me to transfer it to him, but he sternly

refused and forbade me, quite peremptorily, to ever open the subject

to him again. “You have done enough already,” he said. “Were I to

allow you to go further, I should feel mean. And I do not think you

would like your wife’s father to suffer that feeling after a long

life, which he has tried to live in honour.”

I bowed, and said no more. So there the matter rests, and I have to

take my own course. I have had a survey made, and on the head of it

the Tunnel to the harbour is begun.

BOOK VIII: THE FLASHING OF THE HANDJAR

PRIVATE MEMORANDUM OF THE MEETING OF VARIOUS MEMBERS OF THE NATIONAL

COUNCIL, HELD AT THE STATE HOUSE OF THE BLUE MOUNTAINS AT PLAZAC ON

MONDAY, AUGUST 26, 1907.

(Written by Cristoferos, Scribe of the Council, by instruction of

those present.)

When the private meeting of various Members of the National Council

had assembled in the Council Hall of the State House at Plazac, it

was as a preliminary decided unanimously that now or hereafter no

names of those present were to be mentioned, and that officials

appointed for the purposes of this meeting should be designated by

office only, the names of all being withheld.

The proceedings assumed the shape of a general conversation, quite

informal, and therefore not to be recorded. The nett outcome was the

unanimous expression of an opinion that the time, long contemplated

by very many persons throughout the nation, had now come when the

Constitution and machinery of the State should be changed; that the

present form of ruling by an Irregular Council was not sufficient,

and that a method more in accord with the spirit of the times should

be adopted. To this end Constitutional Monarchy, such as that

holding in Great Britain, seemed best adapted. Finally, it was

decided that each Member of the Council should make a personal

canvass of his district, talk over the matter with his electors, and

bring back to another meeting—or, rather, as it was amended, to this

meeting postponed for a week, until September 2nd—the opinions and

wishes received. Before separating, the individual to be appointed

King, in case the new idea should prove grateful to the nation, was

discussed. The consensus of opinion was entirely to the effect that

the Voivode Peter Vissarion should, if he would accept the high

office, be appointed. It was urged that, as his daughter, the

Voivodin Teuta, was now married to the Englishman, Rupert Sent Leger-

-called generally by the mountaineers “the Gospodar Rupert”—a

successor to follow the Voivode when God should call him would be at

hand—a successor worthy in every way to succeed to so illustrious a

post. It was urged by several speakers, with general acquiescence,

that already Mr. Sent Leger’s services to the State were such that he

would be in himself a worthy person to begin the new Dynasty; but

that, as he was now allied to the Voivode Peter Vissarion, it was

becoming that the elder, born of the nation, should receive the first

honour.

THE SAME—Continued.

The adjourned meeting of certain members of the National Council was

resumed in the Hall of the State House at Plazac on Monday, September

2nd, 1907. By motion the same chairman was appointed, and the rule

regarding the record renewed.

Reports were made by the various members of the Council in turn,

according to the State Roll. Every district was represented. The

reports were unanimously in favour of the New Constitution, and it

was reported by each and all of the Councillors that the utmost

enthusiasm marked in every case the suggestion of the Voivode Peter

Vissarion as the first King to be crowned under the new Constitution,

and that remainder should be settled on the Gospodar Rupert (the

mountaineers would only receive his lawful name as an alternative;

one and all said that he would be “Rupert” to them and to the nation-

-for ever).

The above matter having been satisfactorily settled, it was decided

that a formal meeting of the National Council should be held at the

State House, Plazac, in one week from to-day, and that the Voivode

Peter Vissarion should be asked to be in the State House in readiness

to attend. It was also decided that instruction should be given to

the High Court of National Law to prepare and have ready, in skeleton

form, a rescript of the New Constitution to be adopted, the same to

be founded on the Constitution and Procedure of Great Britain, so far

as the same may be applicable to the traditional ideas of free

Government in the Land of the Blue Mountains.

By unanimous vote this private and irregular meeting of “Various

National Councillors” was then dissolved.

RECORD OF THE FIRST MEETING OF THE NATIONAL COUNCIL OF THE LAND OF

THE BLUE MOUNTAINS, HELD AT PLAZAC ON MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 9TH, 1907, TO

CONSIDER THE ADOPTION OF A NEW CONSTITUTION, AND TO GIVE PERMANENT

EFFECT TO THE SAME IF, AND WHEN, DECIDED UPON.

(Kept by the Monk Cristoferos, Scribe to the National Council.)

The adjourned meeting duly took place as arranged. There was a full

attendance of Members of the Council, together with the Vladika, the

Archbishop, the Archimandrites of Spazac, of Ispazar, of Domitan, and

Astrag; the Chancellor; the Lord of the Exchequer; the President of

the High Court of National Law; the President of the Council of

Justice; and such other high officials as it is customary to summon

to meetings of the National Council on occasions of great importance.

The names of all present will be found in the full report, wherein

are given the ipsissima verba of the various utterances made during

the consideration of the questions discussed, the same having been

taken down in shorthand by the humble scribe of this precis, which

has been made for the convenience of Members of the Council and

others.

The Voivode Peter Vissarion, obedient to the request of the Council,

was in attendance at the State House, waiting in the “Chamber of the

High Officers” until such time as he should be asked to come before

the Council.

The President put before the National Council the matter of the new

Constitution, outlining the headings of it as drawn up by the High

Court of National Law, and the Constitution having been formally

accepted nem. con. by the National Council on behalf of the people,

he proposed that the Crown should be offered to the Voivode Peter

Vissarion, with remainder to the “Gospodar Rupert” (legally, Rupert

Sent Leger), husband of his only child, the Voivodin Teuta. This

also was received with enthusiasm, and passed nem. con.

Thereupon the President of Council, the Archbishop, and the Vladika,

acting together as a deputation, went to pray the attention of the

Voivode Peter Vassarion.

When the Voivode entered, the whole Council and officials stood up,

and for a few seconds waited in respectful silence with heads bowed

down. Then, as if by a common impulse—for no word was spoken nor

any signal given—they all drew their handjars, and stood to

attention—with points raised and edges of the handjars to the front.

The Voivode stood very still. He seemed much moved, but controlled

himself admirably. The only time when be seemed to lose his self-control was when, once again with a strange simultaneity, all present

raised their handjars on high, and shouted: “Hail, Peter, King!”

Then lowering their points till these almost touched the ground, they

once again stood with bowed heads.

When he had quite mastered himself, the Voivode Peter Vissarion

spoke:

“How can I, my brothers, sufficiently thank you, and, through you,

the people of the Blue Mountains, for the honour done to me this day?

In very truth it is not possible, and therefore I pray you to

consider it as done, measuring my gratitude in the greatness of your

own hearts. Such honour as you offer to me is not contemplated by

any man in whose mind a wholesome sanity rules, nor is it even the

dream of fervent imagination. So great is it, that I pray you, men

with hearts and minds like my own, to extend to me, as a further

measure of your generosity, a little time to think it over. I shall

not want long, for even already, with the blaze of honour fresh upon

me, I see the cool shadow of Duty, though his substance is yet hardly

visible. Give me but an hour of solitude—an hour at most—if it do

not prolong this your session unduly. It may be that a lesser time

will serve, but in any case I promise you that, when I can see a just

and fitting issue to my thought, I shall at once return.”

The President of the Council looked around him, and, seeing

everywhere the bowing heads of acquiescence, spoke with a reverent

gravity:

“We shall wait in patience whatsoever time you will, and may the God

who rules all worthy hearts guide you to His Will!”

And so in silence the Voivode passed out of the hall.

From my seat near a window I could watch him go, as with measured

steps he passed up the hill which rises behind the State House, and

disappeared into the shadow of the forest. Then my work claimed me,

for I wished to record the proceedings so far whilst all was fresh in

my mind. In silence, as of the dead, the Council waited, no man

challenging opinion of his neighbour even by a glance.

Almost a full hour had elapsed when the Voivode came again to the

Council, moving with slow and stately gravity, as has always been his

wont since age began to hamper the movement which in youth had been

so notable. The Members of the Council all stood up uncovered, and

so remained while he made announcement of his conclusion. He spoke

slowly; and as his answer was to be a valued record of this Land and

its Race, I wrote down every word as uttered, leaving here and there

space for description or comment, which spaces I have since then

filled in.

“Lords of the National Council, Archbishop, Vladika, Lords of the

Council of Justice and of National Law, Archimandrites, and my

brothers all, I have, since I left you, held in the solitude of the

forest counsel with myself—and with God; and He, in His gracious

wisdom, has led my thinking to that conclusion which was from the

first moment of knowledge of your intent presaged in my heart.

Brothers, you know—or else a long life has been spent in vain—that

my heart and mind are all for the nation—my experience, my life, my

handjar. And when all is for her, why should I shrink to exercise on

her behalf my riper judgment though the same should have to combat my

own ambition? For ten centuries my race has not failed in its duty.

Ages ago the men of that time trusted in the hands of my ancestors

the Kingship, even as now you, their children, trust me. But to me

it would be base to betray that trust, even by the smallest tittle.

That would I do were I to take the honour of the crown which you have

tendered to me, so long as there is another more worthy to wear it.

Were there none other, I should place myself in your hands, and yield

myself over to blind obedience of your desires. But such an one

there is; dear to you already by his own deeds, now doubly dear to

me, since he is my son by my daughter’s love. He is young, whereas I

am old. He is strong and brave and true; but my days of the

usefulness of strength and bravery are over. For myself, I have long

contemplated as the crown of my later years a quiet life in one of

our monasteries, where I can still watch the whirl of the world

around us on your behalf, and be a counsellor of younger men of more

active minds. Brothers, we are entering on stirring times. I can

see the signs of their coming all around us. North and South—the

Old Order and the New, are about to clash, and we lie between the

opposing forces. True it is that the Turk, after warring for a

thousand years, is fading into insignificance. But from the North

where conquests spring, have crept towards our Balkans the men of a

mightier composite Power. Their march has been steady; and as they

came, they fortified every step of the way. Now they are hard upon

us, and are already beginning to swallow up the regions that we have

helped to win from the dominion of Mahound. The Austrian is at our

very gates. Beaten back by the Irredentists of Italy, she has so

enmeshed herself with the Great Powers of Europe that she seems for

the moment to be impregnable to a foe of our stature. There is but

one hope for us—the uniting of the Balkan forces to turn a masterly

front to North and West as well as to South and East. Is that a task

for old hands to undertake? No; the hands must be young and supple;

and the brain subtle, as well as the heart be strong, of whomsoever

would dare such an accomplishment. Should I accept the crown, it

would only postpone the doing of that which must ultimately be done.

What avail would it be if, when the darkness closes over me, my

daughter should be Queen Consort to the first King of a new dynasty?

You know this man, and from your record I learn that you are already

willing to have him as King to follow me. Why not begin with him?

He comes of a great nation, wherein the principle of freedom is a

vital principle that quickens all things. That nation has more than

once shown to us its friendliness; and doubtless the very fact that

an Englishman would become our King, and could carry into our

Government the spirit and customs which have made his own country

great, would do much to restore the old friendship, and even to

create a new one, which would in times of trouble bring British

fleets to our waters, and British bayonets to support our own

handjars. It is within my own knowledge, though as yet unannounced

to you, that Rupert Sent Leger has already obtained a patent, signed

by the King of England himself, allowing him to be denaturalized in

England, so that he can at once apply for naturalization here. I

know also that he has brought hither a vast fortune, by aid of which

he is beginning to strengthen our hands for war, in case that sad

eventuality should arise. Witness his late ordering to be built nine

other warships of the class that has already done such effective

service in overthrowing the Turk—or the pirate, whichever he may

have been. He has undertaken the defence of the Blue Mouth at his

own cost in a way which will make it stronger than Gibraltar, and

secure us against whatever use to which the Austrian may apply the

vast forces already gathered in the Bocche di Cattaro. He is already

founding aerial stations on our highest peaks for use of the war

aeroplanes which are being built for him. It is such a man as this

who makes a nation great; and right sure I am that in his hands this

splendid land and our noble, freedom-loving people will flourish and

become a power in the world. Then, brothers, let me, as one to whom

this nation and its history and its future are dear, ask you to give

to the husband of my daughter the honour which you would confer on

me. For her I can speak as well as for myself. She shall suffer

nothing in dignity either. Were I indeed King, she, as my daughter,

would be a Princess of the world. As it will be, she shall be

companion and Queen of a great King, and her race, which is mine,

shall flourish in all the lustre of the new Dynasty.

“Therefore on all accounts, my brothers, for the sake of our dear

Land of the Blue Mountains, make the Gospodar Rupert, who has so

proved himself, your King. And make me happy in my retirement to the

cloister.”

When the Voivode ceased to speak, all still remained silent and

standing. But there was no mistaking their acquiescence in his most

generous prayer. The President of the Council well interpreted the

general wish when he said:

“Lords of the National Council, Archbishop, Vladika, Lords of the

Councils of Justice and National Law, Archimandrites, and all who are

present, is it agreed that we prepare at leisure a fitting reply to

the Voivode Peter of the historic House of Vissarion, stating our

agreement with his wish?”

To which there was a unanimous answer:

“It is.” He went on:

“Further. Shall we ask the Gospodar Rupert of the House of Sent

Leger, allied through his marriage to the Voivodin Teuta, daughter

and only child of the Voivode Peter of Vissarion, to come hither to-morrow? And that, when he is amongst us, we confer on him the Crown

and Kingship of the Land of the Blue Mountains?”

Again came the answer: “It is.”

But this time it rang out like the sound of a gigantic trumpet, and

the handjars flashed.

Whereupon the session was adjourned for the space of a day.

THE SAME—Continued.

September 10, 1907.

When the National Council met to-day the Voivode Peter Vissarion sat

with them, but well back, so that at first his presence was hardly

noticeable. After the necessary preliminaries had been gone through,

they requested the presence of the Gospodar Rupert—Mr. Rupert Sent

Leger—who was reported as waiting in the “Chamber of the High

Officers.” He at once accompanied back to the Hall the deputation

sent to conduct him. As he made his appearance in the doorway the

Councillors stood up. There was a burst of enthusiasm, and the

handjars flashed. For an instant he stood silent, with lifted hand,

as though indicating that he wished to speak. So soon as this was

recognized, silence fell on the assembly, and he spoke:

“I pray you, may the Voivodin Teuta of Vissarion, who has accompanied

me hither, appear with me to hear your wishes?” There was an

immediate and enthusiastic acquiescence, and, after bowing his

thanks, he retired to conduct her.

Her appearance was received with an ovation similar to that given to

Gospodar Rupert, to which she bowed with dignified sweetness. She,

with her husband, was conducted to the top of the Hall by the

President, who came down to escort them. In the meantime another

chair had been placed beside that prepared for the Gospodar, and

these two sat.

The President then made the formal statement conveying to the

“Gospodar Rupert” the wishes of the Council, on behalf of the nation,

to offer to him the Crown and Kingship of the Land of the Blue

Mountains. The message was couched in almost the same words as had

been used the previous day in making the offer to the Voivode Peter

Vissarion, only differing to meet the special circumstances. The

Gospodar Rupert listened in grave silence. The whole thing was

manifestly quite new to him, but he preserved a self-control

wonderful under the circumstances. When, having been made aware of

the previous offer to the Voivode and the declared wish of the

latter, he rose to speak, there was stillness in the Hall. He

commenced with a few broken words of thanks; then he grew suddenly

and strangely calm as he went on:

“But before I can even attempt to make a fitting reply, I should know

if it is contemplated to join with me in this great honour my dear

wife the Voivodin Teuta of Vissarion, who has so splendidly proved

her worthiness to hold any place in the government of the Land. I

fain would … “

He was interrupted by the Voivodin, who, standing up beside him and

holding his left arm, said:

“Do not, President, and Lords all, think me wanting in that respect

of a wife for husband which in the Blue Mountains we hold so dear, if

I venture to interrupt my lord. I am here, not merely as a wife, but

as Voivodin of Vissarion, and by the memory of all the noble women of

that noble line I feel constrained to a great duty. We women of

Vissarion, in all the history of centuries, have never put ourselves

forward in rivalry of our lords. Well I know that my own dear lord

will forgive me as wife if I err; but I speak to you, the Council of

the nation, from another ground and with another tongue. My lord

does not, I fear, know as you do, and as I do too, that of old, in

the history of this Land, when Kingship was existent, that it was

ruled by that law of masculine supremacy which, centuries after,

became known as the Lex Salica. Lords of the Council of the Blue

Mountains, I am a wife of the Blue Mountains—as a wife young as yet,

but with the blood of forty generations of loyal women in my veins.

And it would ill become me, whom my husband honours—wife to the man

whom you would honour—to take a part in changing the ancient custom

which has been held in honour for all the thousand years, which is

the glory of Blue Mountain womanhood. What an example such would be

in an age when self-seeking women of other nations seek to forget

their womanhood in the struggle to vie in equality with men! Men of

the Blue Mountains, I speak for our women when I say that we hold of

greatest price the glory of our men. To be their companions is our

happiness; to be their wives is the completion of our lives; to be

mothers of their children is our share of the glory that is theirs.

“Therefore, I pray you, men of the Blue Mountains, let me but be as

any other wife in our land, equal to them in domestic happiness,

which is our woman’s sphere; and if that priceless honour may be

vouchsafed to me, and I be worthy and able to bear it, an exemplar of

woman’s rectitude.” With a low, modest, graceful bow, she sat down.

There was no doubt as to the reception of her renunciation of Queenly

dignity. There was more honour to her in the quick, fierce shout

which arose, and the unanimous upward swing of the handjars, than in

the wearing of any crown which could adorn the head of woman.

The spontaneous action of the Gospodar Rupert was another source of

joy to all—a fitting corollary to what had gone before. He rose to

his feet, and, taking his wife in his arms, kissed her before all.

Then they sat down, with their chairs close, bashfully holding hands

like a pair of lovers.

Then Rupert arose—he is Rupert now; no lesser name is on the lips of

his people henceforth. With an intense earnestness which seemed to

glow in his face, he said simply:

“What can I say except that I am in all ways, now and for ever,

obedient to your wishes?” Then, raising his handjar and holding it

before him, he kissed the hilt, saying:

“Hereby I swear to be honest and just—to be, God helping me, such a

King as you would wish—in so far as the strength is given me.

Amen.”

This ended the business of the Session, and the Council showed

unmeasured delight. Again and again the handjars flashed, as the

cheers rose “three times three” in British fashion.

When Rupert—I am told I must not write him down as “King Rupert”

until after the formal crowning, which is ordained for Wednesday,

October 16th,—and Teuta had withdrawn, the Voivode Peter Vissarion,

the President and Council conferred in committee with the Presidents

of the High Courts of National Law and of Justice as to the

formalities to be observed in the crowning of the King, and of the

formal notification to he given to foreign Powers. These proceedings

kept them far into the night.

FROM “The London Messenger.”

CORONATION FESTIVITIES OF THE BLUE MOUNTAINS.

(From our Special Correspondent.)

PLAZAC,

October 14, 1907.

As I sat down to a poorly-equipped luncheon-table on board the

Austro-Orient liner Franz Joseph, I mourned in my heart (and I may

say incidentally in other portions of my internal economy) the

comfort and gastronomic luxury of the King and Emperor Hotel at

Trieste. A brief comparison between the menus of to-day’s lunch and

yesterday’s will afford to the reader a striking object-lesson:

Trieste. Steamer.

Eggs a la cocotte. Scrambled eggs on toast.

Stewed chicken, with paprika. Cold chicken.

Devilled slices of Westphalian ham Cold ham.

(boiled in wine). Bismarck herrings.

Tunny fish, pickled. Stewed apples.

Rice, burst in cream. Swiss cheese.

Guava jelly.

Consequence: Yesterday I was well and happy, and looked forward to a

good night’s sleep, which came off. To-day I am dull and heavy, also

restless, and I am convinced that at sleeping-time my liver will have

it all its own way.

The journey to Ragusa, and thence to Plazac, is writ large with a

pigment of misery on at least one human heart. Let a silence fall

upon it! In such wise only can Justice and Mercy join hands.

Plazac is a miserable place. There is not a decent hotel in it. It

was perhaps on this account that the new King, Rupert, had erected

for the alleged convenience of his guests of the Press a series of

large temporary hotels, such as were in evidence at the St. Louis

Exposition. Here each guest was given a room to himself, somewhat

after the nature of the cribs in a Rowton house. From my first night

in it I am able to speak from experience of the sufferings of a

prisoner of the third class. I am, however, bound to say that the

dining and reception rooms were, though uncomfortably plain, adequate

for temporary use. Happily we shall not have to endure many more

meals here, as to-morrow we all dine with the King in the State

House; and as the cuisine is under the control of that cordon bleu,

Gaston de Faux Pas, who so long controlled the gastronomic (we might

almost say Gastonomic) destinies of the Rois des Diamants in the

Place Vendome, we may, I think, look forward to not going to bed

hungry. Indeed, the anticipations formed from a survey of our meagre

sleeping accommodation were not realized at dinnertime to-night. To

our intense astonishment, an excellent dinner was served, though, to

be sure, the cold dishes predominated (a thing I always find bad for

one’s liver). Just as we were finishing, the King (nominated) came

amongst us in quite an informal way, and, having bidden us a hearty

welcome, asked that we should drink a glass of wine together. This

we did in an excellent (if rather sweet) glass of Cliquot ‘93. King

Rupert (nominated) then asked us to resume our seats. He walked

between the tables, now and again recognizing some journalistic

friend whom he had met early in life in his days of adventure. The

men spoken to seemed vastly pleased—with themselves probably.

Pretty bad form of them, I call it! For myself, I was glad I had not

previously met him in the same casual way, as it saved me from what I

should have felt a humiliation—the being patronized in that public

way by a prospective King who had not (in a Court sense) been born.

The writer, who is by profession a barrister-at-law, is satisfied at

being himself a county gentleman and heir to an historic estate in

the ancient county of Salop, which can boast a larger population than

the Land of the Blue Mountains.

EDITORIAL NOTE.—We must ask our readers to pardon the report in

yesterday’s paper sent from Plazac. The writer was not on our

regular staff, but asked to be allowed to write the report, as he was

a kinsman of King Rupert of the Blue Mountains, and would therefore

be in a position to obtain special information and facilities of

description “from inside,” as he puts it. On reading the paper, we

cabled his recall; we cabled also, in case he did not obey, to have

his ejectment effected forthwith.

We have also cabled Mr. Mordred Booth, the well-known correspondent,

who was, to our knowledge, in Plazac for his own purposes, to send us

full (and proper) details. We take it our readers will prefer a

graphic account of the ceremony to a farrago of cheap menus, comments

on his own liver, and a belittling of an Englishman of such noble

character and achievements that a rising nation has chosen him for

their King, and one whom our own nation loves to honour. We shall

not, of course, mention our abortive correspondent’s name, unless

compelled thereto by any future utterance of his.

FROM “The London Messenger.”

THE CORONATION OF KING RUPERT OF THE BLUE MOUNTAINS.

(By our Special Correspondent, Mordred Booth.)

PLAZAC,

October 17, 1907.

Plazac does not boast of a cathedral or any church of sufficient

dimensions for a coronation ceremony on an adequate scale. It was

therefore decided by the National Council, with the consent of the

King, that it should be held at the old church of St. Sava at

Vissarion—the former home of the Queen. Accordingly, arrangements

had been made to bring thither on the warships on the morning of the

coronation the whole of the nation’s guests. In St. Sava’s the

religious ceremony would take place, after which there would be a

banquet in the Castle of Vissarion. The guests would then return on

the warships to Plazac, where would be held what is called here the

“National Coronation.”

In the Land of the Blue Mountains it was customary in the old days,

when there were Kings, to have two ceremonies—one carried out by the

official head of the national Church, the Greek Church; the other by

the people in a ritual adopted by themselves, on much the same basis

as the Germanic Folk-Moot. The Blue Mountains is a nation of

strangely loyal tendencies. What was a thousand years ago is to be

to-day—so far, of course, as is possible under the altered condition

of things.

The church of St. Sava is very old and very beautiful, built in the

manner of old Greek churches, full of monuments of bygone worthies of

the Blue Mountains. But, of course, neither it nor the ceremony held

in it to-day can compare in splendour with certain other ceremonials-

-for instance, the coronation of the penultimate Czar in Moscow, of

Alfonso XII. in Madrid, of Carlos I. in Lisbon.

The church was arranged much after the fashion of Westminster Abbey

for the coronation of King Edward VII., though, of course, not so

many persons present, nor so much individual splendour. Indeed, the

number of those present, outside those officially concerned and the

Press of the world, was very few.

The most striking figure present—next to King Rupert, who is seven

feet high and a magnificent man—was the Queen Consort, Teuta. She

sat in front of a small gallery erected for the purpose just opposite

the throne. She is a strikingly beautiful woman, tall and finely-formed, with jet-black hair and eyes like black diamonds, but with

the unique quality that there are stars in them which seem to take

varied colour according to each strong emotion. But it was not even

her beauty or the stars in her eyes which drew the first glance of

all. These details showed on scrutiny, but from afar off the

attractive point was her dress. Surely never before did woman, be

she Queen or peasant, wear such a costume on a festive occasion.

She was dressed in a white Shroud, and in that only. I had heard

something of the story which goes behind that strange costume, and

shall later on send it to you. {2}

When the procession entered the church through the great western

door, the national song of the Blue Mountains, “Guide our feet

through darkness, O Jehovah,” was sung by an unseen choir, in which

the organ, supplemented by martial instruments, joined. The

Archbishop was robed in readiness before the altar, and close around

him stood the Archimandrites of the four great monasteries. The

Vladika stood in front of the Members of the National Council. A

little to one side of this body was a group of high officials,

Presidents of the Councils of National Law and Justice, the

Chancellor, etc.—all in splendid robes of great antiquity—the High

Marshall of the Forces and the Lord high Admiral.

When all was ready for the ceremonial act of coronation, the

Archbishop raised his hand, whereupon the music ceased. Turning

around, so that he faced the Queen, who thereon stood up, the King

drew his handjar and saluted her in Blue Mountain fashion—the point

raised as high possible, and then dropped down till it almost touches

the ground. Every man in the church, ecclesiastics and all, wear the

handjar, and, following the King by the interval of a second, their

weapons flashed out. There was something symbolic, as well as

touching, in this truly royal salute, led by the King. His handjar

is a mighty blade, and held high in the hands of a man of his

stature, it overtowered everything in the church. It was an

inspiriting sight. No one who saw will ever forget that noble

flashing of blades in the thousand-year-old salute …

The coronation was short, simple, and impressive. Rupert knelt

whilst the Archbishop, after a short, fervent prayer, placed on his

head the bronze crown of the first King of the Blue Mountains, Peter.

This was handed to him by the Vladika, to whom it was brought from

the National Treasury by a procession of the high officers. A

blessing of the new King and his Queen Teuta concluded the ceremony.

Rupert’s first act on rising from his knees was to draw his handjar

and salute his people.

After the ceremony in St. Sava, the procession was reformed, and took

its way to the Castle of Vissarion, which is some distance off across

a picturesque creek, bounded on either side by noble cliffs of vast

height. The King led the way, the Queen walking with him and holding

his hand … The Castle of Vissarion is of great antiquity, and

picturesque beyond belief. I am sending later on, as a special

article, a description of it …

The “Coronation Feast,” as it was called on the menu, was held in the

Great Hall, which is of noble proportions. I enclose copy of the

menu, as our readers may wish to know something of the details of

such a feast in this part of the world.

One feature of the banquet was specially noticeable. As the National

Officials were guests of the King and Queen, they were waited on and

served by the King and Queen in person. The rest of the guests,

including us of the Press, were served by the King’s household, not

the servants—none of that cult were visible—but by the ladies and

gentlemen of the Court.

There was only one toast, and that was given by the King, all

standing: “The Land of the Blue Mountains, and may we all do our

duty to the Land we love!” Before drinking, his mighty handjar

flashed out again, and in an instant every table at which the Blue

Mountaineers sat was ringed with flashing steel. I may add

parenthetically that the handjar is essentially the national weapon.

I do not know if the Blue Mountaineers take it to bed with them, but

they certainly wear it everywhere else. Its drawing seems to

emphasize everything in national life …

We embarked again on the warships—one a huge, steel-plated

Dreadnought, up to date in every particular, the other an armoured

yacht most complete in every way, and of unique speed. The King and

Queen, the Lords of the Council, together with the various high

ecclesiastics and great officials, went on the yacht, which the Lord

High Admiral, a man of remarkably masterful physiognomy, himself

steered. The rest of those present at the Coronation came on the

warship. The latter went fast, but the yacht showed her heels all

the way. However, the King’s party waited in the dock in the Blue

Mouth. From this a new cable-line took us all to the State House at

Plazac. Here the procession was reformed, and wound its way to a

bare hill in the immediate vicinity. The King and Queen—the King

still wearing the ancient bronze crown with which the Archbishop had

invested him at St. Sava’s—the Archbishop, the Vladika, and the four

Archimandrites stood together at the top of the hill, the King and

Queen being, of course, in the front. A courteous young gentleman,

to whom I had been accredited at the beginning of the day—all guests

were so attended—explained to me that, as this was the national as

opposed to the religious ceremony, the Vladika, who is the official

representative of the laity, took command here. The ecclesiastics

were put prominently forward, simply out of courtesy, in obedience to

the wish of the people, by whom they were all greatly beloved.

Then commenced another unique ceremony, which, indeed, might well

find a place in our Western countries. As far as ever we could see

were masses of men roughly grouped, not in any uniform, but all in

national costume, and armed only with the handjar. In the front of

each of these groups or bodies stood the National Councillor for that

district, distinguishable by his official robe and chain. There were

in all seventeen of these bodies. These were unequal in numbers,

some of them predominating enormously over others, as, indeed, might

be expected in so mountainous a country. In all there were present,

I was told, over a hundred thousand men. So far as I can judge from

long experience of looking at great bodies of men, the estimate was a

just one. I was a little surprised to see so many, for the

population of the Blue Mountains is never accredited in books of

geography as a large one. When I made inquiry as to how the frontier

guard was being for the time maintained, I was told:

“By the women mainly. But, all the same, we have also a male guard

which covers the whole frontier except that to seaward. Each man has

with him six women, so that the whole line is unbroken. Moreover,

sir, you must bear in mind that in the Blue Mountains our women are

trained to arms as well as our men—ay, and they could give a good

account of themselves, too, against any foe that should assail us.

Our history shows what women can do in defence. I tell you, the

Turkish population would be bigger to-day but for the women who on

our frontier fought of old for defence of their homes!”

“No wonder this nation has kept her freedom for a thousand years!” I

said.

At a signal given by the President of the National Council one of the

Divisions moved forwards. It was not an ordinary movement, but an

intense rush made with all the elan and vigour of hardy and highly-trained men. They came on, not merely at the double, but as if

delivering an attack. Handjar in hand, they rushed forward. I can

only compare their rush to an artillery charge or to an attack of

massed cavalry battalions. It was my fortune to see the former at

Magenta and the latter at Sadowa, so that I know what such

illustration means. I may also say that I saw the relief column

which Roberts organized rush through a town on its way to relieve

Mafeking; and no one who had the delight of seeing that inspiring

progress of a flying army on their way to relieve their comrades

needs to be told what a rush of armed men can be. With speed which

was simply desperate they ran up the hill, and, circling to the left,

made a ring round the topmost plateau, where stood the King. When

the ring was complete, the stream went on lapping round and round

till the whole tally was exhausted. In the meantime another Division

had followed, its leader joining close behind the end of the first.

Then came another and another. An unbroken line circled and circled

round the hill in seeming endless array, till the whole slopes were

massed with moving men, dark in colour, and with countless glittering

points everywhere. When the whole of the Divisions had thus

surrounded the King, there was a moment’s hush—a silence so still

that it almost seemed as if Nature stood still also. We who looked

on were almost afraid to breathe.

Then suddenly, without, so far as I could see, any fugleman or word

of command, the handjars of all that mighty array of men flashed

upward as one, and like thunder pealed the National cry:

“The Blue Mountains and Duty!”

After the cry there was a strange subsidence which made the onlooker

rub his eyes. It seemed as though the whole mass of fighting men had

partially sunk into the ground. Then the splendid truth burst upon

us—the whole nation was kneeling at the feet of their chosen King,

who stood upright.

Another moment of silence, as King Rupert, taking off his crown, held

it up in his left hand, and, holding his great handjar high in his

right, cried in a voice so strong that it came ringing over that

serried mass like a trumpet:

“To Freedom of our Nation, and to Freedom within it, I dedicate these

and myself. I swear!”

So saying, he, too, sank on his knees, whilst we all instinctively

uncovered.

The silence which followed lasted several seconds; then, without a

sign, as though one and all acted instinctively, the whole body stood

up. Thereupon was executed a movement which, with all my experience

of soldiers and war, I never saw equalled—not with the Russian Royal

Guard saluting the Czar at his Coronation, not with an impi of

Cetewayo’s Zulus whirling through the opening of a kraal.

For a second or two the whole mass seemed to writhe or shudder, and

then, lo! the whole District Divisions were massed again in

completeness, its Councillors next the King, and the Divisions

radiating outwards down the hill like wedges.

This completed the ceremony, and everything broke up into units.

Later, I was told by my official friend that the King’s last

movement—the oath as he sank to his knees—was an innovation of his

own. All I can say is, if, in the future, and for all time, it is

not taken for a precedent, and made an important part of the

Patriotic Coronation ceremony, the Blue Mountaineers will prove

themselves to be a much more stupid people than they seem at present

to be.

The conclusion of the Coronation festivities was a time of unalloyed

joy. It was the banquet given to the King and Queen by the nation;

the guests of the nation were included in the royal party. It was a

unique ceremony. Fancy a picnic-party of a hundred thousand persons,

nearly all men. There must have been made beforehand vast and

elaborate preparations, ramifying through the whole nation. Each

section had brought provisions sufficient for their own consumption

in addition to several special dishes for the guest-tables; but the

contribution of each section was not consumed by its own members.

It was evidently a part of the scheme that all should derive from a

common stock, so that the feeling of brotherhood and common property

should be preserved in this monumental fashion.

The guest-tables were the only tables to be seen. The bulk of the

feasters sat on the ground. The tables were brought forward by the

men themselves—no such thing as domestic service was known on this

day—from a wood close at hand, where they and the chairs had been

placed in readiness. The linen and crockery used had been sent for

the purpose from the households of every town and village. The

flowers were plucked in the mountains early that morning by the

children, and the gold and silver plate used for adornment were

supplied from the churches. Each dish at the guest-tables was served

by the men of each section in turn.

Over the whole array seemed to be spread an atmosphere of joyousness,

of peace, of brotherhood. It would be impossible to adequately

describe that amazing scene, a whole nation of splendid men

surrounding their new King and Queen, loving to honour and serve

them. Scattered about through that vast crowd were groups of

musicians, chosen from amongst themselves. The space covered by this

titanic picnic was so vast that there were few spots from which you

could hear music proceeding from different quarters.

After dinner we all sat and smoked; the music became rather vocal

than instrumental—indeed, presently we did not hear the sound of any

instrument at all. Only knowing a few words of Balkan, I could not

follow the meanings of the songs, but I gathered that they were all

legendary or historical. To those who could understand, as I was

informed by my tutelary young friend, who stayed beside me the whole

of this memorable day, we were listening to the history of the Land

of the Blue Mountains in ballad form. Somewhere or other throughout

that vast concourse each notable record of ten centuries was being

told to eager ears.

It was now late in the day. Slowly the sun had been dropping down

over the Calabrian Mountains, and the glamorous twilight was stealing

over the immediate scene. No one seemed to notice the coming of the

dark, which stole down on us with an unspeakable mystery. For long

we sat still, the clatter of many tongues becoming stilled into the

witchery of the scene. Lower the sun sank, till only the ruddiness

of the afterglow lit the expanse with rosy light; then this failed in

turn, and the night shut down quickly.

At last, when we could just discern the faces close to us, a

simultaneous movement began. Lights began to flash out in places all

over the hillside. At first these seemed as tiny as glow-worms seen

in a summer wood, but by degrees they grew till the space was set

with little circles of light. These in turn grew and grew in both

number and strength. Flames began to leap out from piles of wood,

torches were lighted and held high. Then the music began again,

softly at first, but then louder as the musicians began to gather to

the centre, where sat the King and Queen. The music was wild and

semi-barbaric, but full of sweet melody. It somehow seemed to bring

before us a distant past; one and all, according to the strength of

our imagination and the volume of our knowledge, saw episodes and

phases of bygone history come before us. There was a wonderful

rhythmic, almost choric, force in the time kept, which made it almost

impossible to sit still. It was an invitation to the dance such as I

had never before heard in any nation or at any time. Then the lights

began to gather round. Once more the mountaineers took something of

the same formation as at the crowning. Where the royal party sat was

a level mead, with crisp, short grass, and round it what one might

well call the Ring of the Nation was formed.

The music grew louder. Each mountaineer who had not a lit torch

already lighted one, and the whole rising hillside was a glory of

light. The Queen rose, and the King an instant after. As they rose

men stepped forward and carried away their chairs, or rather thrones.

The Queen gave the King her hand—this is, it seems, the privilege of

the wife as distinguished from any other woman. Their feet took the

time of the music, and they moved into the centre of the ring.

That dance was another thing to remember, won from the haunting

memories of that strange day. At first the King and Queen danced all

alone. They began with stately movement, but as the music quickened

their feet kept time, and the swing of their bodies with movements

kept growing more and more ecstatic at every beat till, in true

Balkan fashion, the dance became a very agony of passionate movement.

At this point the music slowed down again, and the mountaineers began

to join in the dance. At first slowly, one by one, they joined in,

the Vladika and the higher priests leading; then everywhere the whole

vast crowd began to dance, till the earth around us seemed to shake.

The lights quivered, flickered, blazed out again, and rose and fell

as that hundred thousand men, each holding a torch, rose and fell

with the rhythm of the dance. Quicker, quicker grew the music,

faster grew the rushing and pounding of the feet, till the whole

nation seemed now in an ecstasy.

I stood near the Vladika, and in the midst of this final wildness I

saw him draw from his belt a short, thin flute; then he put it to his

lips and blew a single note—a fierce, sharp note, which pierced the

volume of sound more surely than would the thunder of a cannon-shot.

On the instant everywhere each man put his torch under his foot.

There was complete and immediate darkness, for the fires, which had

by now fallen low, had evidently been trodden out in the measure of

the dance. The music still kept in its rhythmic beat, but slower

than it had yet been. Little by little this beat was pointed and

emphasized by the clapping of hands—at first only a few, but

spreading till everyone present was beating hands to the slow music

in the darkness. This lasted a little while, during which, looking

round, I noticed a faint light beginning to steal up behind the

hills. The moon was rising.

Again there came a note from the Vladika’s flute—a single note,

sweet and subtle, which I can only compare with a note from a

nightingale, vastly increased in powers. It, too, won through the

thunder of the hand-claps, and on the second the sound ceased. The

sudden stillness, together with the darkness, was so impressive that

we could almost hear our hearts beating. And then came through the

darkness the most beautiful and impressive sound heard yet. That

mighty concourse, without fugleman of any sort, began, in low,

fervent voice, to sing the National Anthem. At first it was of so

low tone as to convey the idea of a mighty assembly of violinists

playing with the mutes on. But it gradually rose till the air above

us seemed to throb and quiver. Each syllable—each word—spoken in

unison by the vast throng was as clearly enunciated as though spoken

by a single voice:

“Guide our feet through darkness, O Jehovah.”

This anthem, sung out of full hearts, remains on our minds as the

last perfection of a perfect day. For myself, I am not ashamed to

own that it made me weep like a child. Indeed, I cannot write of it

now as I would; it unmans me so!

*

In the early morning, whilst the mountains were still rather grey

than blue, the cable-line took us to the Blue Mouth, where we

embarked in the King’s yacht, The Lady, which took us across the

Adriatic at a pace which I had hitherto considered impossible. The

King and Queen came to the landing to see us off. They stood

together at the right-hand side of the red-carpeted gangway, and

shook hands with each guest as he went on board. The instant the

last passenger had stepped on deck the gangway was withdrawn. The

Lord High Admiral, who stood on the bridge, raised his hand, and we

swept towards the mouth of the gulf. Of course, all hats were off,

and we cheered frantically. I can truly say that if King Rupert and

Queen Teuta should ever wish to found in the Blue Mountains a colony

of diplomatists and journalists, those who were their guests on this

great occasion will volunteer to a man. I think old Hempetch, who is

the doyen of English-speaking journalists, voiced our sentiments when

he said:

“May God bless them and theirs with every grace and happiness, and

send prosperity to the Land and the rule!” I think the King and

Queen heard us cheer, they turned to look at our flying ship again.

BOOK IX: BALKA

RUPERT’S JOURNAL—Continued (Longe Intervallo).

February 10, 1908.

It is so long since I even thought of this journal that I hardly know

where to begin. I always heard that a married man is a pretty busy

man; but since I became one, though it is a new life to me, and of a

happiness undreamt of, I KNOW what that life is. But I had no idea

that this King business was anything like what it is. Why, it never

leaves me a moment at all to myself—or, what is worse, to Teuta. If

people who condemn Kings had only a single month of my life in that

capacity, they would form an opinion different from that which they

hold. It might be useful to have a Professor of Kingship in the

Anarchists’ College—whenever it is founded!

Everything has gone on well with us, I am glad to say. Teuta is in

splendid health, though she has—but only very lately—practically

given up going on her own aeroplane. It was, I know, a great

sacrifice to make, just as she had become an expert at it. They say

here that she is one of the best drivers in the Blue Mountains—and

that is in the world, for we have made that form of movement our own.

Ever since we found the pitch-blende pockets in the Great Tunnel, and

discovered the simple process of extracting the radium from it, we

have gone on by leaps and bounds. When first Teuta told me she would

“aero” no more for a while, I thought she was wise, and backed her up

in it: for driving an aeroplane is trying work and hard on the

nerves. I only learned then the reason for her caution—the usual

one of a young wife. That was three months ago, and only this

morning she told me she would not go sailing in the air, even with

me, till she could do so “without risk”—she did not mean risk to

herself. Aunt Janet knew what she meant, and counselled her strongly

to stick to her resolution. So for the next few months I am to do my

air-sailing alone.

The public works which we began immediately after the Coronation are

going strong. We began at the very beginning on an elaborate system.

The first thing was to adequately fortify the Blue Mouth. Whilst the

fortifications were being constructed we kept all the warships in the

gulf. But when the point of safety was reached, we made the ships do

sentry-go along the coast, whilst we trained men for service at sea.

It is our plan to take by degrees all the young men and teach them

this wise, so that at the end the whole population shall be trained

for sea as well as for land. And as we are teaching them the airship

service, too, they will be at home in all the elements—except fire,

of course, though if that should become a necessity, we shall tackle

it too!

We started the Great Tunnel at the farthest inland point of the Blue

Mouth, and ran it due east at an angle of 45 degrees, so that, when

complete, it would go right through the first line of hills, coming

out on the plateau Plazac. The plateau is not very wide—half a mile

at most—and the second tunnel begins on the eastern side of it.

This new tunnel is at a smaller angle, as it has to pierce the second

hill—a mountain this time. When it comes out on the east side of

that, it will tap the real productive belt. Here it is that our

hardwood-trees are finest, and where the greatest mineral deposits

are found. This plateau is of enormous length, and runs north arid

south round the great bulk of the central mountain, so that in time,

when we put up a circular railway, we can bring, at a merely nominal

cost, all sorts of material up or down. It is on this level that we

have built the great factories for war material. We are tunnelling

into the mountains, where are the great deposits of coal. We run the

trucks in and out on the level, and can get perfect ventilation with

little cost or labour. Already we are mining all the coal which we

consume within our own confines, and we can, if we wish, within a

year export largely. The great slopes of these tunnels give us the

necessary aid of specific gravity, and as we carry an endless water-supply in great tubes that way also, we can do whatever we wish by

hydraulic power. As one by one the European and Asiatic nations

began to reduce their war preparations, we took over their disbanded

workmen though our agents, so that already we have a productive staff

of skilled workmen larger than anywhere else in the world. I think

myself that we were fortunate in being able to get ahead so fast with

our preparations for war manufacture, for if some of the “Great

Powers,” as they call themselves, knew the measure of our present

production, they would immediately try to take active measures

against us. In such case we should have to fight them, which would

delay us. But if we can have another year untroubled, we shall, so

far as war material is concerned, be able to defy any nation in the

world. And if the time may only come peacefully till we have our

buildings and machinery complete, we can prepare war-stores and

implements for the whole Balkan nations. And then—But that is a

dream. We shall know in good time.

In the meantime all goes well. The cannon foundries are built and

active. We are already beginning to turn out finished work. Of

course, our first guns are not very large, but they are good. The

big guns, and especially siege-guns, will come later. And when the

great extensions are complete, and the boring and wire-winding

machines are in working order, we can go merrily on. I suppose that

by that time the whole of the upper plateau will be like a

manufacturing town—at any rate, we have plenty of raw material to

hand. The haematite mines seem to be inexhaustible, and as the

raising of the ore is cheap and easy by means of our extraordinary

water-power, and as coal comes down to the plateau by its own gravity

on the cable-line, we have natural advantages which exist hardly

anywhere else in the world—certainly not all together, as here.

That bird’s eye view of the Blue Mouth which we had from the

aeroplane when Teuta saw that vision of the future has not been in

vain. The aeroplane works are having a splendid output. The

aeroplane is a large and visible product; there is no mistaking when

it is there! We have already a large and respectable aerial fleet.

The factories for explosives are, of course, far away in bare

valleys, where accidental effects are minimized. So, too, are the

radium works, wherein unknown dangers may lurk. The turbines in the

tunnel give us all the power we want at present, and, later on, when

the new tunnel, which we call the “water tunnel,” which is already

begun, is complete, the available power will be immense. All these

works are bringing up our shipping, and we are in great hopes for the

future.

So much for our material prosperity. But with it comes a larger life

and greater hopes. The stress of organizing and founding these great

works is practically over. As they are not only self-supporting, but

largely productive, all anxiety in the way of national expenditure is

minimized. And, more than all, I am able to give my unhampered

attention to those matters of even more than national importance on

which the ultimate development, if not the immediate strength, of our

country must depend.

I am well into the subject of a great Balkan Federation. This, it

turns out, has for long been the dream of Teuta’s life, as also that

of the present Archimandrite of Plazac, her father, who, since I last

touched this journal, having taken on himself a Holy Life, was, by

will of the Church, the Monks, and the People, appointed to that

great office on the retirement of Petrof Vlastimir.

Such a Federation had long been in the air. For myself, I had seen

its inevitableness from the first. The modern aggressions of the

Dual Nation, interpreted by her past history with regard to Italy,

pointed towards the necessity of such a protective measure. And now,

when Servia and Bulgaria were used as blinds to cover her real

movements to incorporate with herself as established the provinces,

once Turkish, which had been entrusted to her temporary protection by

the Treaty of Berlin; when it would seem that Montenegro was to be

deprived for all time of the hope of regaining the Bocche di Cattaro,

which she had a century ago won, and held at the point of the sword,

until a Great Power had, under a wrong conviction, handed it over to

her neighbouring Goliath; when the Sandjack of Novi-Bazar was

threatened with the fate which seemed to have already overtaken

Bosnia and Herzegovina; when gallant little Montenegro was already

shut out from the sea by the octopus-like grip of Dalmatia crouching

along her western shore; when Turkey was dwindling down to almost

ineptitude; when Greece was almost a byword, and when Albania as a

nation—though still nominally subject—was of such unimpaired

virility that there were great possibilities of her future, it was

imperative that something must happen if the Balkan race was not to

be devoured piecemeal by her northern neighbours. To the end of

ultimate protection I found most of them willing to make defensive

alliance.

And as the true defence consists in judicious attack, I have no doubt

that an alliance so based must ultimately become one for all

purposes. Albania was the most difficult to win to the scheme, as

her own complications with her suzerain, combined with the pride and

suspiciousness of her people, made approach a matter of extreme

caution. It was only possible when I could induce her rulers to see

that, no matter how great her pride and valour, the magnitude of

northern advance, if unchecked, must ultimately overwhelm her.

I own that this map-making was nervous work, for I could not shut my

eyes to the fact that German lust of enlargement lay behind Austria’s

advance. At and before that time expansion was the dominant idea of

the three Great Powers of Central Europe. Russia went eastward,

hoping to gather to herself the rich north-eastern provinces of

China, till ultimately she should dominate the whole of Northern

Europe and Asia from the Gulf of Finland to the Yellow Sea. Germany

wished to link the North Sea to the Mediterranean by her own

territory, and thus stand as a flawless barrier across Europe from

north to south.

When Nature should have terminated the headship of the Empire-Kingdom, she, as natural heir, would creep southward through the

German-speaking provinces. Thus Austria, of course kept in ignorance

of her neighbour’s ultimate aims, had to extend towards the south.

She had been barred in her western movement by the rise of the

Irredentist party in Italy, and consequently had to withdraw behind

the frontiers of Carinthia, Carniola, and Istria.

My own dream of the new map was to make “Balka”—the Balkan

Federation—take in ultimately all south of a line drawn from the

Isle of Serpents to Aquileia. There would—must—be difficulties in

the carrying out of such a scheme. Of course, it involved Austria

giving up Dalmatia, Istria, and Sclavonia, as well as a part of

Croatia and the Hungarian Banat. On the contrary, she might look for

centuries of peace in the south. But it would make for peace so

strongly that each of the States impinging on it would find it worth

while to make a considerable sacrifice to have it effected. To its

own integers it would offer a lasting settlement of interests which

at present conflicted, and a share in a new world-power. Each of

these integers would be absolutely self-governing and independent,

being only united for purposes of mutual good. I did not despair

that even Turkey and Greece, recognizing that benefit and safety

would ensue without the destruction or even minimizing of

individuality, would, sooner or later, come into the Federation. The

matter is already so far advanced that within a month the various

rulers of the States involved are to have a secret and informal

meeting. Doubtless some larger plan and further action will be then

evolved. It will be an anxious time for all in this zone—and

outside it—till this matter is all settled. In any case, the

manufacture of war material will go on until it is settled, one way

or another.

RUPERT’S JOURNAL—Continued.

March 6, 1908.

I breathe more freely. The meeting has taken place here at

Vissarion. Nominal cause of meeting: a hunting-party in the Blue

Mountains. Not any formal affair. Not a Chancellor or Secretary of

State or Diplomatist of any sort present. All headquarters. It was,

after all, a real hunting-party. Good sportsmen, plenty of game,

lots of beaters, everything organized properly, and an effective

tally of results. I think we all enjoyed ourselves in the matter of

sport; and as the political result was absolute unanimity of purpose

and intention, there could be no possible cause of complaint.

So it is all decided. Everything is pacific. There is not a

suggestion even of war, revolt, or conflicting purpose of any kind.

We all go on exactly as we are doing for another year, pursuing our

own individual objects, just as at present. But we are all to see

that in our own households order prevails. All that is supposed to

be effective is to be kept in good working order, and whatever is, at

present, not adequate to possibilities is to be made so. This is all

simply protective and defensive. We understand each other. But if

any hulking stranger should undertake to interfere in our domestic

concerns, we shall all unite on the instant to keep things as we wish

them to remain. We shall be ready. Alfred’s maxim of Peace shall be

once more exemplified. In the meantime the factories shall work

overtime in our own mountains, and the output shall be for the

general good of our special community—the bill to be settled

afterwards amicably. There can hardly be any difference of opinion

about that, as the others will be the consumers of our surplus

products. We are the producers, who produce for ourselves first, and

then for the limited market of those within the Ring. As we

undertake to guard our own frontiers—sea and land—and are able to

do so, the goods are to be warehoused in the Blue Mountains until

required—if at all—for participation in the markets of the world,

and especially in the European market. If all goes well and the

markets are inactive, the goods shall be duly delivered to the

purchasers as arranged.

So much for the purely mercantile aspect.

THE VOIVODIN JANET MACKELPIE’S NOTES.

May 21, 1908.

As Rupert began to neglect his Journal when he was made a King, so,

too, I find in myself a tendency to leave writing to other people.

But one thing I shall not be content to leave to others—little

Rupert. The baby of Rupert and Teuta is much too precious a thing to

be spoken of except with love, quite independent of the fact that he

will be, in natural course, a King! So I have promised Teuta that

whatever shall be put into this record of the first King of the Sent

Leger Dynasty relating to His Royal Highness the Crown Prince shall

only appear in either her hand or my own. And she has deputed the

matter to me.

Our dear little Prince arrived punctually and in perfect condition.

The angels that carried him evidently took the greatest care of him,

and before they left him they gave him dower of all their best. He

is a dear! Like both his father and his mother, and that says

everything. My own private opinion is that he is a born King! He

does not know what fear is, and he thinks more of everyone else than

he does of his dear little self. And if those things do not show a

truly royal nature, I do not know what does …

Teuta has read this. She held up a warning finger, and said:

“Aunt Janet dear, that is all true. He is a dear, and a King, and an

angel! But we mustn’t have too much about him just yet. This book

is to be about Rupert. So our little man can only be what we shall

call a corollary.” And so it is.

I should mention here that the book is Teuta’s idea. Before little

Rupert came she controlled herself wonderfully, doing only what was

thought best for her under the circumstances. As I could see that it

would be a help for her to have some quiet occupation which would

interest her without tiring her, I looked up (with his permission, of

course) all Rupert’s old letters and diaries, and journals and

reports—all that I had kept for him during his absences on his

adventures. At first I was a little afraid they might harm her, for

at times she got so excited over some things that I had to caution

her. Here again came in her wonderful self-control. I think the

most soothing argument I used with her was to point out that the dear

boy had come through all the dangers safely, and was actually with

us, stronger and nobler than ever.

After we had read over together the whole matter several times—for

it was practically new to me too, and I got nearly as excited as she

was, though I have known him so much longer—we came to the

conclusion that this particular volume would have to be of selected

matter. There is enough of Rupert’s work to make a lot of volumes

and we have an ambitious literary project of some day publishing an

edition de luxe of his whole collected works. It will be a rare

showing amongst the works of Kings. But this is to be all about

himself, so that in the future it may serve as a sort of backbone of

his personal history.

By-and-by we came to a part when we had to ask him questions; and he

was so interested in Teuta’s work—he is really bound up body and

soul in his beautiful wife, and no wonder—that we had to take him

into full confidence. He promised he would help us all he could by

giving us the use of his later journals, and such letters and papers

as he had kept privately. He said he would make one condition—I use

his own words: “As you two dear women are to be my editors, you must

promise to put in everything exactly as I wrote it. It will not do

to have any fake about this. I do not wish anything foolish or

egotistical toned down out of affection for me. It was all written

in sincerity, and if I had faults, they must not be hidden. If it is

to be history, it must be true history, even if it gives you and me

or any of us away.”

So we promised.

He also said that, as Sir Edward Bingham Trent, Bart.—as he is now—

was sure to have some matter which we should like, he would write and

ask him to send such to us. He also said that Mr. Ernest Roger

Halbard Melton, of Humcroft, Salop (he always gives this name and

address in full, which is his way of showing contempt), would be sure

to have some relevant matter, and that he would have him written to

on the subject. This he did. The Chancellor wrote him in his most

grandiloquent style. Mr. E. R. H. Melton, of H., S., replied by

return post. His letter is a document which speaks for itself:

HUMCROFT, SALOP,

May 30, 1908.

MY DEAR COUSIN KING RUPERT,

I am honoured by the request made on your behalf by the Lord High

Chancellor of your kingdom that I should make a literary contribution

to the volume which my cousin, Queen Teuta, is, with the help of your

former governess, Miss MacKelpie, compiling. I am willing to do so,

as you naturally wish to have in that work some contemporary record

made by the Head of the House of Melton, with which you are

connected, though only on the distaff side. It is a natural ambition

enough, even on the part of a barbarian—or perhaps semi-barbarian—

King, and far be it from me, as Head of the House, to deny you such a

coveted privilege. Perhaps you may not know that I am now Head of

the House; my father died three days ago. I offered my mother the

use of the Dower House—to the incumbency of which, indeed, she is

entitled by her marriage settlement. But she preferred to go to live

at her seat, Carfax, in Kent. She went this morning after the

funeral. In letting you have the use of my manuscript I make only

one stipulation, but that I expect to be rigidly adhered to. It is

that all that I have written be put in the book in extenso. I do not

wish any record of mine to be garbled to suit other ends than those

ostensible, or whatever may be to the honour of myself or my House to

be burked. I dare say you have noticed, my dear Rupert, that the

compilers of family histories often, through jealousy, alter matter

that they are allowed to use so as to suit their own purpose or

minister to their own vanity. I think it right to tell you that I

have had a certified copy made by Petter and Galpin, the law

stationers, so that I shall be able to verify whether my stipulation

has been honourably observed. I am having the book, which is

naturally valuable, carefully packed, and shall have it forwarded to

Sir Edward Bingham Trent, Baronet (which he now is—Heaven save the

mark!), the Attorney. Please see that he returns it to me, and in

proper order. He is not to publish for himself anything in it about

him. A man of that class is apt to advertise the fact of anyone of

distinction taking any notice of him. I would bring out the MS. to

you myself, and stay for a while with you for some sport, only your

lot—subjects I suppose you call them!—are such bounders that a

gentleman’s life is hardly safe amongst them. I never met anyone who

had so poor an appreciation of a joke as they have. By the way, how

is Teuta? She is one of them. I heard all about the hatching

business. I hope the kid is all right. This is only a word in your

ear, so don’t get cocky, old son. I am open to a godfathership.

Think of that, Hedda! Of course, if the other godfather and the

godmother are up to the mark; I don’t want to have to boost up the

whole lot! Savvy? Kiss Teuta and the kid for me. I must have the

boy over here for a bit later on—when he is presentable, and has

learned not to be a nuisance. It will be good for him to see

something of a real first-class English country house like Humcroft.

To a person only accustomed to rough ways and meagre living its

luxury will make a memory which will serve in time as an example to

be aimed at. I shall write again soon. Don’t hesitate to ask any

favour which I may be able to confer on you. So long!

Your affectionate cousin,

ERNEST ROGER HALBARD MELTON.

Extract from Letter from E. Bingham Trent to Queen Teuta of the Blue

Mountains.

… So I thought the best way to serve that appalling cad would be

to take him at his word, and put in his literary contribution in

full. I have had made and attested a copy of his “Record,” as he

calls it, so as to save you trouble. But I send the book itself,

because I am afraid that unless you see his words in his own writing,

you will not believe that he or anyone else ever penned seriously a

document so incriminating. I am sure he must have forgotten what he

had written, for even such a dull dog as he is could never have made

public such a thing knowingly.

Such a nature has its revenges on itself. In this case the officers

of revenge are his ipsissima verba.

RUPERT’S JOURNAL—Continued.

February 1, 1909.

All is now well in train. When the Czar of Russia, on being asked by

the Sclavs (as was meet) to be the referee in the “Balkan

Settlement,” declined on the ground that he was himself by inference

an interested party, it was unanimously agreed by the Balkan rulers

that the Western King should be asked to arbitrate, as all concerned

had perfect confidence in his wisdom, as well as his justice. To

their wish he graciously assented. The matter has now been for more

than six months in his hands, and he has taken endless trouble to

obtain full information. He has now informed us through his

Chancellor that his decision is almost ready, and will be

communicated as soon as possible.

We have another hunting-party at Vissarion next week. Teuta is

looking forward to it with extraordinary interest. She hopes then to

present to our brothers of the Balkans our little son, and she is

eager to know if they endorse her mother-approval of him.

RUPERT’S JOURNAL—Continued.

April 15, 1909.

The arbitrator’s decision has been communicated to us through the

Chancellor of the Western King, who brought it to us himself as a

special act of friendliness. It met with the enthusiastic approval

of all. The Premier remained with us during the progress of the

hunting-party, which was one of the most joyous occasions ever known.

We are all of good heart, for the future of the Balkan races is now

assured. The strife—internal and external—of a thousand years has

ceased, and we look with hope for a long and happy time. The

Chancellor brought messages of grace and courtliness and friendliness

to all. And when I, as spokesman of the party, asked him if we might

convey a request of His Majesty that he would honour us by attending

the ceremony of making known formally the Balkan Settlement, he

answered that the King had authorized him to say that he would, if

such were wished by us, gladly come; and that if he should come, he

would attend with a fleet as an escort. The Chancellor also told me

from himself that it might be possible to have other nationalities

represented on such a great occasion by Ambassadors and even fleets,

though the monarchs themselves might not be able to attend. He

hinted that it might be well if I put the matter in train. (He

evidently took it for granted that, though I was only one of several,

the matter rested with me—possibly he chose me as the one to whom to

make the confidence, as I was born a stranger.) As we talked it

over, he grew more enthusiastic, and finally said that, as the King

was taking the lead, doubtless all the nations of the earth friendly

to him would like to take a part in the ceremony. So it is likely to

turn out practically an international ceremony of a unique kind.

Teuta will love it, and we shall all do what we can.

JANET MACKELPIE’S NOTES.

June 1, 1909.

Our dear Teuta is full of the forthcoming celebration of the Balkan

Federation, which is to take place this day month, although I must

say, for myself, that the ceremony is attaining to such dimensions

that I am beginning to have a sort of vague fear of some kind. It

almost seems uncanny. Rupert is working unceasingly—has been for

some time. For weeks past he seems to have been out day and night on

his aeroplane, going through and round over the country arranging

matters, and seeing for himself that what has been arranged is being

done. Uncle Colin is always about, too, and so is Admiral Rooke.

But now Teuta is beginning to go with Rupert. That girl is simply

fearless—just like Rupert. And they both seem anxious that little

Rupert shall be the same. Indeed, he is the same. A few mornings

ago Rupert and Teuta were about to start just after dawn from the top

of the Castle. Little Rupert was there—he is always awake early and

as bright as a bee. I was holding him in my arms, and when his

mother leant over to kiss him good-bye, he held out his arms to her

in a way that said as plainly as if he had spoken, “Take me with

you.”

She looked appealingly at Rupert, who nodded, and said: “All right.

Take him, darling. He will have to learn some day, and the sooner

the better.” The baby, looking eagerly from one to the other with

the same questioning in his eyes as there is sometimes in the eyes of

a kitten or a puppy—but, of course, with an eager soul behind it—

saw that he was going, and almost leaped into his mother’s arms. I

think she had expected him to come, for she took a little leather

dress from Margareta, his nurse, and, flushing with pride, began to

wrap him in it. When Teuta, holding him in her arms, stepped on the

aeroplane, and took her place in the centre behind Rupert, the young

men of the Crown Prince’s Guard raised a cheer, amid which Rupert

pulled the levers, and they glided off into the dawn.

The Crown Prince’s Guard was established by the mountaineers

themselves the day of his birth. Ten of the biggest and most

powerful and cleverest young men of the nation were chosen, and were

sworn in with a very impressive ceremony to guard the young Prince.

They were to so arrange and order themselves and matters generally

that two at least of them should always have him, or the place in

which he was, within their sight. They all vowed that the last of

their lives should go before harm came to him. Of course, Teuta

understood, and so did Rupert. And these young men are the persons

most privileged in the whole Castle. They are dear boys, every one

of them, and we are all fond of them and respect them. They simply

idolize the baby.

Ever since that morning little Rupert has, unless it is at a time

appointed for his sleeping, gone in his mother’s arms. I think in

any other place there would be some State remonstrance at the whole

royal family being at once and together in a dangerous position, but

in the Blue Mountains danger and fear are not thought of—indeed,

they can hardly be in their terminology. And I really think the

child enjoys it even more than his parents. He is just like a little

bird that has found the use of his wings. Bless him!

I find that even I have to study Court ritual a little. So many

nationalities are to be represented at the ceremony of the “Balkan

Settlement,” and so many Kings and Princes and notabilities of all

kinds are coming, that we must all take care not to make any

mistakes. The Press alone would drive anyone silly. Rupert and

Teuta come and sit with me sometimes in the evening when we are all

too tired to work, and they rest themselves by talking matters over.

Rupert says that there will be over five hundred reporters, and that

the applications for permission are coming in so fast that there may

be a thousand when the day comes. Last night he stopped in the

middle of speaking of it, and said:

“I have an inspiration! Fancy a thousand journalists,—each wanting

to get ahead of the rest, and all willing to invoke the Powers of

Evil for exclusive information! The only man to look after this

department is Rooke. He knows how to deal with men, and as we have

already a large staff to look after the journalistic guests, he can

be at the head, and appoint his own deputies to act for him.

Somewhere and sometime the keeping the peace will be a matter of

nerve and resolution, and Rooke is the man for the job.”

We were all concerned about one thing, naturally important in the

eyes of a woman: What robes was Teuta to wear? In the old days,

when there were Kings and Queens, they doubtless wore something

gorgeous or impressive; but whatever it was that they wore has gone

to dust centuries ago, and there were no illustrated papers in those

primitive days. Teuta was talking to me eagerly, with her dear

beautiful brows all wrinkled, when Rupert who was reading a bulky

document of some kind, looked up and said:

“Of course, darling, you will wear your Shroud?”

“Capital!” she said, clapping her hands like a joyous child. “The

very thing, and our people will like it.”

I own that for a moment I was dismayed. It was a horrible test of a

woman’s love and devotion. At a time when she was entertaining Kings

and notabilities in her own house—and be sure they would all be

decked in their finery—to have to appear in such a garment! A plain

thing with nothing even pretty, let alone gorgeous, about it! I

expressed my views to Rupert, for I feared that Teuta might be

disappointed, though she might not care to say so; but before he

could say a word Teuta answered:

“Oh, thank you so much, dear! I should love that above everything,

but I did not like to suggest it, lest you should think me arrogant

or presuming; for, indeed, Rupert, I am very proud of it, and of the

way our people look on it.”

“Why not?” said Rupert, in his direct way. “It is a thing for us all

to be proud of; the nation has already adopted it as a national

emblem—our emblem of courage and devotion and patriotism, which will

always, I hope, be treasured beyond price by the men and women of our

Dynasty, the Nation, that is—of the Nation that is to be.”

Later on in the evening we had a strange endorsement of the national

will. A “People’s Deputation” of mountaineers, without any official

notice or introduction, arrived at the Castle late in the evening in

the manner established by Rupert’s “Proclamation of Freedom,” wherein

all citizens were entitled to send a deputation to the King, at will

and in private, on any subject of State importance. This deputation

was composed of seventeen men, one selected from each political

section, so that the body as a whole represented the entire nation.

They were of all sorts of social rank and all degrees of fortune, but

they were mainly “of the people.” They spoke hesitatingly—possibly

because Teuta, or even because I, was present—but with a manifest

earnestness. They made but one request—that the Queen should, on

the great occasion of the Balkan Federation, wear as robes of State

the Shroud that they loved to see her in. The spokesman, addressing

the Queen, said in tones of rugged eloquence:

“This is a matter, Your Majesty, that the women naturally have a say

in, so we have, of course, consulted them. They have discussed the

matter by themselves, and then with us, and they are agreed without a

flaw that it will be good for the Nation and for Womankind that you

do this thing. You have shown to them, and to the world at large,

what women should do, what they can do, and they want to make, in

memory of your great act, the Shroud a garment of pride and honour

for women who have deserved well of their country. In the future it

can be a garment to be worn only by privileged women who have earned

the right. But they hope, and we hope with them, that on this

occasion of our Nation taking the lead before the eyes of the world,

all our women may wear it on that day as a means of showing overtly

their willingness to do their duty, even to the death. And so”—here

he turned to the King—“Rupert, we trust that Her Majesty Queen Teuta

will understand that in doing as the women of the Blue Mountains

wish, she will bind afresh to the Queen the loyal devotion which she

won from them as Voivodin. Henceforth and for all time the Shroud

shall be a dress of honour in our Land.”

Teuta looked all ablaze with love and pride and devotion. Stars in

her eyes shone like white fire as she assured them of the granting of

their request. She finished her little speech:

“I feared that if I carried out my own wish, it might look arrogant,

but Rupert has expressed the same wish, and now I feel that I am free

to wear that dress which brought me to you and to Rupert”—here she

beamed on him, and took his hand—“fortified as I am by your wishes

and the command of my lord the King.”

Rupert took her in his arms and kissed her fondly before them all,

saying:

“Tell your wives, my brothers, and the rest of the Blue Mountain

women, that that is the answer of the husband who loves and honours

his wife. All the world shall see at the ceremony of the Federation

of Balka that we men love and honour the women who are loyal and can

die for duty. And, men of the Blue Mountains, some day before long

we shall organize that great idea, and make it a permanent thing—

that the Order of the Shroud is the highest guerdon that a noble-hearted woman can wear.”

Teuta disappeared for a few moments, and came back with the Crown

Prince in her arms. Everyone present asked to be allowed to kiss

him, which they did kneeling.

THE FEDERATION BALKA.

By the Correspondents of “Free America.”

The Editors of Free America have thought it well to put in

consecutive order the reports and descriptions of their Special

Correspondents, of whom there were present no less than eight. Not a

word they wrote is omitted, but the various parts of their reports

are placed in different order, so that, whilst nothing which any of

them recorded is left out, the reader may be able to follow the

proceedings from the various points of view of the writers who had

the most favourable opportunity of moment. In so large an assemblage

of journalists—there were present over a thousand—they could not

all be present in one place; so our men, in consultation amongst

themselves, arranged to scatter, so as to cover the whole proceeding

from the various “coigns of vantage,” using their skill and

experience in selecting these points. One was situated on the summit

of the steel-clad tower in the entrance to the Blue Mouth; another on

the “Press-boat,” which was moored alongside King Rupert’s armoured

yacht, The Lady, whereon were gathered the various Kings and rulers

of the Balkan States, all of whom were in the Federation; another was

in a swift torpedo-boat, with a roving commission to cruise round the

harbour as desired; another took his place on the top of the great

mountain which overlooks Plazac, and so had a bird’s-eye view of the

whole scene of operations; two others were on the forts to right and

left of the Blue Mouth; another was posted at the entrance to the

Great Tunnel which runs from the water level right up through the

mountains to the plateau, where the mines and factories are situate;

another had the privilege of a place on an aeroplane, which went

everywhere and saw everything. This aeroplane was driven by an old

Special Correspondent of Free America, who had been a chum of our

Special in the Japanese and Russian War, and who has taken service on

the Blue Mountain Official Gazette.

PLAZAC,

June 30, 1909.

Two days before the time appointed for the ceremony the guests of the

Land of the Blue Mountains began to arrive. The earlier comers were

mostly the journalists who had come from almost over the whole

inhabited world. King Rupert, who does things well, had made a camp

for their exclusive use. There was a separate tent for each—of

course, a small one, as there were over a thousand journalists—but

there were big tents for general use scattered about—refectories,

reading and writing rooms, a library, idle rooms for rest, etc. In

the rooms for reading and writing, which were the work-rooms for

general use, were newspapers, the latest attainable from all over the

world, Blue-Books, guides, directories, and all such aids to work as

forethought could arrange. There was for this special service a body

of some hundreds of capable servants in special dress and bearing

identification numbers—in fact, King Rupert “did us fine,” to use a

slang phrase of pregnant meaning.

There were other camps for special service, all of them well

arranged, and with plenty of facility for transport. Each of the

Federating Monarchs had a camp of his own, in which he had erected a

magnificent pavilion. For the Western King, who had acted as

Arbitrator in the matter of the Federation, a veritable palace had

been built by King Rupert—a sort of Aladdin’s palace it must have

been, for only a few weeks ago the place it occupied was, I was told,

only primeval wilderness. King Rupert and his Queen, Teuta, had a

pavilion like the rest of the Federators of Balka, but infinitely

more modest, both in size and adornments.

Everywhere were guards of the Blue Mountains, armed only with the

“handjar,” which is the national weapon. They wore the national

dress, but so arranged in colour and accoutrement that the general

air of uniformity took the place of a rigid uniform. There must have

been at least seventy or eighty thousand of them.

The first day was one of investigation of details by the visitors.

During the second day the retinues of the great Federators came.

Some of these retinues were vast. For instance, the Soldan (though

only just become a Federator) sent of one kind or another more than a

thousand men. A brave show they made, for they are fine men, and

drilled to perfection. As they swaggered along, singly or in mass,

with their gay jackets and baggy trousers, their helmets surmounted

by the golden crescent, they looked a foe not to be despised.

Landreck Martin, the Nestor of journalists, said to me, as we stood

together looking at them:

“To-day we witness a new departure in Blue Mountain history. This is

the first occasion for a thousand years that so large a Turkish body

has entered the Blue Mountains with a reasonable prospect of ever

getting out again.”

July 1, 1909.

To-day, the day appointed for the ceremony, was auspiciously fine,

even for the Blue Mountains, where at this time of year the weather

is nearly always fine. They are early folk in the Blue Mountains,

but to-day things began to hum before daybreak. There were bugle-calls all over the place—everything here is arranged by calls of

musical instruments—trumpets, or bugles, or drums (if, indeed, the

drum can be called a musical instrument)—or by lights, if it be

after dark. We journalists were all ready; coffee and bread-and-butter had been thoughtfully served early in our sleeping-tents, and

an elaborate breakfast was going on all the time in the refectory

pavilions. We had a preliminary look round, and then there was a

sort of general pause for breakfast. We took advantage of it, and

attacked the sumptuous—indeed, memorable—meal which was served for

us.

The ceremony was to commence at noon, but at ten o’clock the whole

place was astir—not merely beginning to move, but actually moving;

everybody taking their places for the great ceremony. As noon drew

near, the excitement was intense and prolonged. One by one the

various signatories to the Federation began to assemble. They all

came by sea; such of them as had seaboards of their own having their

fleets around them. Such as had no fleets of their own were attended

by at least one of the Blue Mountain ironclads. And I am bound to

say that I never in my life saw more dangerous craft than these

little warships of King Rupert of the Blue Mountains. As they

entered the Blue Mouth each ship took her appointed station, those

which carried the signatories being close together in an isolated

group in a little bay almost surrounded by high cliffs in the

farthest recesses of the mighty harbour. King Rupert’s armoured

yacht all the time lay close inshore, hard by the mouth of the Great

Tunnel which runs straight into the mountain from a wide plateau,

partly natural rock, partly built up with mighty blocks of stone.

Here it is, I am told, that the inland products are brought down to

the modern town of Plazac. Just as the clocks were chiming the half-hour before noon this yacht glided out into the expanse of the”

Mouth.” Behind her came twelve great barges, royally decked, and

draped each in the colour of the signatory nation. On each of these

the ruler entered with his guard, and was carried to Rupert’s yacht,

he going on the bridge, whilst his suite remained on the lower deck.

In the meantime whole fleets had been appearing on the southern

horizon; the nations were sending their maritime quota to the

christening of “Balka”! In such wonderful order as can only be seen

with squadrons of fighting ships, the mighty throng swept into the

Blue Mouth, and took up their stations in groups. The only armament

of a Great Power now missing was that of the Western King. But there

was time. Indeed, as the crowd everywhere began to look at their

watches a long line of ships began to spread up northward from the

Italian coast. They came at great speed—nearly twenty knots. It

was a really wonderful sight—fifty of the finest ships in the world;

the very latest expression of naval giants, each seemingly typical of

its class—Dreadnoughts, cruisers, destroyers. They came in a wedge,

with the King’s yacht flying the Royal Standard the apex. Every ship

of the squadron bore a red ensign long enough to float from the

masthead to the water. From the armoured tower in the waterway one

could see the myriad of faces—white stars on both land and sea—for

the great harbour was now alive with ships and each and all of them

alive with men.

Suddenly, without any direct cause, the white masses became eclipsed-

-everyone had turned round, and was looking the other way. I looked

across the bay and up the mountain behind—a mighty mountain, whose

slopes run up to the very sky, ridge after ridge seeming like itself

a mountain. Far away on the very top the standard of the Blue

Mountains was run up on a mighty Flagstaff which seemed like a shaft

of light. It was two hundred feet high, and painted white, and as at

the distance the steel stays were invisible, it towered up in lonely

grandeur. At its foot was a dark mass grouped behind a white space,

which I could not make out till I used my field-glasses.

Then I knew it was King Rupert and the Queen in the midst of a group

of mountaineers. They were on the aero station behind the platform

of the aero, which seemed to shine—shine, not glitter—as though it

were overlaid with plates of gold.

Again the faces looked west. The Western Squadron was drawing near

to the entrance of the Blue Mouth. On the bridge of the yacht stood

the Western King in uniform of an Admiral, and by him his Queen in a

dress of royal purple, splendid with gold. Another glance at the

mountain-top showed that it had seemed to become alive. A whole park

of artillery seemed to have suddenly sprung to life, round each its

crew ready for action. Amongst the group at the foot of the

Flagstaff we could distinguish King Rupert; his vast height and bulk

stood out from and above all round him. Close to him was a patch of

white, which we understood to be Queen Teuta, whom the Blue

Mountaineers simply adore.

By this time the armoured yacht, bearing all the signatories to

“Balka” (excepting King Rupert), had moved out towards the entrance,

and lay still and silent, waiting the coming of the Royal Arbitrator,

whose whole squadron simultaneously slowed down, and hardly drifted

in the seething water of their backing engines.

When the flag which was in the yacht’s prow was almost opposite the

armoured fort, the Western King held up a roll of vellum handed to

him by one of his officers. We onlookers held our breath, for in an

instant was such a scene as we can never hope to see again.

At the raising of the Western King’s hand, a gun was fired away on

the top of the mountain where rose the mighty Flagstaff with the

standard of the Blue Mountains. Then came the thunder of salute from

the guns, bright flashes and reports, which echoed down the hillsides

in never-ending sequence. At the first gun, by some trick of

signalling, the flag of the Federated “Balka” floated out from the

top of the Flagstaff, which had been mysteriously raised, and flew

above that of the Blue Mountains.

At the same moment the figures of Rupert and Teuta sank; they were

taking their places on the aeroplane. An instant after, like a great

golden bird, it seemed to shoot out into the air, and then, dipping

its head, dropped downward at an obtuse angle. We could see the King

and Queen from time waist upwards—the King in Blue Mountain dress of

green; the Queen, wrapped in her white Shroud, holding her baby on

her breast. When far out from the mountain-top and over the Blue

Mouth, the wings and tail of the great bird-like machine went up, and

the aero dropped like a stone, till it was only some few hundred feet

over the water. Then the wings and tail went down, but with

diminishing speed. Below the expanse of the plane the King and Queen

were now seen seated together on the tiny steering platform, which

seemed to have been lowered; she sat behind her husband, after the

manner of matrons of the Blue Mountains. That coming of that

aeroplane was the most striking episode of all this wonderful day.

After floating for a few seconds, the engines began to work, whilst

the planes moved back to their normal with beautiful simultaneity.

There was a golden aero finding its safety in gliding movement. At

the same time the steering platform was rising, so that once more the

occupants were not far below, but above the plane. They were now

only about a hundred feet above the water, moving from the far end of

the Blue Mouth towards the entrance in the open space between the two

lines of the fighting ships of the various nationalities, all of

which had by now their yards manned—a manoeuvre which had begun at

the firing of the first gun on the mountain-top. As the aero passed

along, all the seamen began to cheer—a cheering which they kept up

till the King and Queen had come so close to the Western King’s

vessel that the two Kings and Queens could greet each other. The

wind was now beginning to blow westward from the mountain-top, and it

took the sounds towards the armoured fort, so that at moments we

could distinguish the cheers of the various nationalities, amongst

which, more keen than the others, came the soft “Ban Zai!” of the

Japanese.

King Rupert, holding his steering levers, sat like a man of marble.

Behind him his beautiful wife, clad in her Shroud, and holding in her

arms the young Crown Prince, seemed like a veritable statue.

The aero, guided by Rupert’s unerring hand, lit softly on the after-deck of the Western King’s yacht; and King Rupert, stepping on deck,

lifted from her seat Queen Teuta with her baby in her arms. It was

only when the Blue Mountain King stood amongst other men that one

could realize his enormous stature. He stood literally head and

shoulders over every other man present.

Whilst the aeroplane was giving up its burden, the Western King and

his Queen were descending from the bridge. The host and hostess,

hand in hand—after their usual fashion, as it seems—hurried forward

to greet their guests. The meeting was touching in its simplicity.

The two monarchs shook hands, and their consorts, representatives of

the foremost types of national beauty of the North and South,

instinctively drew close and kissed each other. Then the hostess

Queen, moving towards the Western King, kneeled before him with the

gracious obeisance of a Blue Mountain hostess, and kissed his hand.

Her words of greeting were:

“You are welcome, sire, to the Blue Mountains. We are grateful to

you for all you have done for Balka, and to you and Her Majesty for

giving us the honour of your presence.”

The King seemed moved. Accustomed as he was to the ritual of great

occasions, the warmth and sincerity, together with the gracious

humility of this old Eastern custom, touched him, monarch though he

was of a great land and many races in the Far East. Impulsively he

broke through Court ritual, and did a thing which, I have since been

told, won for him for ever a holy place in the warm hearts of the

Blue Mountaineers. Sinking on his knee before the beautiful shroud-clad Queen, he raised her hand and kissed it. The act was seen by

all in and around the Blue Mouth, and a mighty cheering rose, which

seemed to rise and swell as it ran far and wide up the hillsides,

till it faded away on the far-off mountain-top, where rose

majestically the mighty Flagstaff bearing the standard of the Balkan

Federation.

For myself, I can never forget that wonderful scene of a nation’s

enthusiasm, and the core of it is engraven on my memory. That

spotless deck, typical of all that is perfect in naval use; the King

and Queen of the greatest nation of the earth {3} received by the

newest King and Queen—a King and Queen who won empire for

themselves, so that the former subject of another King received him

as a brother-monarch on a history-making occasion, when a new world-power was, under his tutelage, springing into existence. The fair

Northern Queen in the arms of the dark Southern Queen with the starry

eyes. The simple splendour of Northern dress arrayed against that of

almost peasant plainness of the giant King of the South. But all

were eclipsed—even the thousand years of royal lineage of the

Western King, Rupert’s natural dower of stature, and the other

Queen’s bearing of royal dignity and sweetness—by the elemental

simplicity of Teuta’s Shroud. Not one of all that mighty throng but

knew something of her wonderful story; and not one but felt glad and

proud that such a noble woman had won an empire through her own

bravery, even in the jaws of the grave.

The armoured yacht, with the remainder of the signatories to the

Balkan Federation, drew close, and the rulers stepped on board to

greet the Western King, the Arbitrator, Rupert leaving his task as

personal host and joining them. He took his part modestly in the

rear of the group, and made a fresh obeisance in his new capacity.

Presently another warship, The Balka, drew close. It contained the

ambassadors of Foreign Powers, and the Chancellors and high officials

of the Balkan nations. It was followed by a fleet of warships, each

one representing a Balkan Power. The great Western fleet lay at

their moorings, but with the exception of manning their yards, took

no immediate part in the proceedings.

On the deck of the new-comer the Balkan monarchs took their places,

the officials of each State grading themselves behind their monarch.

The Ambassadors formed a foremost group by themselves.

Last came the Western King, quite alone (save for the two Queens),

bearing in his hand the vellum scroll, the record of his arbitration.

This he proceeded to read, a polyglot copy of it having been already

supplied to every Monarch, Ambassador, and official present. It was

a long statement, but the occasion was so stupendous—so intense—

that the time flew by quickly. The cheering had ceased the moment

the Arbitrator opened the scroll, and a veritable silence of the

grave abounded.

When the reading was concluded Rupert raised his hand, and on the

instant came a terrific salvo of cannon-shots from not only the ships

in the port, but seemingly all up and over the hillsides away to the

very summit.

When the cheering which followed the salute had somewhat toned down,

those on board talked together, and presentations were made. Then

the barges took the whole company to the armour-clad fort in the

entrance-way to the Blue Mouth. Here, in front, had been arranged

for the occasion, platforms for the starting of aeroplanes. Behind

them were the various thrones of state for the Western King and

Queen, and the various rulers of “Balka”—as the new and completed

Balkan Federation had become—de jure as well as de facto. Behind

were seats for the rest of the company. All was a blaze of crimson

and gold. We of the Press were all expectant, for some ceremony had

manifestly been arranged, but of all details of it we had been kept

in ignorance. So far as I could tell from the faces, those present

were at best but partially informed. They were certainly ignorant of

all details, and even of the entire programme of the day. There is a

certain kind of expectation which is not concerned in the mere

execution of fore-ordered things.

The aero on which the King and Queen had come down from the mountain

now arrived on the platform in the charge of a tall young

mountaineer, who stepped from the steering-platform at once. King

Rupert, having handed his Queen (who still carried her baby) into her

seat, took his place, and pulled a lever. The aero went forward, and

seemed to fall head foremost off the fort. It was but a dip,

however, such as a skilful diver takes from a height into shallow

water, for the plane made an upward curve, and in a few seconds was

skimming upwards towards the Flagstaff. Despite the wind, it arrived

there in an incredibly short time. Immediately after his flight

another aero, a big one this time, glided to the platform. To this

immediately stepped a body of ten tall, fine-looking young men. The

driver pulled his levers, and the plane glided out on the track of

the King. The Western King, who was noticing, said to the Lord High

Admiral, who had been himself in command of the ship of war, and now

stood close behind him:

“Who are those men, Admiral?”

“The Guard of the Crown Prince, Your Majesty. They are appointed by

the Nation.”

“Tell me, Admiral, have they any special duties?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” came the answer: “to die, if need be, for the

young Prince!”

“Quite right! That is fine service. But how if any of them should

die?”

“Your Majesty, if one of them should die, there are ten thousand

eager to take his place.”

“Fine, fine! It is good to have even one man eager to give his life

for duty. But ten thousand! That is what makes a nation!”

When King Rupert reached the platform by the Flagstaff, the Royal

Standard of the Blue Mountains was hauled up under it. Rupert stood

up and raised his hand. In a second a cannon beside him was fired;

then, quick as thought, others were fired in sequence, as though by

one prolonged lightning-flash. The roar was incessant, but getting

less in detonating sound as the distance and the hills subdued it.

But in the general silence which prevailed round us we could hear the

sound as though passing in a distant circle, till finally the line

which had gone northward came back by the south, stopping at the last

gun to south’ard of the Flagstaff.

“What was that wonderful circle?” asked the King of the Lord High

Admiral.

“That, Your Majesty, is the line of the frontier of the Blue

Mountains. Rupert has ten thousand cannon in line.”

“And who fires them? I thought all the army must be here.”

“The women, Your Majesty. They are on frontier duty to-day, so that

the men can come here.”

Just at that moment one of the Crown Prince’s Guards brought to the

side of the King’s aero something like a rubber ball on the end of a

string. The Queen held it out to the baby in her arms, who grabbed

at it. The guard drew back. Pressing that ball must have given some

signal, for on the instant a cannon, elevated to perpendicular, was

fired. A shell went straight up an enormous distance. The shell

burst, and sent out both a light so bright that it could be seen in

the daylight, and a red smoke, which might have been seen from the

heights of the Calabrian Mountains over in Italy.

As the shell burst, the King’s aero seemed once more to spring from

the platform out into mid-air, dipped as before, and glided out over

the Blue Mouth with a rapidity which, to look at, took one’s breath

away.

As it came, followed by the aero of the Crown Prince’s Guard and a

group of other aeros, the whole mountain-sides seemed to become

alive. From everywhere, right away up to the farthest visible

mountain-tops, darted aeroplanes, till a host of them were rushing

with dreadful speed in the wake of the King. The King turned to

Queen Teuta, and evidently said something, for she beckoned to the

Captain of the Crown Prince’s Guard, who was steering the plane. He

swerved away to the right, and instead of following above the open

track between the lines of warships, went high over the outer line.

One of those on board began to drop something, which, fluttering

down, landed on every occasion on the bridge of the ship high over

which they then were.

The Western King said again to the Gospodar Rooke (the Lord High

Admiral):

“It must need some skill to drop a letter with such accuracy.”

With imperturbable face the Admiral replied:

“It is easier to drop bombs, Your Majesty.”

The flight of aeroplanes was a memorable sight. It helped to make

history. Henceforth no nation with an eye for either defence or

attack can hope for success without the mastery of the air.

In the meantime—and after that time, too—God help the nation that

attacks “Balka” or any part of it, so long as Rupert and Teuta live

in the hearts of that people, and bind them into an irresistible

unity.

Footnotes:

{1} Vladika, a high functionary in the Land of the Blue Mountains.

He is a sort of official descendant of the old Prince-Bishops who

used at one time to govern the State. In process of time the system

has changed, but the function—shorn of its personal dominance—

remains. The nation is at present governed by the Council. The

Church (which is, of course, the Eastern Church) is represented by

the Archbishop, who controls the whole spiritual functions and

organization. The connecting-link between them—they being quite

independent organizations—is the Vladika, who is ex officio a member

of the National Council. By custom he does not vote, but is looked

on as an independent adviser who is in the confidence of both sides

of national control.

{2} EDITORIAL NOTE—We shall, in our issue of Saturday week, give a

full record of the romantic story of Queen Teuta and her Shroud,

written by Mr. Mordred Booth, and illustrated by our special artist,

Mr. Neillison Browne, who is Mr. Booth’s artistic collaborateur in

the account of King Rupert’s Coronation.

{3} Greatest Kingdom—Editor Free America.

Table of Contents

BOOK II: VISSARION

BOOK IV: UNDER THE FLAGSTAFF

BOOK V: A RITUAL AT MIDNIGHT

BOOK IX: BALKA