Ernestine looked over her fan across the drawing-room.

"I have never seen such an alteration in a man," she said, "in so short a time. This morning he amazed me. He knew the right people and did the right things - carried himself too like a man who is sure of himself. To-night he is simply a booby."

"Perhaps it is his evening clothes," Lady Tresham remarked, "they take some getting used to, I believe."

"This morning," Ernestine said, "he had passed that stage altogether. This is, I suppose, a relapse! Such a nuisance for you!"

Lady Tresham rose and smiled sweetly at the man who was taking her in.

"Well, he is to be your charge, so I hope you may find him more amusing than he looks," she answered.

It was an early dinner, to be followed by a visit to a popular theatre. A few hours ago Trent was looking forward to his evening with the keenest pleasure - now he was dazed - he could not readjust his point of view to the new conditions. He knew very well that it was his wealth, and his wealth only, which had brought him as an equal amongst these people, all, so far as education and social breeding was concerned, of so entirely a different sphere. He looked around the table. What would they say if they knew? He would be thrust out as an interloper. Opposite to him was a Peer who was even then engaged in threading the meshes of the Bankruptcy Court, what did they care for that? - not a whit! He was of their order though he was a beggar. But as regards himself, he was fully conscious of the difference. The measure of his wealth was the measure of his standing amongst them. Without it he would be thrust forth - he could make no claim to association with them. The thought filled him with a slow, bitter anger. He sent away his soup untasted, and he could not find heart to speak to the girl who had been the will-o'-the-wisp leading him into this evil plight.

Presently she addressed him.

"Mr. Trent!"

He turned round and looked at her.

"Is it necessary for me to remind you, I wonder," she said, "that it is usual to address a few remarks - quite as a matter of form, you know - to the woman whom you bring in to dinner?"

He eyed her dispassionately.

"I am not used to making conversation," he said. "Is there anything in the world which I could talk about likely to interest you?"

She took a salted almond from a silver dish by his side and smiled sweetly upon him. "Dear me!" she said, "how fierce! Don't attempt it if you feel like that, please! What have you been doing since I saw you last? - losing your money or your temper, or both?"

He looked at her with a curiously grim smile.

"If I lost the former," he said, "I should very soon cease to be a person of interest, or of any account at all, amongst your friends."

She shrugged her shoulders.

"You do not strike one," she remarked, "as the sort of person likely to lose a fortune on the race-course."

"You are quite right," he answered, "I think that I won money. A couple of thousand at least."

"Two thousand pounds!" She actually sighed, and lost her appetite for the oyster patty with which she had been trifling. Trent looked around the table.

"At the same time," he continued in a lower key, "I'll make a confession to you, Miss Wendermott, I wouldn't care to make to any one else here. I've been pretty lucky as you know, made money fast - piled it up in fact. To-day, for the first time, I have come face to face with the possibility of a reverse."

"Is this a new character?" she murmured. "Are you becoming faint-hearted?"

"It is no ordinary reverse," he said slowly. "It is collapse - everything!"

"0 - oh!"

She looked at him attentively. Her own heart was beating. If he had not been engrossed by his care lest any one might over-hear their conversation, he would have been astonished at the change in her face

"You are talking in enigmas surely," she said. "Nothing of that sort could possibly happen to you. They tell me that the Bekwando Land shares are priceless, and that you must make millions."

"This afternoon," he said, raising his glass to his lips and draining it, "I think that I must have dozed upon the lawn at Ascot. I sat there for some time, back amongst the trees, and I think that I must have fallen to sleep. There was a whisper in my ears and I saw myself stripped of everything. How was it? I forget now! A concession repudiated, a bank failure, a big slump - what does it matter? The money was gone, and I was simply myself again, Scarlett Trent, a labourer, penniless and of no account."

"It must have been an odd sensation," she said thoughtfully.

"I will tell you what it made me realise," be said. "I am drifting into a dangerous position. I am linking myself to a little world to whom, personally, I am as nothing and less than nothing. I am tolerated for my belongings! If by any chance I were to lose these, what would become of me?"

"You are a man," she said, looking at him earnestly; "you have the nerve and wits of a man, what you have done before you might do again."

"In the meantime I should be ostracised."

"By a good many people, no doubt."

He held his peace for a time, and ate and drank what was set before him. He was conscious that his was scarcely a dinner-table manner. He was too eager, too deeply in earnest. People opposite were looking at them, Ernestine talked to her vis-a-vis. It was some time before he spoke again, when he did he took up the thread of their conversation where he had left it.

"By the majority, of course," he said. "I have wondered sometimes whether there might be any one who would be different."

"I should be sorry," she said demurely.

"Sorry, yes; so would the tradespeople who had had my money and the men who call themselves my friends and forget that they are my debtors."

"You are cynical."

"I cannot help it," he answered. "It is my dream. To-day, you know, I have stood face to face with evil things."

"Do you know," she said, "I should never have called you a dreamer, a man likely to fancy things. I wonder if anything has really happened to make you talk like this?"

He flashed a quick glance at her underneath his heavy brows. Nothing in her face betrayed any more than the most ordinary interest in what he was saying. Yet somehow, from that moment, he had uneasy doubts concerning her, whether there might be by any chance some reason for the tolerance and the interest with which she had regarded him from the first. The mere suspicion of it was a shock to him. He relapsed once more into a state of nervous silence. Ernestine yawned, and her hostess threw more than one pitying glance towards her.

Afterwards the whole party adjourned to the theatre, altogether in an informal manner. Some of the guests had carriages waiting, others went down in hansoms. Ernestine was rather late in coming downstairs and found Trent waiting for her in the hall. She was wearing a wonderful black satin opera cloak with pale green lining, her maid had touched up her hair and wound a string of pearls around her neck. He watched her as she came slowly down the stairs, buttoning her gloves, and looking at him with eyebrows faintly raised to see him waiting there alone. After all, what folly! Was it likely that wealth, however great, could ever make him of her world, could ever bring him in reality one degree nearer to her? That night he had lost all confidence. He told himself that it was the rankest presumption to even think of her.

"The others," he said, "have gone on. Lady Tresham left word that I was to take you."

She glanced at the old-fashioned clock which stood in the corner of the hall.

"How ridiculous to have hurried so!" she said. One might surely be comfortable here instead of waiting at the theatre."

She walked towards the door with him. His own little night-brougham was waiting there, and she stepped into it.

"I am surprised at Lady Tresham," she said, smiling. "I really don't think that I am at all properly chaperoned. This comes, I suppose, from having acquired a character for independence."

Her gown seemed to fill the carriage - a little sea of frothy lace and muslin. He hesitated on the pavement.

"Shall I ride outside?" he suggested. "I don't want to crush you."

She gathered up her skirt at once and made room for him. He directed the driver and stepped in beside her.

"I hope," she said, "that your cigarette restored your spirits. You are not going to be as dull all the evening as you were at dinner, are you?"

He sighed a little wistfully. "I'd like to talk to you," he said simply, "but somehow to-night... you know it was much easier when you were a journalist from the 'Hour'."

"Well, that is what I am now," she said, laughing. "Only I can't get away from all my old friends at once. The day after to-morrow I shall be back at work."

"Do you mean it?" he asked incredulously.

"Of course I do! You don't suppose I find this sort of thing particularly amusing, do you? Hasn't it ever occurred to you that there must be a terrible sameness about people who have been brought up amongst exactly the same surroundings and taught to regard life from exactly the same point of view?"

"But you belong to them - you have their instincts."

"I may belong to them in some ways, but you know that I am a revolted daughter. Haven't I proved it? Haven't I gone out into the world, to the horror of all my relatives, for the sole purpose of getting a firmer grip of life? And yet, do you know, Mr. Trent, I believe that to-night you have forgotten that. You have remembered my present character only, and, in despair of interesting a fashionable young lady, you have not talked to me at all, and I have been very dull."

"It is quite true," he assented. "All around us they were talking of things of which I knew nothing, and you were one of them."

"How foolish! You could have talked to me about Fred and the road-making in Africa and I should have been more interested than in anything they could have said to me."

They were passing a brilliantly-lit corner, and the light flashed upon his strong, set face with its heavy eyebrows and firm lips. He leaned back and laughed hoarsely. Was it her fancy, she wondered, or did he seem not wholly at his ease.

"Haven't I told you a good deal? I should have thought that Fred and I between us had told you all about Africa that you would care to hear."

She shook her head. What she said next sounded to him, in a certain sense, enigmatic.

"There is a good deal left for you to tell me," she said. "Some day I shall hope to know everything."

He met her gaze without flinching.

"Some day," he said, "I hope you will."

CHAPTER XXXVIII

The carriage drew up at the theatre and he handed her out - a little awkwardly perhaps, but without absolute clumsiness. They found all the rest of the party already in their seats and the curtain about to go up. They took the two end stalls, Trent on the outside. One chair only, next to him, remained unoccupied.

"You people haven't hurried," Lady Tresham remarked, leaning forward.

"We are in time at any rate," Ernestine answered, letting her cloak fall upon the back of the stall.

The curtain was rung up and the play began. It was a modern society drama, full of all the most up-to-date fashionable jargon and topical illusions. Trent grew more and more bewildered at every moment. Suddenly, towards the end of the first act, a fine dramatic situation leaped out like a tongue of fire. The interest of the whole audience, up to then only mildly amused, became suddenly intense. Trent sat forward in his seat. Ernestine ceased to fan herself. The man and the woman stood face to face - the light badinage which had been passing between them suddenly ended - the man, with his sin stripped bare, mercilessly exposed, the woman, his accuser, passionately eloquent, pouring out her scorn upon a mute victim. The audience knew what the woman in the play did not know, that it was for love of her that the man had sinned, to save her from a terrible danger which had hovered very near her life. The curtain fell, the woman leaving the room with a final taunt flung over her shoulder, the man seated at a table looking steadfastly into the fire with fixed, unseeing eyes. The audience drew a little breath and then applauded; the orchestra struck up and a buzz of conversation began.

It was then that Ernestine first noticed how absorbed the man at her side had become. His hands were gripping the arms of the stall, his eyes were fixed upon the spot somewhere behind the curtain where this sudden little drama had been played out, as though indeed they could pierce the heavy upholstery and see beyond into the room where the very air seemed quivering still with the vehemence of the woman's outpoured scorn. Ernestine spoke to him at last, the sound of her voice brought him back with a start to the present.

"You like it?"

"The latter part," he answered. "What a sudden change! At first I thought it rubbish, afterwards it was wonderful!"

"Hubert is a fine actor," she remarked, fanning herself. "It was his first opportunity in the play, and he certainly took advantage of it."

He turned deliberately round in his seat towards her, and she was struck with the forceful eagerness of his dark, set face.

"The man," he whispered hoarsely, "sinned for the love of the woman. Was he right? Would a woman forgive a man who deceived her for her own sake - when she knew?"

Ernestine held up her programme and studied it deeply.

"I cannot tell," she said, "it depends."

Trent drew a little breath and turned away. A quiet voice from his other side whispered in his ear - "The woman would forgive if she cared for the man."

 *           *           *           *           *

Trent turned sharply and the light died out of his voice. Surely it was an evil omen, this man's coming; for it was Captain Francis who had taken the vacant seat and who was watching his astonishment with a somewhat saturnine smile.

"Rather a stupid play, isn't it? By the by, Trent, I wish you would ask Miss Wendermott's permission to present me. I met her young cousin out at Attra."

Ernestine heard and leaned forward smiling. Trent did as he was asked, with set teeth and an ill grace. From then, until the curtain went up for the next act, he had only to sit still and listen.

Afterwards the play scarcely fulfilled the promise of its commencement. At the third act Trent had lost all interest in it. Suddenly an idea occurred to him. He drew a card from his pocket and, scribbling a word or two on it, passed it along to Lady Tresham. She leaned forward and smiled approval upon him.

"Delightful!"

Trent reached for his hat and whispered in Ernestine's ear.

"You are all coming to supper with me at the 'Milan,'" he said; "I am going on now to see about it."

She smiled upon him, evidently pleased.

"What a charming idea! But do you mean all of us?"

"Why not?"

He found his carriage outside without much difficulty and drove quickly round to the Milan Restaurant. The director looked doubtful.

"A table for eighteen, sir! It is quite too late to arrange it, except in a private room."

"The ladies prefer the large room," Trent answered decidedly, "and you must arrange it somehow. I'll give you carte blanche as to what you serve, but it must be of the best."

The man bowed. This must be a millionaire, for the restaurant was the "Milan."

"And the name, sir?"

"Scarlett Trent - you may not know me, but Lady Tresham, Lord Colliston, and the Earl of Howton are amongst my guests."

The man saw no more difficulties. The name of Scarlett Trent was the name which impressed him. The English aristocrat he had but little respect for, but a millionaire was certainly next to the gods.

"We must arrange the table crossways, sir, at the end of the room," he said. "And about the flowers?"

"The best, and as many as you can get," Trent answered shortly. "I have a 1OO pound note with me. I shall not grumble if I get little change out of it, but I want value for the money."

"You shall have it, sir! " the man answered significantly - and he kept his word.

Trent reached the theatre only as the people were streaming out. In the lobby he came face to face with Ernestine and Francis. They were talking together earnestly, but ceased directly they saw him.

"I have been telling Captain Francis," Ernestine said, "of your delightful invitation."

"I hope that Captain Francis will join us," Trent said coldly.

Francis stepped behind for a moment to light a cigarette.

"I shall be delighted," he answered.

 *           *           *           *           *

The supper party was one of those absolute and complete successes which rarely fall to the lot of even the most carefully thought out of social functions. Every one of Lady Tresham's guests had accepted the hurried invitation, every one seemed in good spirits, and delighted at the opportunity of unrestrained conversation after several hours at the theatre. The supper itself, absolutely the best of its kind, from the caviare and plovers' eggs to the marvellous ices, and served in one of the handsomest rooms in London, was really beyond criticism. To Trent it seemed almost like a dream, as he leaned back in his chair and looked down at the little party - the women with their bare shoulders and jewels, bathed in the soft glow of the rose-shaded electric lights, the piles of beautiful pink and white flowers, the gleaming silver, and the wine which frothed in their glasses. The music of the violins on the balcony blended with the soft, gay voices of the women. Ernestine was by his side, every one was good-humoured and enjoying his hospitality. Only one face at the table was a reminder of the instability of his fortunes - a face he had grown to hate during the last few hours with a passionate, concentrated hatred. Yet the man was of the same race as these people, his connections were known to many of them, he was making new friends and reviving old ties every moment. During a brief lull in the conversation his clear, soft voice suddenly reached Trent's ears. He was telling a story.

"Africa," he was saying, "is a country of surprises. Attra seems to be a city of hopeless exile for all white people. Last time I was there I used to notice every day a very old man making a pretence of working in a kitchen garden attached to a little white mission-house - a Basle Society depot. He always seemed to be leaning on his spade, always gazing out seawards in the same intent, fascinated way. Some one told me his history at last. He was an Englishman of good position who had got into trouble in his younger days and served a term of years in prison. When he came out, sooner than disgrace his family further, he published a false account of his death and sailed under a disguised name for Africa. There he has lived ever since, growing older and sinking lower, often near fortune but always missing it, a slave to bad habits, weak and dissolute if you like, but ever keeping up his voluntary sacrifice, ever with that unconquerable longing for one last glimpse of his own country and his own people. I saw him, not many months ago, still there, still with his eyes turned seawards and with the same wistful droop of the head. Somehow I can't help thinking that that old man was also a hero."

The tinkling of glasses and the sort murmuring of whispered conversation had ceased during Francis' story. Every one was a little affected - the soft throbbing of the violins upon the balcony was almost a relief. Then there was a little murmur of sympathetic remarks - but amongst it all Trent sat at the head of the table with white, set face but with red fire before his eyes. This man had played him false. He dared not look at Ernestine - only he knew that her eyes were wet with tears and that her bosom was heaving.

The spirits of men and women who sup are mercurial things, and it was a gay leave-taking half an hour or so later in the little Moorish room at the head of the staircase. But Ernestine left her host without even appearing to see his outstretched hand, and he let her go without a word. Only when Francis would have followed her Trent laid a heavy hand upon his shoulder.

"I must have a word with you, Francis," he said.

"I will come back," he said. "I must see Miss Wendermott into her carriage."

But Trent's hand remained there, a grip of iron from which there was no escaping. He said nothing, but Francis knew his man and had no idea of making a scene. So he remained till the last had gone and a tall, black servant had brought their coats from the cloak-room.

"You will come with me please," Trent said, "I have a few words to say to you."

Francis shrugged his shoulders and obeyed.

CHAPTER XXXIX

Scarcely a word passed between the two men until they found themselves in the smoking-room of Trent's house. A servant noiselessly arranged decanters and cigars upon the sideboard, and, in response to an impatient movement of Trent's, withdrew. Francis lit a cigarette. Trent, contrary to his custom, did not smoke. He walked to the door and softly locked it. Then he returned and stood looking down at his companion.

"Francis," he said, "you have been my enemy since the day I saw you first in Bekwando village."

Scarcely that," Francis objected. "I have distrusted you since then if you like."

"Call it what you like," Trent answered. "Only to-night you have served me a scurvy trick. You were a guest at my table and you gave me not the slightest warning. On the contrary, this morning you offered me a week's respite."

"The story I told," Francis answered, "could have had no significance to them."

"I don't know whether you are trying to deceive me or not," Trent said, "only if you do not know, let me tell you - Miss Wendermott is that old man's daughter!"

The man's start was real. There was no doubt about that. "And she knew?"

"She knew that he had been in Africa, but she believed that he had died there. What she believes at this moment I cannot tell. Your story evidently moved her. She will probably try to find out from you the truth."

Francis nodded.

"She has asked me to call upon her to-morrow."

"Exactly. Now, forgive my troubling you with personal details, but you've got to understand. I mean Miss Wendermott to be my wife."

Francis sat up in his chair genuinely surprised. Something like a scowl was on his dark, sallow face.

"Your wife !' he exclaimed, "aren't you joking, Trent?"

"I am not," Trent answered sharply. "From the moment I saw her that has been my fixed intention. Every one thinks of me as simply a speculator with the money fever in my veins. Perhaps that was true once. It isn't now! I must be rich to give her the position she deserves. That's all I care for money."'

"I am very much interested," Francis said slowly, "to hear of your intentions. Hasn't it occurred to you, however, that your behaviour toward Miss Wendermott's father will take a great deal of explanation?"

"If there is no interference," Trent said, "I can do it. There is mystery on her part too, for I offered a large reward and news of him through my solicitor, and she actually refused to reply. She has refused any money accruing to her through her father, or to be brought into contact with any one who could tell her about him."

"The fact," Francis remarked drily, "is scarcely to her credit. Monty may have been disreputable enough, I've no doubt he was; but his going away and staying there all these years was a piece of noble unselfishness."

"Monty has been hardly used in some ways," Trent said. "I've done my best by him, though."

"That," Francis said coldly, "is a matter of opinion."

"I know very well," Trent answered, "what yours is. You are welcome to it. You can blackguard me all round London if you like in a week - but I want a week's grace."

"Why should I grant it you?"

Trent shrugged his shoulders.

"I won't threaten," he said, "and I won't offer to bribe you, but I've got to have that week's grace. We're both men, Francis, who've been accustomed to our own way, I think. I want to know on what terms you'll grant it me."

Francis knocked the ash off his cigarette and rose slowly to his feet.

"You want to know," he repeated meditatively, "on what terms I'll hold my tongue for a week. Well, here's my answer! On no terms at all!"

"You don't mean that," Trent said quietly.

"We shall see," Francis answered grimly. "I'll be frank with you, Trent. When we came in here you called me your enemy. Well, in a sense you were right. I distrusted and disliked you from the moment I first met you in Bekwando village with poor old Monty for a partner, and read the agreement you had drawn up and the clause about the death of either making the survivor sole legatee. In a regular fever swamp Monty was drinking poison like water - and you were watching. That may have seemed all right to you. To me it was very much like murder. It was my mistrust of you which made me send men after you both through the bush, and, sure enough, they found poor Monty abandoned, left to die while you had hastened off to claim your booty. After that I had adventures enough of my own for a bit and I lost sight of you until I came across you and your gang road-making, and I am bound to admit that you saved my life. That's neither here nor there. I asked about Monty and you told me some plausible tale. I went to the place you spoke of - to find him of course spirited away. We have met again in England, Scarlett Trent, and I have asked once more for Monty. Once more I am met with evasions. This morning I granted you a week - now I take back my word. I am going to make public what I know to-morrow morning."

"Since this morning, then," Trent said, "your ill-will toward me has increased."

"Quite true," Francis answered. "We are playing with the cards upon the table, so I will be frank with you. What you told me about your intentions towards Miss Wendermott makes me determined to strike at once!"

"You yourself, I fancy," Trent said quietly, "admired her?"

"More than any woman I have ever met," Francis answered promptly, "and I consider your attitude towards her grossly presumptuous."

Trent stood quite still for a moment - then he unlocked the door.

"You had better go, Francis," he said quietly. "I have a defence prepared but I will reserve it. And listen, when I locked that door it was with a purpose. I had no mind to let you leave as you are leaving. Never mind. You can go - only be quick."

Francis paused upon the threshold. "You understand," he said significantly.

"I understand," Trent answered.

 *           *           *           *           *

An hour passed, and Trent still remained in the chair before his writing-table, his head upon his hand, his eyes fixed upon vacancy. Afterwards he always thought of that hour as one of the bitterest of his life. A strong and self-reliant man, he had all his life ignored companionship, had been well content to live without friends, self-contained and self-sufficient. To-night the spectre of a great loneliness sat silently by his side! His heart was sore, his pride had been bitterly touched, the desire and the whole fabric of his life was in imminent and serious danger.

The man who had left him was an enemy and a prejudiced man, but Trent knew that he was honest. He was the first human being to whom he had ever betrayed the solitary ambition of his life, and his scornful words seemed still to bite the air. If - he was right! Why not? Trent looked with keen, merciless eyes through his past, and saw never a thing there to make him glad. He had started life a workman, with a few ambitions' all of a material nature - he had lived the life of a cold, scheming money-getter, absolutely selfish, negatively moral, doing little evil perhaps, but less good. There was nothing in his life to make him worthy of a woman's love, most surely there was nothing which could ever make it possible that such a woman as Ernestine Wendermott should ever care for him. All the wealth of Africa could never make him anything different from what he was. And yet, as he sat and realised this, he knew that he was writing down his life a failure. For, beside his desire for her, there were no other things he cared for in life. Already he was weary of financial warfare - the City life had palled upon him. He looked around the magnificent room in the mansion which his agents had bought and furnished for him. He looked at the pile of letters waiting for him upon his desk, little square envelopes many of them, but all telling the same tale, all tributes to his great success, and the mockery of it all smote hard upon the walls of his fortitude. Lower and lower his head drooped until it was buried in his folded arms - and the hour which followed he always reckoned the bitterest of his life.

CHAPTER XL

A little earlier than usual next morning Trent was at his office in the City, prepared for the worst, and in less than half an hour he found himself face to face with one of those crises known to most great financiers at some time or other during their lives. His credit was not actually assailed, but it was suspended. The general public did not understand the situation, even those who were in a measure behind the scenes found it hard to believe that the attack upon the Bekwando Gold and Land shares was purely a personal one. For it was Da Souza who had fired the train, who had flung his large holding of shares upon the market, and, finding them promptly taken up, had gone about with many pious exclamations of thankfulness and sinister remarks. Many smaller holders followed suit, and yet never for a moment did the market waver. Gradually it leaked out that Scarlett Trent was the buyer, and public interest leaped up at once. Would Trent be able to face settling-day without putting his vast holdings upon the market? If so the bulls were going to have the worst knock they had had for years - and yet - and yet - the murmur went round from friend to friend - " Sell your Bekwandos."

At midday there came an urgent message from Trent's bankers, and as he read it he cursed. It was short but eloquent.

"DEAR SIR, - We notice that your account to-day stands 119,000 pounds overdrawn, against which we hold as collateral security shares in the Bekwando Land Company to the value of 150,000 pounds. As we have received certain very disquieting information concerning the value of these shares, we must ask you to adjust the account before closing hours to-day, or we shall be compelled to place the shares upon the market. "Yours truly, "A. SINCLAIR, General Manager."

Trent tore the letter into atoms, but he never quailed. Telegraph and telephone worked his will, he saw all callers, a cigar in his mouth and flower in his buttonhole, perfectly at his ease, sanguine and confident. A few minutes before closing time he strolled into the bank and no one noticed a great bead of perspiration which stood out upon his forehead. He made out a credit slip for 119,000 pounds, and, passing it across the counter with a roll of notes and cheques, asked for his shares.

They sent for the manager. Trent was ushered with much ceremony into his private room. The manager was flushed and nervous.

"I am afraid you must have misunderstood my note, Mr. Trent," he stammered. But Trent, remembering all that he had gone through to raise the money, stopped him short.

"This is not a friendly call, Mr. Sinclair," he said, "but simply a matter of business. I wish to clear my account with you to the last halfpenny, and I will take my shares away with me. I have paid in the amount I owe. Let one of your clerks make out the interest account."

The manager rang the bell for the key of the security safe. He opened it and took out the shares with fingers which trembled a good deal.

"Did I understand you, Mr. Trent, that you desired to absolutely close the account?" he asked.

"Most decidedly," Trent answered.

"We shall be very sorry to lose you."

"The sorrow will be all on your side, then," Trent answered grimly. "You have done your best to ruin me, you and that blackguard Da Souza, who brought me here. If you had succeeded in lumping those shares upon the market to-day or to-morrow, you know very well what the result would have been. I don't know whose game you have been playing, but I can guess!"

"I can assure you, Mr. Trent," the manager declared in his suavest and most professional manner, "that you are acting under a complete misapprehension. I will admit that our notice was a little short. Suppose we withdraw it altogether, eh? I am quite satisfied. We will put back the shares in the safe and you shall keep your money."

"No, I'm d - d if you do!" Trent answered bluntly. "You've had your money and I'll have the shares. I don't leave this bank without them, and I'll be shot if ever I enter it again."

So Trent, with his back against the wall and not a friend to help him, faced for twenty-four hours the most powerful bull syndicate which had ever been formed against a single Company. Inquiries as to his right of title had poured in upon him, and to all of them he had returned the most absolute and final assurances. Yet he knew when closing-time came, that he had exhausted every farthing he possessed in the world - it seemed hopeless to imagine that he could survive another day. But with the morning came a booming cable from Bekwando. There had been a great find of gold before ever a shaft had been sunk; an expert, from whom as yet nothing had been heard, wired an excited and wonderful report. Then the men who had held on to their Bekwandos rustled their morning papers and walked smiling to their offices. Prices leaped up. Trent's directors ceased to worry him and wired invitations to luncheon at the West End. The bulls were the sport of everybody. When closing-time came Trent had made 100,000 pounds, and was looked upon everywhere as one of the rocks of finance.

Only then he began to realise what the strain had been to him. His hard, impassive look had never altered, he had been seen everywhere in his accustomed City haunts, his hat a little better brushed than usual, his clothes a little more carefully put on, his buttonhole more obvious and his laugh readier. No one guessed the agony through which he had passed, no one knew that he had spent the night at a little inn twelve miles away, to which he had walked after nine o'clock at night. He had not a single confidant, even his cashier had no idea whence came the large sums of money which he had paid away right and left. But when it was all over he left the City, and, leaning back in the corner of his little brougham, was driven away to Pont Street. Here he locked himself in his room, took off his coat and threw himself upon a sofa with a big cigar between his teeth.

"If you let any one in to see me, Miles," he told the footman, "I'll kick you out of the house." So, though the bell rang often, he remained alone. But as he lay there with half-closed eyes living again through the tortures of the last few hours, he heard a voice that startled him. It was surely hers - already! He sprang up and opened the door. Ernestine and Captain Francis were in the hall.

He motioned them to follow him into the room. Ernestine was flushed and her eyes were very bright. She threw up her veil and faced him haughtily. "Where is he?" she asked. "I know everything. I insist upon seeing him at once."

"That," he said coolly, "will depend upon whether he is fit to see you!"

He rang the bell.

"Tell Miss Fullagher to step this way a moment," he ordered.

"He is in this house, then," she cried. He took no notice. In a moment a young woman dressed in the uniform of one of the principal hospitals entered.

"Miss Fullagher," he asked, "how is the patient?"

"We've had a lot of trouble with him, sir," she said significantly. "He was terrible all last night, and he's very weak this morning. Is this the young lady, sir?"

"This is the young lady who I told you would want to see him when you thought it advisable."

The nurse looked doubtful. "Sir Henry is upstairs, sir," she said. "I had better ask his advice."

Trent nodded and she withdrew. The three were left alone, Ernestine and Francis remained apart as though by design. Trent was silent.

She returned in a moment or two.

"Sir Henry has not quite finished his examination, sir," she announced. "The young lady can come up in half an hour."

Again they were left alone. Then Trent crossed the room and stood between them and the door.

"Before you see your father, Miss Wendermott," he said, "I have an explanation to make to you!"

CHAPTER XLI

He looked at him calmly, but in her set, white face he seemed to read already his sentence!

"Do you think it worth while, Mr. Trent? There is so much, as you put it, to be explained, that the task, even to a man of your versatility, seems hopeless!"

"I shall not trouble you long," he said. "At least one man's word should be as good as another's - and you have listened to what my enemy " - he motioned towards Francis - " has to say."

Francis shrugged his shoulders.

"I can assure you," he interrupted, "that I have no feeling of enmity towards you in the slightest. My opinion you know. I have never troubled to conceal it. But I deny that I am prejudiced by any personal feeling."

Trent ignored his speech.

"What I have to say to you," he continued addressing Ernestine, "I want to say before you see your father. I won't take up your time. I won't waste words. I take you back ten years to when I met him at Attra and we became partners in a certain enterprise. Your father at that time was a harmless wreck of a man who was fast killing himself with brandy. He had some money, I had none. With it we bought the necessary outfit and presents for my enterprise and started for Bekwando. The whole of the work fell to my share, and with great trouble I succeeded in obtaining the concessions we were working for. Your father spent all his time drinking, and playing cards, when I would play with him. The agreement as to the sharing of the profits was drawn up, it is true, by me, but at that time he made no word of complaint. I had no relations, he described himself as cut off wholly from his. It was here Francis first came on the scene. He found your father half drunk, and when he read the agreement it was plain what he thought. He thought that I was letting your father kill himself that the whole thing might be mine. He has probably told you so. I deny it. I did all I could to keep him sober!

"On our homeward way your father was ill and our bearers deserted us. We were pursued by the natives, who repented their concession, and I had to fight them more than once, half a dozen strong, with your father unconscious at my feet. It is true that I left him in the bush, but it was at his bidding and I believed him dying. It was my only chance and I took it. I escaped and reached Attra. Then, to raise money to reach England, I had to borrow from a man named Da Souza, and afterwards, in London, to start the Company, I had to make him my partner in the profits of the concession. One day I quarrelled with him - it was just at the time I met you - and then, for the first time, I heard of your father's being alive. I went out to Africa to bring him back and Da Souza followed me in abject fear, for as my partner he lost half if your father's claim was good. I found your father infirm and only half sane. I did all I could for him whilst I worked in the interior, and meant to bring him back to England with me when I came. unfortunately he recovered a little and suddenly seized upon the idea of visiting England. He left before me and fell into the hands of Da Souza, who had the best possible reasons in the world for keeping him in the background. I rescued him from them in time to save him from death and brought him to my own house, sent for doctors and nurses, and, when he was fit for you to see, I should have sent for you. I did not, I'll admit, make any public declaration of his existence, for the simple reason that it would have crippled our Company, and there are the interests of the shareholders to be considered, but I executed and signed a deed of partnership days ago which makes him an equal sharer in every penny I possess. Now this is the truth, Miss Wendermott, and if it is not a story I am particularly proud of, I don't very well see what else I could have done. It is my story and it is a true one. Will you believe it or will you take his word against mine?"

She would have spoken, but Francis held up his hand.

"My story," he said coolly, "has been told behind your back. It is only fair to repeat it to your face. I have told Miss Wendermott this - that I met you first in the village of Bekwando with a concession in your hand made out to you and her father jointly, with the curious proviso that in the event of the death of one the other was his heir. I pointed out to Miss Wendermott that you were in the prime of life and in magnificent condition, while her father was already on the threshold of the grave and drinking himself into a fever in a squalid hut in a village of swamps. I told her that I suspected foul play, that I followed you both and found her father left to the tender mercies of the savages, deserted by you in the bush. I told her that many months afterwards he disappeared, simultaneously with your arrival in the country, that a day or two ago you swore to me you had no idea where he was. That has been my story, Trent, let Miss Wendermott choose between them."

"I am content," Trent cried fiercely. "Your story is true enough, but it is cunningly linked together. You have done your worst. Choose!"

For ever afterwards he was glad of that single look of reproach which seemed to escape her unwittingly as her eyes met his. But she turned away and his heart was like a stone.

"You have deceived me, Mr. Trent. I am very sorry, and very disappointed."

"And you," he cried passionately, "are you yourself so blameless? Were you altogether deceived by your relations, or had you never a suspicion that your father might still be alive? You had my message through Mr. Cuthbert; I met you day by day after you knew that I had been your father's partner, and never once did you give yourself away! Were you tarred with the same brush as those canting snobs who doomed a poor old man to a living death? Doesn't it look like it? What am I to think of you?"

"Your judgment, Mr. Trent," she answered quietly, "is of no importance to me! It does not interest me in any way. But I will tell you this. If I did not disclose myself, it was because I distrusted you. I wanted to know the truth, and I set myself to find it out."

"Your friendship was a lie, then!" he cried, with flashing eyes. "To you I was nothing but a suspected man to be spied upon and betrayed."

She faltered and did not answer him. Outside the nurse was knocking at the door. Trent waved them away with an imperious gesture.

"Be off," he cried, "both of you! You can do your worst! I thank Heaven that I am not of your class, whose men have flints for hearts and whose women can lie like angels."

They left him alone, and Trent, with a groan, plucked from his heart the one strong, sweet hope which had changed his life so wonderfully. Upstairs, Monty was sobbing, with his little girl's arms about him.

CHAPTER XLII

With the darkness had come a wind from the sea, and the boy crept outside in his flannels and planter's hat and threw himself down in a cane chair with a little murmur of relief. Below him burned the white lights of the town, a little noisier than usual to-night, for out in the bay a steamer was lying-to, and there had been a few passengers and cargo to land. The boy had had a hard day's work, or he would have been in the town himself to watch for arrivals and wait for the mail. He closed his eyes, half asleep, for the sun had been hot and the murmurs of the sea below was almost like a lullaby. As he lay there a man's voice from the path reached him. He sprang up, listening intently. It must have been fancy - and yet! He leaned over the wooden balcony. The figure of a man loomed out through the darkness, came nearer, became distinct. Fred recognised him with a glad shout.

"Trent!" he cried. "Scarlett Trent, by all that's amazing!"

Trent held out his hand quickly. Somehow the glad young voice, quivering with excitement, touched his heart in an unexpected and unusual manner. It was pleasant to be welcomed like this - to feel that one person in the world at least was glad of his coming. For Trent was a sorely stricken man and the flavour of life had gone from him. Many a time he had looked over the steamer's side during that long, lonely voyage and gazed almost wishfully into the sea, in whose embrace was rest. It seemed to him that he had been a gambler playing for great stakes, and the turn of the wheel had gone against him.

"Fred!"

They stood with hands locked together, the boy breathless with surprise. Then he saw that something was wrong.

"What is it, Trent?" he asked quickly. "Have we gone smash after all, or have you been ill?"

Trent shook his head and smiled gravely.

"Neither," he said. "The Company is booming, I believe. Civilised ways didn't agree with me, I'm afraid. That's all! I've come back to have a month or two's hard work - the best physic in the world."

"I am delighted to see you," Fred said heartily. "Everything's going A1 here, and they've built me this little bungalow, only got in it last week - stunning, isn't it? But - just fancy your being here again so soon! Are your traps coming up?"

"I haven't many," Trent answered. "They're on the way. Have you got room for me?"

"Room for you!" the boy repeated scornfully. "Why, I'm all alone here. It's the only thing against the place, being a bit lonely. Room for you! I should think there is! Here, Dick! Dinner at once, and some wine!"

Trent was taken to see his room, the boy talking all the time, and later on dinner was served and the boy did the honours, chaffing and talking lightly. But later on when they sat outside, smoking furiously to keep off the mosquitoes and watching the fireflies dart in and out amongst the trees, the boy was silent. Then he leaned over and laid his hand on Trent's arm.

"Tell me all about it - do," he begged.

Trent was startled, touched, and suddenly filled with a desire for sympathy such as he had never before in his life experienced. He hesitated, but it was only for a moment.

"I never thought to tell any one," he said slowly, "I think I'd like to!"

And he did. He told his whole story. He did not spare himself. He spoke of the days of his earlier partnership with Monty, and he admitted the apparent brutality of his treatment of him on more than one occasion. He spoke of Ernestine too - of his strange fancy for the photograph of Monty's little girl, a fancy which later on when he met her became almost immediately the dominant passion of his life. Then he spoke of the coming of Francis, of the awakening of Ernestine's suspicions, and of that desperate moment when he risked everything on her faith in him - and lost. There was little else to tell and afterwards there was a silence. But presently the boy's hand fell upon his arm almost caressingly and he leaned over through the darkness.

"Women are such idiots," the boy declared, with all the vigour and certainty of long experience. "If only Aunt Ernestine had known you half as well as I do, she would have been quite content to have trusted you and to have believed that what you did was for the best. But I say, Trent, you ought to have waited for it. After she had seen her father and talked with him she must have understood you better. I shall write to her."

But Trent shook his head.

"No," he said sternly, "it is too late now. That moment taught me all I wanted to know. It was her love I wanted, Fred, and - that - no use hoping for that, or she would have trusted me. After all I was half a madman ever to have expected it - a rough, coarse chap like me, with only a smattering of polite ways! It was madness! Some day I shall get over it! We'll chuck work for a bit, soon, Fred, and go for some lions. That'll give us something to think about at any rate."

But the lions which Trent might have shot lived in peace, for on the morrow he was restless and ill, and within a week the deadly fever of the place had him in its clutches. The boy nursed him and the German doctor came up from Attra and, when he learnt who his patient was, took up his quarters in the place. But for all his care and the boy's nursing things went badly with Scarlett Trent.

To him ended for a while all measure of days - time became one long night, full of strange, tormenting flashes of thought, passing like red fire before his burning eyes. Sometimes it was Monty crying to him from the bush, sometimes the yelling of those savages at Bekwando seemed to fill the air, sometimes Ernestine was there, listening to his passionate pleading with cold, set face, In the dead of night he saw her and the still silence was broken by his hoarse, passionate cries, which they strove in vain to check. And when at last he lay white and still with exhaustion, the doctor looked at the boy and softly shook his head. He had very little hope.

Trent grew worse. In those rare flashes of semi-consciousness which sometimes come to the fever-stricken, he reckoned himself a dying man and contemplated the end of all things without enthusiasm and without regret. The one and only failure of his life had eaten like canker into his heart. It was death he craved for in the hot, burning nights, and death came and sat, a grisly shadow, at his pillow. The doctor and the boy did their best, but it was not they who saved him.

There came a night when he raved, and the sound of a woman's name rang out from the open windows of the little bungalow, rang out through the drawn mosquito netting amongst the palm-trees, across the surf-topped sea to the great steamer which lay in the bay. Perhaps she heard it - perhaps after all it was a fancy. Only, in the midst of his fever, a hand as soft as velvet and as cool as the night sea-wind touched his forehead, and a voice sounded in his ears so sweetly that the blood burned no longer in his veins, so sweetly that he lay back upon his pillow like a man under the influence of a strong narcotic and slept. Then the doctor smiled and the boy sobbed.

"I came," she said softly, "because it was the only atonement I could make. I ought to have trusted you. Do you know, even my father told me that."

"I have made mistakes," he said, "and of course behaved badly to him."

"Now that everything has been explained," she said, "I scarcely see what else you could have done. At least you saved him from Da Souza when his death would have made you a freer man. He is looking forward to seeing you, you must make haste and get strong."

"For his sake," he murmured.

She leaned over and caressed him lightly. "For mine, dear."

End

"The boxes," Trent suggested, "must be very hot now!"

He turned down a side-walk away from the stand towards an empty seat under an elm-tree, and, after a moment's scarcely perceptible hesitation, she followed his lead. He laughed softly to himself. If this was defeat, what in the world was better?

"This is your first Ascot, is it not?" she asked.

"My first!"

"And your first defeat?"

"I suppose it is," he admitted cheerfully. "I rather expected to win, too."

"You must be very disappointed, I am afraid."

"I have lost," he said thoughtfully, "a gold cup. I have gained - "

She half rose and shook out her skirts as though about to leave him. He stopped short and found another conclusion to his sentence.

"Experience!"

A faint smile parted her lips. She resumed her seat.

"I am glad to find you," she said, "so much of a philosopher. Now talk to me for a few minutes about what you have been doing in Africa."

He obeyed her, and very soon she forgot the well dressed crowd of men and women by whom they were surrounded, the light hum of gay conversation, the band which was playing the fashionable air of the moment. She saw instead the long line of men of many races, stripped to the waist and toiling as though for their lives under a tropical sun, she saw the great brown water-jars passed down the line, men fainting beneath the burning sun and their places taken by others. She heard the shrill whistle of alarm, the beaten drum; she saw the spade exchanged for the rifle, and the long line of toilers disappear behind the natural earthwork which their labours had created. She saw black forms rise stealthily from the long, rank grass, a flight of quivering spears, the horrid battle-cry of the natives rang in her ears. The whole drama of the man's great past rose up before her eyes, made a living and real thing by his simple but vigorous language. That he effaced himself from it went for nothing; she saw him there perhaps more clearly than anything else, the central and domineering figure, a man of brains and nerve who, with his life in his hands, faced with equal immovability a herculean task and the chances of death. Certain phrases in Fred's letter had sunk deep into her mind, they were recalled very vividly by the presence of the man himself, telling his own story. She sat in the sunlight with the music in her ears, listening to his abrupt, vivid speech, and a fear came to her which blanched her cheeks and caught at her throat. The hand which held her dainty parasol of lace shook, and an indescribable thrill ran through her veins. She could no more think of this man as a clodhopper, a coarse upstart without manners or imagination. In many ways he fell short of all the usual standards by which the men of her class were judged, yet she suddenly realised that he possessed a touch of that quality which lifted him at once far over their heads, The man had genius. Without education or culture he had yet achieved greatness. By his side the men who were passing about on the lawn became suddenly puppets. Form and style, manners and easy speech became suddenly stripped of their significance to her. The man at her side had none of these things, yet he was of a greater world. She felt her enmity towards him suddenly weakened. Only her pride now could help her. She called upon it fiercely. He was the man whom she had deliberately believed to be guilty of her father's death, the man whom she had set herself to entrap. She brushed all those other thoughts away and banished firmly that dangerous kindness of manner into which she had been drifting.

And he, on his part, felt a glow of keen pleasure When he realised how the events of the day had gone in his favour. If not yet of her world, he knew now that his becoming so would be hereafter purely a matter of time. He looked up through the green leaves at the blue sky, bedappled with white, fleecy clouds, and wondered whether she guessed that his appearance here, his ownership of Iris, the studious care with which he had placed himself in the hands of a Seville Row tailor were all for her sake. It was true that she had condescended to Bohemianism, that be had first met her as a journalist, working for her living in a plain serge suit and a straw hat. But he felt sure that this had been to a certain extent a whim with her. He stole a sidelong glance at her - she was the personification of daintiness from the black patent shoes showing beneath the flouncing of her skirt, to the white hat with its clusters of roses. Her foulard gown was as simple as genius could make it, and she wore no ornaments, save a fine clasp to her waistband of dull gold, quaintly fashioned, and the fine gold chain around her neck, from which hung her racing-glasses. She was to him the very type of everything aristocratic. It might be, as she had told him, that she chose to work for her living, but he knew as though by inspiration that her people and connections were of that world to which he could never belong, save on sufferance. He meant to belong to it, for her sake - to win her! He admitted the presumption, but then it would be presumption of any man to lift his eyes to her. He estimated his chances with common sense; he was not a man disposed to undervalue himself. He knew the power of his wealth and his advantage over the crowd of young men who were her equals by birth. For he had met some of them, had inquired into their lives, listened to their jargon, and had come in a faint sort of way to understand them. It had been an encouragement to him. After all it was only serious work, life lived out face to face with the great realities of existence which could make a man. In a dim way he realised that there were few in her own class likely to satisfy Ernestine. He even dared to tell himself that those things which rendered him chiefly unfit for her, the acquired vulgarities of his rougher life, were things which he could put away; that a time would come when he would take his place confidently in her world, and that the end would be success. And all the while from out of the blue sky Fate was forging a thunderbolt to launch against him!

CHAPTER XXXIV

"And now," she said, rising, "you really must take me to Lady Tresham! They will think that I am lost."

"Are you still at your rooms?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Yes, only I'm having them spring-cleaned for a few days. I am staying at Tresham House."

"May I come and see you there?"

The man's quiet pertinacity kindled a sort of indignation in her. The sudden weakness in her defences was unbearable.

"I think not," she answered shortly. "You don't know Lady Tresham, and they might not approve. Lady Tresham is rather old-fashioned."

"Oh, Lady Tresham is all right," he answered. "I suppose I shall see you to-night if you are staying there. They have asked me to dinner!"

She was taken aback and showed it. Again he had the advantage. He did not tell her that on his return he had found scores of invitations from people he had never heard of before.

"You are by way of going into society, then," she answered insolently.

"I don't think I've made any particular efforts," he answered.

"Money," she murmured, "is an everlasting force!"

"The people of your world," be answered, with a flash of contempt, "are the people who find it so."

She was silent then, and Trent was far from being discouraged by her momentary irritability. He was crossing the lawn now by her side, carrying himself well, with a new confidence in his air and bearing which she did not fail to take note of. The sunlight, the music, and the pleasant air of excitement were all in his veins. He was full of the strong joy of living. And then, in the midst of it all, came a dull, crashing blow. It was as though all his castles in the air had come toppling about his ears, the blue sky had turned to stony grey and the sweet waltz music had become a dirge. Always a keen watcher of men's faces, he had glanced for a second time at a gaunt, sallow man who wore a loose check suit and a grey Homburg hat. The eyes of the two men met. Then the blood had turned to ice in Trent's veins and the ground had heaved beneath his feet. It was the one terrible chance which Fate had held against him, and she had played the card.

Considering the nature and suddenness of the blow which had fallen upon him, Trent's recovery was marvellous. The two men had come face to face upon the short turf, involuntarily each had come to a standstill. Ernestine looked from one to the other a little bewildered.

"I should like a word with you, Trent," Captain Francis said quietly.

Trent nodded.

"In five minutes," he said, "I will return here - on the other side of the band-stand, say."

Francis nodded and stood aside. Trent and Ernestine continued their progress towards the stand.

"Your friend," Ernestine remarked, " seemed to come upon you like a modern Banquo!"

Trent, who did not understand the allusion, was for once discreet.

"He is a man with whom I had dealings abroad," he said, "I did not expect him to turn up here."

"In West Africa?" she asked quickly.

Trent smiled enigmatically.

"There are many foreign countries besides Africa," he said, "and I've been in most of them. This is box No. 13, then. I shall see you this evening."

She nodded, and Trent was free again. He did not make his way at once to the band-stand. Instead he entered the small refreshment-room at the base of the building and called for a glass of brandy. He drank it slowly, his eyes fixed upon the long row of bottles ranged upon the shelf opposite to him, he himself carried back upon a long wave of thoughts to a little West African station where the moist heat rose in fever mists and where an endless stream of men passed backward and forward to their tasks with wan, weary faces and slowly dragging limbs. What a cursed chance which had brought him once more face to face with the one weak spot in his life, the one chapter which, had he the power, he would most willingly seal for ever! From outside came the ringing of a bell, the hoarse shouting of many voices in the ring, through the open door a vision of fluttering waves of colour, lace parasols and picture hats, little trills of feminine laughter, the soft rustling of muslins and silks. A few moments ago it had all seemed so delightful to him - and now there lay a hideous blot upon the day.

It seemed to him when he left the little bar that he had been there for hours, as a matter of fact barely five minutes had passed since he had left Ernestine. He stood for a moment on the edge of the walk, dazzled by the sunlight, then he stepped on to the grass and made his way through the throng. The air was full of soft, gay music, and the skirts and flounces of the women brushed against him at every step. Laughter and excitement were the order of the day. Trent, with his suddenly pallid face and unseeing eyes, seemed a little out of place in such a scene of pleasure. Francis, who was smoking a cigar, looked up as he approached and made room for him upon the seat.

"I did not expect to see you in England quite so soon, Captain Francis," Trent said.

"I did not expect," Francis answered, "ever to be in England again. I am told that my recovery was a miracle. I am also told that I owe my Life to you!"

Trent shrugged his shoulders.

"I would have done as much for any of my people," he said, "and you don't owe me any thanks. To be frank with you, I hoped you'd die."

"You could easily have made sure of it," Francis answered.

"It wasn't my way," Trent answered shortly. "Now what do you want with me?"

Francis turned towards him with a curious mixture of expressions in his face.

"Look here," he said, "I want to believe in you! You saved my life and I'm not over-anxious to do you a mischief. But you must tell me what you have done with Vill - Monty."

"Don't you know where he is?" Trent asked quickly.

"I? Certainly not! How should I?"

"Perhaps not," Trent said, "but here's the truth. When I got back to Attra Monty had disappeared - ran away to England, and as yet I've heard never a word of him. I'd meant to do the square thing by him and bring him back myself. Instead of that he gave us all the slip, but unless he's a lot different to what he was last time I saw him, he's not fit to be about alone."

"I heard that he had left," Francis said, "from Mr. Walsh."

"He either came quite alone," Trent said, "in which case it is odd that nothing has been heard of him, or Da Souza has got hold of him."

"Oom Sam's brother?"

Trent nodded.

"And his interest?" Francis asked.

"Well, he is a large shareholder in the Company," Trent said. "Of course he could upset us all if he liked. I should say that Da Souza would try all he could to keep him in the background until he had disposed of his shares."

"And how does your stock hold?"

"I don't know," Trent said. "I only landed yesterday. I'm pretty certain though that there's no market for the whole of Da Souza's holding."

"He has a large interest, then?"

"A very large one," Trent answered drily.

"I should like," Francis said, "to understand this matter properly. As a matter of fact I suppose that Monty is entitled to half the purchase-money you received for the Company.

Trent assented.

"It isn't that I grudge him that," he said, "although, with the other financial enterprises I have gone into, I don't know how I should raise half a million of money to pay him off. But don't you see my sale of the charter to the Company is itself, Monty being alive, an illegal act. The title will be wrong, and the whole affair might drift into Chancery, just when a vigorous policy is required to make the venture a success. If Monty were here and in his right mind, I think we could come to terms, but, when I saw him last at any rate, he was quite incapable, and he might become a tool to anything. The Bears might get hold of him and ruin us all. In short, it's a beastly mess!"

Francis looked at him keenly.

"What do you expect me to do?" he asked.

"I have no right to expect anything," Trent said. "However, I saved your life and you may consider yourself therefore under some obligation to me. I will tell you then what I would have you do. In the first place, I know no more where he is than you do. He may be in England or he may not. I shall go to Da Souza, who probably knows. You can come with me if you like. I don't want to rob the man of a penny. He shall have all he is entitled to - only I do want to arrange terms with him quietly, and not have the thing talked about. It's as much for the others' sake as my own. The men who came into my Syndicate trusted me, and I don't want them left."

Francis took a little silver case from his pocket, lit a cigarette, and smoked for a moment or two thoughtfully.

"It is possible," he said at last, "that you are an honest man. On the other hand you must admit that the balance of probability from my point of view is on the other side. Let us travel backwards a little way - to my first meeting with you. I witnessed the granting of this concession to you by the King of Bekwando. According to its wording you were virtually Monty's heir, and Monty was lying drunk, in a climate where strong waters and death walk hand-in-hand. You leave him in the bush, proclaim his death, and take sole possession. I find him alive, do the best I can for him, and here the first act ends. Then what afterwards? I hear of you as an empire-maker and a millionaire. Nevertheless, Monty was alive and you knew he was alive, but when I reach Attra he has been spirited away! I want to know where! You say you don't know. It may be true, but it doesn't sound like it."

Trent's under-lip was twitching, a sure sign of the tempest within, but he kept himself under restraint and said never a word.

Francis continued, "Now I do not wish to be your enemy, Scarlett Trent, or to do you an ill turn, but this is my word to you. Produce Monty within a week and open reasonable negotiations for treating him fairly, and I will keep silent. But if you can't produce him at the end of that time I must go to his relations and lay all these things before them."

Trent rose slowly to his feet.

"Give me your address," he said, "I will do what I can."

Francis tore a leaf from his pocket-book and wrote a few words upon it.

"That will find me at any time," he said. "One moment, Trent. When I saw you first you were with - a lady."

"Well!"

"I have been away from England so long," Francis continued slowly, "that my memory has suffered. Yet that lady's face was somehow familiar. May I ask her name?"

"Miss Ernestine Wendermott," Trent answered slowly.

Francis threw away his cigarette and lit another.

"Thank you," he said.

CHAPTER XXXV

Da Souza's office was neither furnished nor located with the idea of impressing casual visitors. It was in a back-street off an alley, and although within a stone's throw of Lothbury its immediate surroundings were not exhilarating. A blank wall faced it, a green-grocer's shop shared with a wonderful, cellar-like public-house the honour of its more immediate environment. Trent, whose first visit it was, looked about him with surprise mingled with some disgust.

He pushed open the swing door and found himself face to face with Da Souza's one clerk - a youth of unkempt appearance, shabbily but flashily dressed, with sallow complexion and eyes set close together. He was engaged at that particular moment in polishing a large diamond pin upon the sleeve of his coat, which operation he suspended to gaze with much astonishment at this unlocked-for visitor. Trent had come straight from Ascot, straight indeed from his interview with Francis, and was still wearing his racing-glasses.

"I wish to see Mr. Da Souza," Trent said. "Is he in?"

"I believe so, sir," the boy answered. "What name?"

"Trent! Mr. Scarlett Trent!"

The door of an inner office opened, and Da Souza, sleek and curled, presented himself. He showed all his white teeth in the smile with which he welcomed his visitor. The light of battle was in his small, keen eyes, in his cringing bow, his mock humility.

"I am most honoured, Mr. Trent, sir," he declared. "Welcome back to England. When did you return?"

"Yesterday," Trent said shortly.

"And you have come," Da Souza continued, "fresh from the triumphs of the race-course. It is so, I trust?"

"I have come straight from Ascot," Trent replied, "but my horse was beaten if that is what you mean. I did not come here to talk about racing though. I want a word with you in private."

"With much pleasure, sir," Da Souza answered, throwing open with a little flourish the door of his sanctum. "Will you step in? This way! The chair is dusty. Permit me!"

Trent threw a swift glance around the room in which he found himself. It was barely furnished, and a window, thick with dust, looked out on the dingy back-wall of a bank or some public building. The floor was uncovered, the walls were hung with yellow maps of gold-mines all in the West African district. Da Souza himself, spick and span, with glossy boots and a flower in his buttonhole, was certainly the least shabby thing in the room.

"You know very well," Trent said, "what I have come about. Of course you'll pretend you don't, so to save time I'll tell you. What have you done with Monty?"

Da Souza spread outwards the palms of his hands. He spoke with well-affected impatience.

"Monty! always Monty! What do I want with him? It is you who should look after him, not I."

Trent turned quietly round and locked the door. Da Souza would have called out, but a paroxysm of fear had seized him. His fat, white face was pallid, and his knees were shaking. Trent's hand fell upon his shoulder, and Da Souza felt as though the claws of a trap had gripped him.

"If you call out I'll throttle you," Trent said. "Now listen. Francis is in England and, unless Monty is produced, will tell the whole story. I shall do the best I can for all of us, but I'm not going to have Monty done to death. Come, let's have the truth."

Da Souza was grey now with a fear greater even than a physical one. He had been so near wealth. Was he to lose everything?

"Mr. Trent," he whispered, "my dear friend, have reason. Monty, I tell you, is only half alive, he hangs on, but it is a mere thread of life. Leave it all to me! To-morrow he shall be dead! - oh, quite naturally. There shall be no risk! Trent, Trent!"

His cry ended in a gurgle, for Trent's hand was on his throat.

"Listen, you miserable hound," he whispered. "Take me to him this moment, or I'll shake the life out of you. Did you ever know me go back from my word?"

Da Souza took up his hat with an ugly oath and yielded. The two men left the office together.

 *           *           *           *           *

"Listen!"

The two women sat in silence, waiting for some repetition of the sound. This time there was certainly no possibility of any mistake. >From the room above their heads came the feeble, quavering sobbing of an old man. Julie threw down her book and sprang up.

"Mother, I cannot bear it any longer," she cried. "I know where the key is, and I am going into that room"

Mrs. Da Souza's portly frame quivered with excitement.

"My child," she pleaded, "don't Julie, do remember! Your father will know, and then - oh, I shall be frightened to death!"

"It is nothing to do with you, mother," the girl said, "I am going."

Mrs. Da Souza produced a capacious pocket-handkerchief, reeking with scent, and dabbed her eyes with it. From the days when she too had been like Julie, slim and pretty, she had been every hour in dread of her husband. Long ago her spirit had been broken and her independence subdued. To her friend and confidants no word save of pride and love for her husband had ever passed her lips, yet now as she watched her daughter she was conscious of a wild, passionate wish that her fate at least might be a different one. And while she mopped her eyes and looked backward, Julie disappeared.

Even Julie, as she ascended the stairs with the key of the locked room in her hand, was conscious of unusual tremors. If her position with regard to her father was not the absolute condition of serfdom into which her mother had been ground down, she was at least afraid of him, and she remembered the strict commands he had laid upon them all. The room was not to be open save by himself. All cries and entreaties were to be disregarded, every one was to behave as though that room did not exist. They had borne it already for days, the heart-stirring moans, the faint, despairing cries of the prisoner, and she could bear it no longer. She had a tender little heart, and from the first it had been moved by the appearance of the pitiful old man, leaning so heavily upon her father's arm, as they had come up the garden walk together. She made up her mind to satisfy herself at least that his isolation was of his own choice. So she went boldly up the stairs and thrust the key into the lock. A moment's hesitation, then she threw it open.

Her first impulse, when she had looked into the face of the man who stumbled up in fear at her entrance, was to then and there abandon her enterprise - for Monty just then was not a pleasant sight to look upon. The room was foul with the odour of spirits and tobacco smoke. Monty himself was unkempt and unwashed, his eyes were bloodshot, and he had fallen half across the table with the gesture of a drunken man. At the sight of him her pity died away. After all, then, the sobbing they had heard was the maudlin crying of a drunken man. Yet he was very old, and there was something about the childish, breathless fear with which he was regarding her which made her hesitate. She lingered instead, and finding him tongue-tied, spoke to him.

"We heard you talking to yourself downstairs," she said, "and we were afraid that you might be in pain."

"Ah," he muttered, "That is all, then! There is no one behind you - no one who wants me!"

"There is no one in the house," she assured him, "save my mother and myself."

He drew a little breath which ended in a sob. "You see," he said vaguely, "I sit up here hour by hour, and I think that I fancy things. Only a little while ago I fancied that I heard Mr. Walsh's voice, and he wanted the mission-box, the wooden box with the cross, you know. I keep on thinking I hear him. Stupid, isn't it?"

He smiled weakly, and his bony fingers stole round the tumbler which stood by his side. She shook her head at him smiling, and crossed over to him. She was not afraid any more.

"I wouldn't drink if I were you," she said, "it can't be good for you, I'm sure!"

"Good," he answered slowly, "it's poison - rank poison."

"If I were you," she said, "I would put all this stuff away and go for a nice walk. It would do you much more good."

He shook his head.

"I daren't," he whispered. "They're looking for me now. I must hide - hide all the time!"

"Who are looking for you?" she asked.

"Don't you know? Mr. Walsh and his wife! They have come over after me!"

"Why?"

"Didn't you know," he muttered," that I am a thief?"

She shook her head.

"No, I certainly didn't. I'm very sorry!"

He nodded his head vigorously a great many times.

"Won't you tell me about it?" she asked. "Was it anything very bad?"

"I don't know," he said. "It's so hard to remember! It is something like this! I seem to have lived for such a long time, and when I look back I can remember things that happened a very long time ago, but then there seems a gap, and everything is all misty, and it makes my head ache dreadfully to try and remember," he moaned.

"Then don't try," she said kindly. "I'll read to you for a little time if you like, and you shall sit quite quiet."

He seemed not to have heard her. He continued presently -

"Once before I died, it was all I wanted. Just to have heard her speak, to have seen my little girl grown into a woman, and the sea was always there, and Oom Sam would always come with that cursed rum. Then one day came Trent and talked of money and spoke of England, and when he went away it rang for ever in my ears, and at night I heard her calling for me across the sea. So I stole out, and the great steamer was lying there with red fires at her funnel, and I was mad. She was crying for me across the sea, so I took the money!"

She patted his hand gently. There was a lump in her throat, and her eyes were wet.

"Was it your daughter you wanted so much to see?" she asked softly.

"My daughter! My little girl," he answered! "And I heard her calling to me with her mother's voice across the sea. So I took the money."

"No one would blame you very much for that, I am sure," she said cheerfully. "You are frightening yourself needlessly. I will speak to Father, and he shall help you."

He held up his hand.

"He is hiding me," he whispered. "It is through him I knew that they were after me. I don't mind for myself, but she might get to know, and I have brought disgrace enough upon her. Listen!"

There were footsteps upon the stairs. He clung to her in an agony of terror.

"They are coming!" he cried. "Hide me! Oh, hide me!"

But she too was almost equally terrified, for she had recognised her father's tread. The door was thrown open and De Souza entered, followed by Scarlett Trent.

CHAPTER XXXVI

The old man and the girl were equally terrified, both without cause. Da Souza forgot for a moment to be angry at his daughter's disobedience; and was quick to see that her presence there was all to his advantage. Monty, as white as death, was stricken dumb to see Trent. He sank back gasping into a chair. Trent came up to him with outstretched hands and with a look of keen pity in his hard face.

"Monty, old chap," he said, "what on earth are you scared at? Don't you know I'm glad to see you! Didn't I come to Attra to get you back to England? Shake hands, partner. I've got lots of money for you and good news."

Monty's hand was limp and cold, his eyes were glazed and expressionless. Trent looked at the half-empty bottle by his side and turned savagely to Da Souza.

"You blackguard!" he said in a low tone, "you wanted to kill him, did you? Don't you know that to shut him up here and ply him with brandy is as much murder as though you stood with a knife at his throat?"

"He goes mad without something to drink," Da Souza muttered.

"He'll go mad fast enough with a bottle of brandy within reach, and you know it," Trent answered fiercely. "I am going to take him away from here."

Da Souza was no longer cringing. He shrugged his shoulders and thrust his fat little hands into his trousers pockets.

"Very well," he said darkly, "you go your own way. You won't take my advice. I've been a City man all my life, and I know a thing or two. You bring Monty to the general meeting of the Bekwando Company and explain his position, and I tell you, you'll have the whole market toppling about your ears. No concern of mine, of course. I have got rid of a few of my shares, and I'll work a few more off before the crash. But what about you? What about Scarlett Trent, the millionaire?"

"I can afford to lose a bit," Trent answered quietly, "I'm not afraid."

Da Souza laughed a little hysterically.

"You think you're a financial genius, I suppose," he said, "because you've brought a few things off. Why, you don't know the A B C of the thing. I tell you this, my friend. A Company like the Bekwando Company is very much like a woman's reputation, drop a hint or two, start just a bit of talk, and I tell you the flames'11 soon do the work."

Trent turned his back upon him.

"Monty," he said, "you aren't afraid to come with me?"

Monty looked at him, perplexed and troubled. "You've nothing to be afraid of," Trent continued. "As to the money at Mr. Walsh's house, I settled that all up with him before I left Attra. It belonged to you really, for I'd left more than that for you."

"There is no one, then," Monty asked in a slow, painful whisper, "who will put me in prison?"

"I give you my word, Monty," Trent declared, "that there is not a single soul who has any idea of the sort."

"You see, it isn't that I mind," Monty continued in a low, quivering voice, "but there's my little girl! My real name might come out, and I wouldn't have her know what I've been for anything."

"She shall not know," Trent said, "I'll promise you'll be perfectly safe with me."

Monty rose up weakly. His knees were shaking, and he was in a pitiful state. He cast a sidelong glance at the brandy bottle by his side, and his hand stole out towards it. But Trent stopped him gently but firmly.

"Not now, Monty," he said, "you've had enough of that!"

The man's hand dropped to his side. He looked into Trent's face, and the years seemed to fade away into a mist.

"You were always a hard man, Scarlett Trent," he said. "You were always hard on me!"

"Maybe so," Trent answered, "yet you'd have died in D.T. before now but for me! I kept you from it as far as I could. I'm going to keep you from it now!"

Monty turned a woebegone face around the little room.

"I don't know," he said; "I'm comfortable here, and I'm too old, Trent, to live your life. I'd begin again, Trent, I would indeed, if I were ten years younger. It's too late now! I couldn't live a day without something to keep up my strength!"

"He's quite right, Trent," Da Souza put in hastily. "He's too old to start afresh now. He's comfortable here and well looked after; make him an allowance, or give him a good lump sum in lieu of all claims. I'll draw it out; you'll sign it, won't you, Monty? Be reasonable, Trent! It's the best course for all of us!"

But Trent shook his head. "I have made up my mind," he said. "He must come with me. Monty, there is the little girl!

"Too late," Monty moaned; "look at me!"

"But if you could leave her a fortune, make her magnificent presents?"

Monty wavered then. His dull eyes shone once more!

"If I could do that," he murmured.

"I pledge my word that you shall," Trent answered. Monty rose up.

"I am ready," he said simply. "Let us start at once."

Da Souza planted himself in front of them.

"You defy me!" he said. "You will not trust him with me or take my advice. Very well, my friend! Now listen! You want to ruin me! Well, if I go, the Bekwando Company shall go too, you understand! Ruin for me shall mean ruin for Mr. Scarlett Trent - ah, ruin and disgrace. It shall mean imprisonment if I can bring it about, and I have friends! Don't you know that you are guilty of fraud? You sold what wasn't yours and put the money in your pocket! You left your partner to rot in a fever swamp, or to be done to death by those filthy blacks. The law will call that swindling! You will find yourself in the dock, my friend, in the prisoners' dock, I say! Come, how do you like that, Mr. Scarlett Trent? If you leave this room with him, you are a ruined man. I shall see to it."

Trent swung him out of the way - a single contemptuous turn of the wrist, and Da Souza reeled against the mantelpiece. He held out his hand to Monty and they left the room together.

"Don't talk rubbish!" Cathcart said angrily. "I'm the authorised and properly appointed surveyor here!"

"You're a liar!" Trent answered, "you've no connection at all with the Company! you're dismissed, sir, for incompetence and cowardice, and if you're not off the premises in three minutes it'll be the worse for you!"

"You - you - haven't the power to do this," Cathcart stuttered.

Trent laughed.

"We'll see about that," he said. "I never had much faith in you, sir, and I guess you only got the job by a rig. But out you go now, sharp. If there's anything owing you, you can claim it in London.

"There are all my clothes - " Cathcart began.

Trent laid his hands upon his shoulders and threw him softly outside.

"I'll send your clothes to the hotel," he said. "Take my advice, young man, and keep out of my sight till you can find a steamer to take you where they'll pay you for doing nothing. You're the sort of man who irritates me and it's a nasty climate for getting angry in!"

Cathcart picked himself up. "Well, I should like to know who's going to make your road," he said spitefully.

"I'll make it myself," Trent roared. "Don't you think a little thing like some stupid laws of science will stand in my way, or the way of a man who knows his own mind. I tell you I'll level that road from the tree there which we marked as the starting-point to the very centre of Bekwando."

He slammed the door and re-entered the room. The boy was there, sitting upon the office stool hard at work with a pair of compasses.

"What the devil are you doing there?" Trent asked. "Out you go with your master!"

The boy looked up. He had a fair, smooth face, but lips like Trent's own.

"I'm just thinking about that first bend by Kurru corner, sir," he said, "I'm not sure about the level."

Trent's face relaxed. He held out his hand.

"My boy," he said, "I'll make your fortune as sure as my name is Scarlett Trent!"

"We'll make that road anyway," the boy answered, with a smile.

 *           *           *           *           *

After a rest Trent climbed the hill to the Basle Mission House. There was no sign of Monty on the potato patch, and the woman who opened the door started when she saw him.

"How is he?" Trent asked quickly.

The woman looked at him in wonder.

"Why, he's gone, sir - gone with the Jewish gentleman who said that you had sent him."

"Where to?" Trent asked quickly.

"Why, to England in the Ophir!" the woman answered. Then Trent began to feel that, after all, the struggle of his life was only beginning.

CHAPTER XXVIII

It was then perhaps that Trent fought the hardest battle of his life. The start was made with only a dozen Kru boys, Trent himself, stripped to the shirt, labouring amongst them spade in hand. In a week the fishing boats were deserted, every one was working on the road. The labour was immense, but the wages were magnificent. Real progress was made and the boy's calculations were faultless. Trent used the cable freely.

"Have dismissed Cathcart for incompetence - road started - progress magnificent," he wired one week, and shortly afterwards a message came back - "Cathcart cables resigned - scheme impossible - shares dropping - wire reply."

Trent clenched his fist, and his language made the boy, who had never heard him violent, look up in surprise. Then he put on his coat and walked out to the cable station.

"Cathcart lies. I dismissed him for cowardice and incompetence. The road is being made and I pledge my word that it will be finished in six months. Let our friends sell no shares."

Then Trent went back and, hard as he had worked before, he surpassed it all now. Far and wide he sent ever with the same inquiry - for labour and stores. He spent money like water, but he spent from a bottomless purse. Day after day Kru boys, natives and Europeans down on their luck, came creeping in. Far away across the rolling plain the straight belt of flint-laid road-bed stretched to the horizon, one gang in advance cutting turf, another beating in the small stones. The boy grew thin and bronzed, Trent and he toiled as though their lives hung upon the work. So they went on till the foremost gang came close to the forests, beyond which lay the village of Bekwando.

Then began the period of the greatest anxiety, for Trent and the boy and a handful of the others knew what would have sent half of the natives flying from their work if a whisper had got abroad. A few soldiers were drafted down from the Fort, arms were given out to all those who could be trusted to use them and by night men watched by the great red fires which flared along the path of their labours. Trent and the boy took it by turns to watch, their revolvers loaded by their side, and their eyes ever turned towards that dark line of forest whence came nothing but the singing of night birds and the calling of wild animals. Yet Trent would have no caution relaxed, the more they progressed. the more vigilant the watch they kept. At last came signs of the men of Bekwando. In the small hours of the morning a burning spear came hurtling through the darkness and fell with a hiss and a quiver in the ground, only a few feet from where Trent and the boy lay. Trent stamped on it hastily and gave no alarm. But the boy stole round with a whispered warning to those who could be trusted to fight.

Yet no attack came on that night or the next; on the third Trent and the boy sat talking and the latter frankly owned that he was nervous.

"It's not that I'm afraid," he said, smiling. "You know it isn't that! But all day long I've had the same feeling - we're being watched! I'm perfectly certain that the beggars are skulking round the borders of the forest there. Before morning we shall hear from them."

"If they mean to fight," Trent said, "the sooner they come out the better. I'd send a messenger to the King only I'm afraid they'd kill him. Oom Sam won't come! I've sent for him twice."

The boy was looking backwards and forwards along the long line of disembowelled earth.

"Trent," he said suddenly, "you're a wonderful man. Honestly, this road is a marvellous feat for untrained labour and with such rotten odds and ends of machinery. I don't know what experience you'd had of road-making."

"None," Trent interjected.

"Then it's wonderful!"

Trent smiled upon the boy with such a smile as few people had ever seen upon his lips.

"There's a bit of credit to you, Davenant," he said. "I'd never have been able to figure out the levelling alone. Whether I go down or not, this shall be a good step up on the ladder for you."

The boy laughed.

"I've enjoyed it more than anything else in my life," he said. "Fancy the difference between this and life in a London office. It's been magnificent! I never dreamed what life was like before."

Trent looked thoughtfully into the red embers. "You had the mail to-day," the boy continued. How were things in London?"

"Not so bad," Trent answered. "Cathcart has been doing all the harm he can, but it hasn't made a lot of difference. My cables have been published and our letters will be in print by now, and the photographs you took of the work. That was a splendid idea!"

"And the shares?"

"Down a bit - not much. Da Souza seems to be selling out carefully a few at a time, and my brokers are buying most of them. Pound shares are nineteen shillings to-day. They'll be between three and four pounds, a week after I get back."

"And when shall you go?" the boy asked.

"Directly I get a man out here I can trust and things are fixed with his Majesty the King of Bekwando! We'll both go then, and you shall spend a week or two with me in London."

The boy laughed.

"What a time we'll have!" he cried. "Say, do you know your way round?"

Trent shook his head.

"I'm afraid not," he said. "You'll have to be my guide."

"Right you are," was the cheerful answer. "I'll take you to Jimmy's, and the Empire, and down the river, and to a match at Lord's, and to Henley if we're in time, and I'll take you to see my aunt! You'll like her."

Trent nodded.

"I'll expect to," he said. "Is she anything like you?"

"Much cleverer," the boy said, "but we've been great chums all our life. She's the cleverest woman ever knew, earns lots of money writing for newspapers.

"Here, you've dropped your cigar, Trent."

Trent groped for it on the ground with shaking fingers.

"Writes for newspapers?" he repeated slowly. I wonder - her name isn't Davenant, is it?"

The boy shook his head.

"No, she's my mother's cousin really - only I call her Aunty, we always got on so. She isn't really much older than me, her name is Wendermott - Ernestine Wendermott. Ernestine's a pretty name, don't you think?"

Trent rose to his feet, muttering something about a sound in the forest. He stood with his back to the boy looking steadily at the dark line of outlying scrub, seeing in reality nothing, yet keenly anxious that the red light of the dancing flames should not fall upon his face. The boy leaned on his elbow and looked in the same direction. He was puzzled by a fugitive something which he had seen in Trent's face.

Afterwards Trent liked sometimes to think that it was the sound of her name which had saved them all. For, whereas his gaze had been idle at first, it became suddenly fixed and keen. He stooped down and whispered something to the boy. The word was passed along the line of sleeping men and one by one they dropped back into the deep-cut trench. The red fire danced and crackled - only a few yards outside the flame-lit space came the dark forms of men creeping through the rough grass like snakes.

CHAPTER XXIX

The attack was a fiasco, the fighting was all over in ten minutes. A hundred years ago the men of Bekwando, who went naked and knew no drink more subtle than palm wine had one virtue - bravery. But civilisation pressing upon their frontiers had brought Oom Sam greedy for ivory and gold, and Oom Sam had bought rum and strong waters. The nerve of the savage had gone, and his muscle had become a flaccid thing. When they had risen from the long grass with a horrid yell and had rushed in upon the hated intruders with couched spears only to be met by a blinding fire of Lee-Metford and revolver bullets their bravery vanished like breath from the face of a looking-glass. They hesitated, and a rain of bullets wrought terrible havoc amongst their ranks. On every side the fighting-men of Bekwando went down like ninepins - about half a dozen only sprang forward for a hand-to-hand fight, the remainder, with shrieks of despair, fled back to the shelter of the forest, and not one of them again ever showed a bold front to the white man. Trent, for a moment or two, was busy, for a burly savage, who had marked him out by the light of the gleaming flames, had sprung upon him spear in hand, and behind him came others. The first one dodged Trent's bullet and was upon him, when the boy shot him through the cheek and he went rolling over into the fire, with a death-cry which rang through the camp high above the din of fighting, another behind him Trent shot himself, but the third was upon him before he could draw his revolver and the two rolled over struggling fiercely, at too close quarters for weapons, yet with the thirst for blood fiercely kindled in both of them. For a moment Trent had the worst of it - a blow fell upon his forehead (the scar of which he never lost) and the wooden club was brandished in the air for a second and more deadly stroke. But at that moment Trent leaped up, dashed his unloaded revolver full in the man's face and, while he staggered with the shock, a soldier from behind shot him through the heart. Trent saw him go staggering backwards and then himself sank down, giddy with the blow he had received. Afterwards he knew that he must have fainted, for when he opened his eyes the sun was up and the men were strolling about looking at the dead savages who lay thick in the grass. Trent sat up and called for water.

"Any one hurt?" he asked the boy who brought him some. The boy grinned, but shook his head.

"Plenty savages killed," he said, "no white man or Kru boy."

"Where's Mr. Davenant," Trent asked suddenly.

The boy looked round and shook his head.

"No seen Mr. Dav'nant," he said. "Him fight well though! Him not hurt!"

Trent stood up with a sickening fear at his heart. He knew very well that if the boy was about and unhurt he would have been at his side. Up and down the camp he strode in vain. At last one of the Kru boys thought he remembered seeing a great savage bounding away with some one on his back. He had thought that it was one of their wounded - it might have been the boy. Trent, with a sickening sense of horror, realised the truth. The boy had been taken prisoner.

Even then he preserved his self-control to a marvellous degree. First of all he gave directions for the day's work - then he called for volunteers to accompany him to the village. There was no great enthusiasm. To fight in trenches against a foe who had no cover nor any firearms was rather a different thing from bearding them in their own lair. Nevertheless, about twenty men came forward, including a guide, and Trent was satisfied.

They started directly after breakfast and for five hours fought their way through dense undergrowth and shrubs with never a sign of a path, though here and there were footsteps and broken boughs. By noon some of the party were exhausted and lagged behind, an hour later a long line of exhausted stragglers were following Trent and the native guide. Yet to all their petitions for a rest Trent was adamant. Every minute's delay might lessen the chance of saving the boy, even now they might have begun their horrible tortures. The thought inspired him with fresh vigour. He plunged on with long, reckless strides which soon placed a widening gap between him and the rest of the party.

By degrees he began to recollect his whereabouts. The way grew less difficult - occasionally there were signs of a path. Every moment the soft, damp heat grew more intense and clammy. Every time he touched his forehead he found it dripping. But of these things he recked very little, for every step now brought him nearer to the end of his journey. Faintly, through the midday silence he could hear the clanging of copper instruments and the weird mourning cry of the defeated natives. A few more steps and he was almost within sight of them. He slackened his pace and approached more stealthily until only a little screen of bushes separated him from the village and, peering through them, he saw a sight which made his blood run cold within him.

They had the boy! He was there, in that fantastic circle bound hand and foot, but so far as he could see, at present unhurt. His face was turned to Trent, white and a little scared, but his lips were close-set and he uttered no sound. By his side stood a man with a native knife dancing around and singing - all through the place were sounds of wailing and lamentation, and in front of his hut the King was lying, with an empty bottle by his side, drunk and motionless. Trent's anger grew fiercer as he watched. Was this a people to stand in his way, to claim the protection and sympathy of foreign governments against their own bond, that they might keep their land for misuse and their bodies for debauchery? He looked backwards and listened. As yet there was no sign of any of his followers and there was no telling how long these antics were to continue. Trent looked to his revolver and set his teeth. There must be no risk of evil happening to the boy. He walked boldly out into the little space and called to them in a loud voice.

There was a wild chorus of fear. The women fled to the huts - the men ran like rats to shelter. But the executioner of Bekwando, who was a fetish man and holy, stood his ground and pointed his knife at Trent. Two others, seeing him firm, also remained. The moment was critical.

"Cut those bonds!" Trent ordered, pointing to the boy.

The fetish man waved his hands and drew a step nearer to Trent, his knife outstretched. The other two backed him up. Already a spear was couched.

Trent's revolver flashed out in the sunlight.

"Cut that cord!" he ordered again.

The fetish man poised his knife. Trent hesitated no longer, but shot him deliberately through the heart. He jumped into the air and fell forward upon his face with a death-cry which seemed to find an echo from every hut and from behind every tree of Bekwando. It was like the knell of their last hope, for had he not told them that he was fetish, that his body was proof against those wicked fires and that if the white men came, he himself would slay them! And now he was dead! The last barrier of their superstitious hope was broken down. Even the drunken King sat up and made strange noises.

Trent stooped down and, picking up the knife, cut the bonds which had bound the boy. He staggered up to his feet with a weak, little laugh.

"I knew you'd find me," he said. "Did I look awfully frightened?"

Trent patted him on the shoulder. "If I hadn't been in time," he said, "I'd have shot every man here and burned their huts over their heads. Pick up the knife, old chap, quick. I think those fellows mean mischief."

The two warriors who had stood by the priest were approaching, but when they came within a few yards of Trent's revolver they dropped on their knees. It was their token of submission. Trent nodded, and a moment afterwards the reason for their non-resistance was made evident. The remainder of the expedition came filing into the little enclosure.

Trent lit a cigar and sat down on a block of wood to consider what further was best to be done. In the meantime the natives were bringing yams to the white men with timid gestures. After a brief rest Trent called them to follow him. He walked across to the dwelling of the fetish man and tore down the curtain of dried grass which hung before the opening. Even then it was so dark inside that they had to light a torch before they could see the walls, and the stench was horrible.

A little chorus of murmurs escaped the lips of the Europeans as the interior became revealed to them. Opposite the door was a life-size and hideous effigy of a grinning god, made of wood and painted in many colours. By its side were other more horrible images and a row of human skulls hung from the roof. The hand of a white man, blackened with age, was stuck to the wall by a spear-head, the stench and filth of the whole place were pestilential. Yet outside a number of women and several of the men were on their knees hoping still against hope for aid from their ancient gods. There was a cry of horror when Trent unceremoniously kicked over the nearest idol - a yell of panic when the boy, with a gleam of mischief in his eyes, threw out amongst them a worm-eaten, hideous effigy and with a hearty kick stove in its hollow side. It lay there bald and ugly in the streaming sunshine, a block of misshapen wood ill-painted in flaring daubs, the thing which they had worshipped in gloom and secret, they and a generation before them - all the mystery of its shrouded existence, the terrible fetish words of the dead priest, the reverence which an all-powerful and inherited superstition had kept alive within them, came into their minds as they stood there trembling, and then fled away to be out of the reach of the empty, staring eyes - out of reach of the vengeance which must surely fall from the skies upon these white savages. So they watched, the women beating their bosoms and uttering strange cries, the men stolid but scared. Trent and the boy came out coughing, and half-stupefied with the rank odour, and a little murmur went up from them. It was a device of the gods - a sort of madness with which they were afflicted. But soon their murmurs turned again into lamentation when they saw what was to come. Men were running backwards and forwards, piling up dried wood and branches against the idol-house, a single spark and the thing was done. A tongue of flame leaped up, a thick column of smoke stole straight up in the breathless air. Amazed, the people stood and saw the home of dreadful mystery, whence came the sentence of life and death, the voice of the King-maker, the omens of war and fortune, enveloped in flames, already a ruined and shapeless mass. Trent stood and watched it, smoking fiercely and felt himself a civiliser. But the boy seemed to feel some of the pathos of the moment and he looked curiously at the little crowd of wailing natives.

"And the people?" he asked.

"They are going to help me make my road," Trent said firmly. "I am going to teach them to work!"

CHAPTER XXX

MY DEAR AUNT ERNIE, - At last I have a chance of sending you a letter - and, this time at any rate, you won't have to complain about my sending you no news. I'll promise you that, before I begin, and you needn't get scared either, because it's all good. I've been awfully lucky, and all because that fellow Cathcart turned out such a funk and a bounder. It's the oddest thing in the world too, that old Cis should have written me to pick up all the news I could about Scarlett Trent and send it to you. Why, he's within a few feet of me at this moment, and I've been seeing him continually ever since I came here. But there, I'll try and begin at the beginning.

"You know Cathcart got the post of Consulting Surveyor and Engineer to the Bekwando Syndicate, and he was head man at our London place. Well, they sent me from Capetown to be junior to him, and a jolly good move for me too. I never did see anything in Cathcart! He's a lazy sort of chap, hates work, and I guess he only got the job because his uncle had got a lot of shares in the business. It seems he never wanted to come, hates any place except London, which accounts for a good deal.

"All the time when we were waiting, he wasn't a bit keen and kept on rotting about the good times he might have been having in London, and what a fearful country we were stranded in, till he almost gave me the blues, and if there hadn't been some jolly good shooting and a few nice chaps up at the Fort, I should have been miserable. As it was, I left him to himself a good deal, and he didn't like that either. I think Attra was a jolly place, and the landing in surf boats was no end of fun. Cathcart got beastly wet, and you should have seen what a stew he was in because he'd put on a beautiful white suit and it got spoilt. Well, things weren't very lively at Attra at first, I'm bound to admit. No one seemed to know much about the Bekwando Land Company, and the country that way was very rough. However, we got sent out at last, and Cathcart, he simply scoffed at the whole thing from the first. There was no proper labour, not half enough machinery, and none of the right sort - and the gradients and country between Bekwando and the sea were awful. Cathcart made a few reports and we did nothing but kick our heels about until HE came. You'll see I've written that in big letters, and I tell you if ever a man deserved to have his name written in capitals Scarlett Trent does, and the oddest part of it is he knows you, and he was awfully decent to me all the time.

"Well, out he went prospecting, before he'd been in the country twenty-four hours, and he came back quite cheerful. Then he spoke to Cathcart about starting work, and Cathcart was a perfect beast. He as good as told him that he'd come out under false pretences, that the whole affair was a swindle and that the road could not be made. Trent didn't hesitate, I can tell you. There were no arguments or promises with him. He chucked Cathcart on the spot, turned him out of the place, and swore he'd make the road himself. I asked if I might stop, and I think he was glad, anyhow we've been ever such pals ever since, and I never expect to have such a time again as long as I live! But do you know, Auntie, we've about made that road. When I see what we've done, sometimes I can't believe it. I only wish some of the bigwigs who've never been out of an office could see it. I know I'll hate to come away.

"You'd never believe the time we had - leaving out the fighting, which I am coming to by and by. We were beastly short of all sorts of machinery and our labour was awful. We had scarcely any at first, but Trent found 'em somehow, Kru boys and native Zulus and broken-down Europeans - any one who could hold a pick. More came every day, and we simply cut our way through the country. I think I was pretty useful, for you see I was the only chap there who knew even a bit about engineering or practical surveying, and I'd sit up all night lots of times working the thing out. We had a missionary came over the first Sunday, and wanted to preach, but Trent stopped him. 'We've got to work here,' he said, 'and Sunday or no Sunday I can't let my men stop to listen to you in the cool of the day. If you want to preach, come and take a pick now, and preach when they're resting,' and he did and worked well too, and afterwards when we had to knock off, he preached, and Trent took the chair and made 'em all listen. Well, when we got a bit inland we had the natives to deal with, and if you ask me I believe that's one reason Cathcart hated the whole thing so. He's a beastly coward I think, and he told me once he'd never let off a revolver in his life. Well, they tried to surprise us one night, but Trent was up himself watching, and I tell you we did give 'em beans. Great, ugly-looking, black chaps they were. Aunt Ernie, I shall never forget how I felt when I saw them come creeping through the long, rough grass with their beastly spears all poised ready to throw. And now for my own special adventure. Won't you shiver when you read this! I was taken prisoner by one of those chaps, carried off to their beastly village and very nearly murdered by a chap who seemed to be a cross between an executioner and a high-priest, and who kept dancing round me, singing a lot of rot and pointing a knife at me. You see, I was right on the outside of the fighting and I got a knock on the head with the butt-end of a spear, and was a bit silly for a moment, and a great chap, who'd seen me near Trent and guessed I was somebody, picked me up as though I'd been a baby and carried me off. Of course I kicked up no end of a row as soon as I came to, but what with the firing and the screeching no one heard me, and Trent said it was half an hour before he missed me and an hour before they started in pursuit. Anyhow, there I was, about morning-time when you were thinking of having your cup of tea, trussed up like a fowl in the middle of the village, and all the natives, beastly creatures, promenading round me and making faces and bawling out things - oh, it was beastly I can tell you! Then just as they seemed to have made up their mind to kill me, up strode Scarlett Trent alone, if you please, and he walked up to the whole lot of 'em as bold as brass. He'd got a long way ahead of the rest and thought they meant mischief, so he wouldn't wait for the others but faced a hundred of them with a revolver in his hand, and I can tell you things were lively then. I'd never be able to describe the next few minutes - one man Trent knocked down with his fist, and you could hear his skull crack, then he shot the chap who had been threatening me, and cut my bonds, and then they tried to resist us, and I thought it was all over. They were horribly afraid of Trent though, and while they were closing round us the others came up and the natives chucked it at once. They used to be a very brave race, but since they were able to get rum for their timber and ivory, they're a lazy and drunken lot. Well, I must tell you what Trent did then. He went to the priest's house where the gods were kept - such a beastly hole - and he burned the place before the eyes of all the natives. I believe they thought every moment that we should be struck dead, and they stood round in a ring, making an awful row, but they never dared interfere. He burnt the place to the ground, and then what do you think he did? From the King downward he made every Jack one of them come and work on his road. You'll never believe it, but it's perfectly true. They looked upon him as their conqueror, and they came like lambs when he ordered it. They think they're slaves you know, and don't understand their pay, but they get it every week and same as all the other labourers - and oh, Aunt Ernie, you should see the King work with a pickaxe! He is fat and so clumsy and so furiously angry, but he's too scared of Trent to do anything but obey orders, and there he works hour after hour, groaning, and the perspiration rolls off him as though he were in a Turkish bath. I could go on telling you odd things that happen here for hours, but I must finish soon as the chap is starting with the mail. I am enjoying it. It is something like life I can tell you, and aren't I lucky? Trent made me take Cathcart's place. I am getting 800 pounds a year, and only fancy it, he says he'll see that the directors make me a special grant. Everything looks very different here now, and I do hope the Company will be a success. There's whole heaps of mining machinery landed and waiting for the road to be finished to go up, and people seem to be streaming into the place. I wonder what Cathcart will say when he knows that the road is as good as done, and that I've got his job!

"Chap called for mail. Goodbye. "Ever your affectionate "FRED. "Trent is a brick."

Ernestine read the letter slowly, line by line, word by word. To tell the truth it was absorbingly interesting to her. Already there had come rumours of the daring and blunt, resistless force with which this new-made millionaire had confronted a gigantic task. His terse communications had found their way into the Press, and in them and in the boy's letter she seemed to discover something Caesaric. That night it was more than usually difficult for her to settle down to her own work. She read her nephew's letter more than once and continually she found her thoughts slipping away - traveling across the ocean to a tropical strip of country, where a heterogeneous crowd of men were toiling and digging under a blazing sun. And, continually too, she seemed to see a man's face looking steadily over the sea to her, as he stood upright for a moment and rested from his toil. She was very fond of the boy - but the face was not his!

CHAPTER XXXI

A special train from Southampton had just steamed into Waterloo with the passengers from the Royal Mail steamer Ophir. Little groups of sunburnt men were greeting old friends upon the platform, surrounded by piles of luggage, canvas trunks and steamer chairs. The demand for hansoms was brisk, cab after cab heavily loaded was rolling out of the yard. There were grizzled men and men of fair complexion, men in white helmets and puggarees, and men in silk hats. All sorts were represented there, from the successful diamond digger who was spasmodically embracing a lady in black jet of distinctly Jewish proclivities, to a sporting lord who had been killing lions. For a few minutes the platforms were given over altogether to a sort of pleasurable confusion, a vivid scene, full of colour and human interest. Then the people thinned away, and, very nearly last of all, a wizened-looking, grey-headed man, carrying a black bag and a parcel, left the platform with hesitating footsteps and turned towards the bridge. He was followed almost immediately by Hiram Da Souza, who, curiously enough, seemed to have been on the platform when the train came in and to have been much interested in this shabby, lonely old man, who carried himself like a waif stranded in an unknown land. Da Souza was gorgeous in frock coat and silk hat, a carnation in his buttonhole, a diamond in his black satin tie, yet he was not altogether happy. This little man hobbling along in front represented fate to him. On the platform at Waterloo he had heard him timidly ask a bystander the way to the offices of the Bekwando Land and Gold Exploration Company, Limited. If ever he got there, what would be the price of Bekwando shares on the morrow?

On the bridge Da Souza saw him accost a policeman, and brushing close by, heard him ask the same question. The man shook his head, but pointed eastwards.

"I can't say exactly, sir, but somewhere in the City, for certain," he answered. "I should make for the Bank of England, a penny 'bus along that way will take you - and ask again there."

The old man nodded his thanks and stepped along Da Souza felt that his time had come. He accosted him with an urbane smile.

"Excuse me," he said, "but I think I heard you ask for the offices of the Bekwando Land Company."

The old man looked up eagerly. "If you can direct me there, sir," he said, "I shall be greatly obliged."

"I can do so," Da Souza said, falling into step, "and will with pleasure. I am going that way myself. I hope," he continued in a tone of kindly concern, "that you are not a shareholder in the Company."

The old man dropped his bag with a clatter upon the pavement, and his lips moved for a moment without any speech coming from them. Da Souza picked up the bag and devoutly hoped that none of his City friends were in the way.

"I don't exactly know about being a shareholder," the old man said nervously, "but I've certainly something to do with it. I am, or should have been, joint vendor. The Company is wealthy, is it not?"

Da Souza changed the bag into his other hand and thrust his arm through his companion's.

" You haven't seen the papers lately, have you?"

"No! I've just landed - to-day - from Africa!"

"Then I'm sorry to say there's some bad news for you," Da Souza said. "The Bekwando Land and Gold Company has gone into liquidation - smashed up altogether. They say that all the directors and the vendor will be arrested. It seems to have been a gigantic swindle."

Monty had become a dead weight upon his arm. They were in the Strand now, and he pushed open the swing-door of a public-house, and made his way into the private bar. When Monty opened his eyes he was on a cushioned seat, and before him was a tumbler of brandy half empty. He stared round him wildly. His lips were moist and the old craving was hot upon him. What did it mean? After all he had broken his vow, then! Had he not sworn to touch nothing until he had found his little girl and his fortune? yet the fire of spirits was in his veins and the craving was tearing him to pieces. Then he remembered! There was no fortune, no little girl! His dreams were all shattered, the last effort of his life had been in vain. He caught hold of the tumbler with fingers that shook as though an ague were upon him, lifted it to his lips and drank. Then there came the old blankness, and he saw nothing but what seemed to him the face of a satyr - dark and evil - mocking him through the shadows which had surely fallen now for ever. Da Souza lifted him up and conveyed him carefully to a four-wheel cab.

 *           *           *           *           *

An hour afterwards Da Souza, with a grin of content upon his unshapely mouth, exchanged his frock coat for a gaudy smoking-jacket, and, with a freshly-lit cigar in his mouth, took up the letters which had arrived by the evening post. Seeing amongst them one with an African stamp he tore it open hastily, and read: -

"MY DEAR HIRAM, - You was in luck now or never, if you really want to stop that half -witted creature from doing mischief in London. I sometimes think, my brother, that you would do better to give me even more of your confidence. You are a very clever man, but you do keep yourself so secret. If I too were not clever, how would I know to send you this news, how would I know that it will make you glad? But there, you will go your way. I know it!

"Now for the news! Monty, as I cabled (I send the bill) has gone secretly to London. Since Scarlett Trent found our Hausa friend and the rum flask, there have been no means of getting liquor to him, so I suppose he has very near regained his senses, anyhow he shipped off very cunning, not even Missionary Walsh knowing, but he made a very big mistake, the news of which I send to you knowing it will be good. Hiram, he stole the money to pay for his passage from the missionary's cash-box! All one day he stood under a tree looking out to sea, and a steamer from Capetown called, and when he heard the whistle and saw the surf boats he seemed to wake up. He walked up and down restlessly for a long time, muttering to himself. Mrs. Walsh came out to him and he was still staring at the steamer. She told him to come in out of the sun, which was very hot, but he shook his head. 'She's calling me,' he kept on saying, 'calling me!' She heard him in the room where the money was and then saw no more of him. But others saw him running to the shore, and he paid to be taken out to the steamer. They wouldn't take him on at first, because he hadn't secured a passage, but he laid down and wouldn't move. So, as he had the money, they took him, and when I heard I cabled to you. But what harm can he do, for you are his master? He is a thief and you know it. Surely you can do with him what you will.

"Trent was here yesterday and heard for the first time of his flight. How he took it I cannot tell you, for I was not the one to tell him, but this I know for a fact. He cabled to Capetown offering 100 pounds if the Star Line steamer leaving to-morrow would call for him here. Hiram, he is a great man, this Trent. I hate him, for he has spoilt much trade for me, and he treats me as though I were the dirt under his feet, but never a man before who has set foot upon the Coast could have done what he has done. Without soldiers he has beaten the Bekwando natives, and made them even work for him. He has stirred the whole place here into a state of fever! A thousand men are working upon his road and sinking shafts upon the Bekwando hills. Gold is already coming down, nuggets of it, and he is opening a depot to buy all the mahogany and ivory in the country. He spends money like water, he never rests, what he says must be done is done! The authorities are afraid of him, but day by day they become more civil! The Agent here called him once an adventurer, and threatened him with arrest for his fighting with the Bekwandos. Now they go to him cap in hand, for they know that he will be a great power in this country. And Hiram, my brother, you have not given me your trust though I speak to you so openly, but here is the advice of a brother, for blood is blood, and I would have you make monies. Don't you put yourself against Trent. Be on his side, for his is the winning side. I don't know what you got in your head about that poor scarecrow Monty, but I tell you, Hiram, Trent is the man to back right through. He has the knack of success, and he is a genius. My! he's a great man, and he's a king out here. You be on his side, Hiram, and you're all right.

"Now goodbye, but send me the money for the cable when you write, and remember - Monty is a thief and Trent is the man to back, which reminds me that Trent repaid to Missionary Walsh all the money which Monty took, which it seems was left with Walsh by him for Monty's keep. But Monty does not know that, so you have the string to make him dance. "Which comes from your brother "SAMUEL.

"P.S. - Do not forget the small account for disbursements."

Da Souza folded up the letter, and a look of peace shone in his face. Presently he climbed the stairs to a little back-room and noiselessly unlocked the door. Monty, with pale face and bloodshot eyes, was walking up and down, mumbling to himself. He addressed Da Souza eagerly.

"I think I will go away now," he said. "I am very much obliged to you for looking after me."

Da Souza gazed at him with well-affected gravity. "One moment first," he said, "didn't I understand you that you had just come from Africa?"

Monty nodded.

"The Gold Coast?"

Monty nodded again, but with less confidence.

"By any chance - were you called Monty there?"

Monty turned ghastly pale. Surely his last sin had not found him out. He was silent, but there was no need for speech. Da Souza motioned him to sit down.

"I am very sorry," he said, "of course it's true. The police have been here."

"The police!" Monty moaned.

Da Souza nodded. Benevolence was so rare a part for him to play, that he rather enjoyed it.

"Don't be scared," he said. "Yes, your description is out, and you are wanted for stealing a few pounds from a man named Walsh. Never mind. I won't give you up. You shall lie snug here for a few days!"

Monty fell on his knees. "You won't let any one know that I am here!" he pleaded.

"Not I," Da Souza answered fervently.

Monty rose to his feet, his face full of dumb misery.

"Now," he muttered, "I shall never see her - never - never - never!"

There was a bottle half full of spirits upon the table and a tumbler as yet unused. A gleam flashed in his eyes. He filled the tumbler and raised it to his lips. Da Souza watched him curiously with the benevolent smile still upon his face.

CHAPTER XXXII

"You are very smart, Ernestine," he said, looking her admiringly.

"One must be smart at Ascot," she answered, "or stay away."

"I've just heard some news," he continued.

"Yes?"

"Who do you think is here?"

She glanced at him sideways under her lace parasol. "Every one I should think."

"Including," he said, "Mr. Scarlett Trent!" She grew a shade paler, and leaned for a moment against the rail of the paddock in which they were lounging.

"I thought," she said, "that the Mazetta Castle was not due till to-day."

"She touched at Plymouth in the night, and he had a special train up. He has some horses running, you know."

"I suppose," she remarked, "that he is more of a celebrity than ever now!"

"Much more," he answered. "If he chooses he will be the lion of the season! By the by, you had nothing of interest from Fred?"

She shook her head impatiently.

"Nothing but praises! According to Fred, he's a hero!"

"I hate him," Davenant said sulkily.

"And so," she answered softly, "do I! Do you see him coming, Cecil?"

"In good company too," the young man laughed bitterly.

A little group of men, before whom every one fell back respectfully, were strolling through the paddock towards the horses. Amongst them was Royalty, and amongst them also was Scarlett Trent. But when he saw the girl in the white foulard smile at him from the paling he forgot etiquette and everything else. He walked straight across to her with that keen, bright light in his eyes which Fred had described so well in his letter.

"I am very fortunate," he said, taking the delicately gloved hand into his fingers, "to find you so soon. I have only been in England a few hours."

She answered him slowly, subjecting him the while to a somewhat close examination. His face was more sunburnt than ever she had seen a man's, but there was a wonderful force and strength in his features, which seemed to have become refined instead of coarsened by the privations through which he had passed. His hand, as she had felt, was as hard as iron, and it was not without reluctance that she felt compelled to take note of his correct attire and easy bearing. After all he must be possessed of a wonderful measure of adaptability.

"You have become famous," she said. "Do you know that you are going to be made a lion?"

"I suppose the papers have been talking a lot of rot," he answered bluntly. "I've had a fairly rough time, and I'm glad to tell you this, Miss Wendermott - I don't believe I'd ever have succeeded but for your nephew Fred. He's the pluckiest boy I ever knew."

"I am very pleased to hear it," she answered. "He's a dear boy!"

"He's a brick," Trent answered. "We've been in some queer scrapes together - I've lots of messages for you! By the by, are you alone?"

"For the moment," she answered; "Mr. Davenant left me as you came up. I'm with my cousin, Lady Tresham. She's on the lawn somewhere."

He looked down the paddock and back to her.

"Walk with me a little way," he said, "and I will show you Iris before she starts."

"You!" she exclaimed.

He pointed to the card. It was surely an accident that she had not noticed it before. Mr. Trent's Iris was amongst the entries for the Gold Cup.

"Why, Iris is the favourite!"

He nodded.

"So they tell me! I've been rather lucky haven't I, for a beginner? I found a good trainer, and I had second call on Cannon, who's riding him. If you care to back him for a trifle, I think you'll be all right, although the odds are nothing to speak of."

She was walking by his side now towards the quieter end of the paddock.

"I hear you have been to Torquay," he said, looking at her critically, "it seems to have agreed with you. You are looking well!"

She returned his glance with slightly uplifted eyebrows, intending to convey by that and her silence a rebuke to his boldness. He was blandly unconscious, however, of her intent, being occupied just then in returning the greetings of passers-by. She bit her lip and looked straight ahead.

"After all," he said, "unless you are very keen on seeing Iris, I think we'd better give it up. There are too many people around her already."

"Just as you like," she answered, "only it seems a shame that you shouldn't look over your own horse before the race if you want to. Would you like to try alone?"

"Certainly not," he answered. "I shall see plenty of her later. Are you fond of horses?"

"Very."

"Go to many race-meetings?"

"Whenever I get the chance! - I always come here."

"It is a great sight," he said thoughtfully, looking around him. "Are you here just for the pleasure of it, or are you going to write about it?"

She laughed.

"I'm going to write about some of the dresses," she said. "I'm afraid no one would read my racing notes."

"I hope you'll mention your own," he said coolly. "It's' quite the prettiest here."

She scarcely knew whether to be amused or offended.

"You are a very downright person, Mr. Trent," she said.

"You don't expect me to have acquired manners yet, do you?" he answered drily.

"You have acquired a great many things," she said, "with surprising facility. Why not manners?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"No doubt they will come, but I shall want a lot of polishing. I wonder - "

"Well?"

"Whether any one will ever think it worth while to undertake the task."

She raised her eyes and looked him full in the face. She had made up her mind exactly what to express - and she failed altogether to do it. There was a fire and a strength in the clear, grey eyes fixed so earnestly upon hers which disconcerted her altogether. She was desperately angry with herself and desperately uneasy.

"You have the power," she said with slight coldness, "to buy most things. By the by, I was thinking only just now, how sad it was that your partner did not live. He shared the work with you, didn't he? It seems such hard lines that he could not have shared the reward!"

He showed no sign of emotion such as she had expected, and for which she had been narrowly watching him. Only he grew at once more serious, and he led her a little further still from the crush of people. It was the luncheon interval, and though the next race was the most important of the day, the stream of promenaders had thinned off a little.

"It is strange," he said, "that you should have spoken to me of my partner. I have been thinking about him a good deal lately."

"In what way?"

"Well, first of all, I am not sure that our agreement was altogether a fair one," he said. "He had a daughter and I am very anxious to find her! I feel that she is entitled to a certain number of shares in the Company, and I want her to accept them."

"Have you tried to find her?" she asked.

He looked steadily at her for a moment, but her parasol had dropped a little upon his side and he could not see her face.

"Yes, I have tried," he said slowly, "and I have suffered a great disappointment. She knows quite well that I am searching for her, and she prefers to remain undiscovered."

"That sounds strange," she remarked, with her eyes fixed upon the distant Surrey hills. "Do you know her reason?"

"I am afraid," he said deliberately, "that there can be only one. It's a miserable thing to believe of any woman, and I'd be glad - "

He hesitated. She kept her eyes turned away from him, but her manner denoted impatience.

"Over on this side," he continued, "it seems that Monty was a gentleman in his day, and his people were - well, of your order! There was an Earl I believe in the family, and no doubt they are highly respectable. He went wrong once, and of course they never gave him another chance. It isn't their way - that sort of people! I'll admit he was pretty low down when I came across him, but I reckon that was the fault of those who sent him adrift - and after all there was good in him even then. I am going to tell you something now, Miss Wendermott, which I've often wanted to - that is, if you're interested enough to care to hear it!"

All the time she was asking herself how much he knew. She motioned him to proceed.

"Monty had few things left in the world worth possessing, but there was one which he had never parted with, which he carried with him always. It was the picture of his little girl, as she had been when his trouble happened."

He stooped a little as though to see over the white rails, but she was too adroit. Her face remained hidden from him by that little cloud of white lace.

"It is an odd thing about that picture," he went on slowly, "but he showed it to me once or twice, and I too got very fond of it! It was just a little girl's face, very bright and very winsome, and over there we were lonely, and it got to mean a good deal to both of us. And one night Monty would gamble - it was one of his faults, poor chap - and he had nothing left but his picture, and I played him for it - and won!"

"Brute!" she murmured in an odd, choked tone.

"Sounds so, doesn't it? But I wanted that picture. Afterwards came our terrible journey back to the Coast, when I carried the poor old chap on my back day by day, and stood over him at night potting those black beasts when they crept up too close - for they were on our track all the time. I wouldn't tell you the whole story of those days, Miss Wendermott for it would keep you awake at night; but I've a fancy for telling you this. I'd like you to believe it, for it's gospel truth. I didn't leave him until I felt absolutely and actually certain that he couldn't live an hour. He was passing into unconsciousness, and a crowd of those natives were close upon our heels. So I left him and took the picture with me - and I think since then that it has meant almost as much to me as ever it had been to him."

"That," she remarked, "sounds a little far-fetched - not to say impossible."

"Some day," he answered boldly, "I shall speak to you of this again, and I shall try to convince you that it is truth!"

He could not see her face, but he knew very well in some occult manner that she had parted with some at least of her usual composure. As a matter of fact she was nervous and ill-at-ease.

"You have not yet told me," she said abruptly, "what you imagine can be this girl's reasons for remaining unknown."

"I can only guess them," he said gravely; "I can only suppose that she is ashamed of her father and declines to meet any one connected with him. It is very wrong and very narrow of her. If I could talk to her for ten minutes and tell her how the poor old chap used to dream about her and kiss her picture, I can't think but she'd be sorry."

"Try and think," she said, looking still away from him, "that she must have another reason. You say that you liked her picture! Try and be generous in your thoughts of her for its sake."

"I will try," he answered, "especially - "

"Yes?"

"Especially - because the picture makes me think - sometimes - of you!"

CHAPTER XXXIII

Trent had done many brave things in his life, but he had never been conscious of such a distinct thrill of nervousness as he experienced during those few minutes' silence. Ernestine, for her part, was curiously exercised in her mind. He had shaken her faith in his guilt - he had admitted her to his point of view. She judged herself from his standpoint, and the result was unpleasant. She had a sudden impulse to tell him the truth, to reveal her identity, tell him her reasons for concealment. Perhaps her suspicions had been hasty. Then the personal note in his last speech had produced a serious effect on her, and all the time she felt that her silence was emboldening him, as indeed it was.

"The first time I saw you," he went on, "the likeness struck me. I felt as though I were meeting some one whom I had known all my life."

She laughed a little uneasily. "And you found yourself instead the victim of an interviewer! What a drop from the romantic to the prosaic!"

"There has never been any drop at all," he answered firmly, "and you have always seemed to me the same as that picture - something quite precious and apart from my life. It's been a poor sort of thing perhaps. I came from the people, I never had any education, I was as rough as most men of my sort, and I have done many things which I would sooner cut off my right hand than do again. But that was when I lived in the darkness. It was before you came."

"Mr. Trent, will you take me back to Lady Tresham, please?"

"In a moment," he answered gravely. "Don't think that I am going to be too rash. I know the time hasn't come yet. I am not going to say any more. Only I want you to know this. The whole success of my life is as nothing compared with the hope of one day - "

"I will not hear another word," she interrupted hastily, and underneath her white veil he could see a scarlet spot of colour in her cheeks; in her speech, too, there was a certain tremulousness. "If you will not come with me I must find Lady Tresham alone."

They turned round, but as they neared the middle of the paddock progress became almost impossible. The bell had rung for the principal race of the day and the numbers were going up. The paddock was crowded with others beside loiterers, looking the horses over and stolidly pushing their way through the little groups to the front rank. From Tattersall's came the roar of clamorous voices. All around were evidences of that excitement which always precedes a great race.

"I think," he said, "that we had better watch the race from these railings. Your gown will be spoilt in the crowd if we try to get out of the paddock, and you probably wouldn't get anywhere in time to see it."

She acquiesced silently, recognising that, although he had not alluded to it in words, he had no intention of saying anything further at present. Trent, who had been looking forward to the next few minutes with all the eagerness of a man who, for the first time in his life, runs the favourite in a great race, smiled as he realised how very content he was to stay where nothing could be seen until the final struggle was over. They took up their places side by side and leaned over the railing.

"Have you much money on Iris?" she asked.

"A thousand both ways," he answered. "I don't plunge, but as I backed her very early I got 10 to 1 and 7 to 2. Listen! They're off!"

There was a roar from across the course, followed by a moment's breathless silence. The clamour of voices from Tattersall's subsided, and in its place rose the buzz of excitement from the stands, the murmur of many voices gradually growing in volume. Far away down the straight Ernestine and Trent, leaning over the rail, could see the little coloured specks come dancing into sight. The roar of voices once more beat upon the air.

"Nero the Second wins!"

"The favourite's done!"

"Nero the Second for a monkey!"

"Nero the Second romps in!"

"Iris! Iris! Iris wins!"

It was evident from the last shout and the gathering storm of excitement that, after all, it was to be a race They were well in sight now; Nero the Second and Iris, racing neck-and-neck, drawing rapidly away from the others. The air shook with the sound of hoarse and fiercely excited voices.

"Nero the Second wins!"

"Iris wins!

Neck-and-neck they passed the post. So it seemed at least to Ernestine and many others, but Trent shook his head and looked at her with a smile.

"Iris was beaten by a short neck," he said. "Good thing you didn't back her. That's a fine horse of the Prince's, though!"

"I'm so sorry," she cried. "Are you sure?"

He nodded and pointed to the numbers which were going up. She flashed a sudden look upon him which more than compensated him for his defeat. At least he had earned her respect that day, as a man who knew how to accept defeat gracefully. They walked slowly up the paddock and stood on the edge of the crowd, whilst a great person went out to meet his horse amidst a storm of cheering. It chanced that he caught sight of Trent on the way, and, pausing for a moment, he held out his hand.

"Your horse made a magnificent fight for it, Mr. Trent," he said. "I'm afraid I only got the verdict by a fluke. Another time may you be the fortunate one!"

Trent answered him simply, but without awkwardness. Then his horse came in and he held out his hand to the crestfallen jockey, whilst with his left he patted Iris's head.

"Never mind, Dick," he said cheerfully, "you rode a fine race and the best horse won. Better luck next time."

Several people approached Trent, but he turned away at once to Ernestine.

"You will let me take you to Lady Tresham now," he said.

"If you please," she answered quietly.

Thus they sat and talked while the night wore on. Neither thought of sleeping, hoping all the while that Ayrault might walk in as he had the night before.

At last the dawn began to tint the east, and the growing light showed them that the storm had passed. The upper strata of Saturn's atmosphere being filled with infinitesimal particles of dust, as a result of its numerous volcanoes, the conditions were highly favourable to beautiful sunrises and sunsets. Soon coloured streaks extended far into the sky, and though they knew that when the sun's disc appeared it would seem small, it filled the almost boundless eastern horizon with the most variegated and gorgeous hues.

Turning away from the welcome sight--for their minds were ill at ease--they found the light strong enough for their search to begin. Writing on a sheet of paper, in a large hand, "Have gone to the Callisto to look for you; shall afterwards return here," they pinned this in a conspicuous place and set out due west, keeping about a hundred yards apart. The ground was wet and slippery, but overhead all was clear, and the sun soon shone brightly. Looking to right and left, and occasionally shouting and discharging their revolvers, they went on for half an hour.

"I have his tracks," called Bearwarden, and Cortlandt hastened to join him.

In the soft ground, sure enough, they saw Ayrault's footprints, and, from the distance between them, concluded that he must have been running or walking very fast; but the rain had washed down the edges of the incision. The trail ascended a gentle slope, where they lost it; but on reaching the summit they saw it again with the feet together, as though Ayrault had paused, and about it were many other impressions with the feet turned in, as if the walkers or standers had surrounded Ayrault, who was in the centre.

"I hope," said Cortlandt, "these are nothing more than the footprints we have seen formed about ourselves."

"See," said Bearwarden, "Dick's trail goes on, and the others vanish. They cannot have been made by savages or Indians, for they seem to have had weight only while standing."

They then resumed their march, firing a revolver shot at intervals of a minute. Suddenly they came upon a tall, straight tree, uprooted by the wind and lying diagonally across their path. Following with their eyes the direction in which it lay, they saw a large, hollow trunk, with the bark stripped off, and charred as if struck by lightning. Obliged to pass near this by the uprooted tree-whose thick trunk, upheld by the branches at the head, lay raised about two feet from the ground-- both searchers gave a start, and stood still as if petrified. Inside the great trunk they saw a head, and, on looking more closely, descried Ayrault's body. Grasping it by the arms, they drew it out. The face was pale and the limbs were stiff. Instantly Cortlandt unfastened the collar, while Bearwarden applied a flask to the lips. But they soon found that their efforts were vain.

"The spirit!" ejaculated Cortlandt. "Dick may be in a trance, in which case he can help us. Let us will hard and long."

Accordingly, they threw themselves on their faces, closing their eyes, that nothing might distract their concentration. Minutes, which seemed like ages, passed, and there was no response.

"Now," said Bearwarden, "will together, hard."

Suddenly the stillness was broken by the spirit's voice, which said:

"I felt more than one mind calling, but the effect was so slight I thought first I was mistaken. I will help you in what you want, for the young man is not dead, neither is he injured."

Saying which, he stretched himself upon Ayrault, worked his lungs artificially, and willed with an intensity the observers could feel where they stood. Quickly the colour returned to Ayrault's cheeks, and with the spirit's assistance he sat up and leaned against the tree that had protected him from the storm.

"Your promise was realized," he said, addressing the spirit. "I have seen what I shall never forget, and lest the anguish--the vision of which I saw--come true, let us return to the earth, and not leave it till I have tasted in reality the joys that in the spirit I seemed to have missed. I have often longed in this life to be in the spirit, but never knew what longing was, till I experienced it as a spirit, to be once more in the flesh."

"You see the mercy of God," said the spirit, "in not ordinarily allowing the spirits of the departed to revisit earth until they are prepared--that is, until they are sufficiently advanced to go there unaided--by which time they have come to understand the wisdom of God's laws. In your case the limiting laws were partially suspended, so that you were able to return at once, with many of the faculties and senses of spirits, but without their accumulated experience. It speaks well for your state of preparation that, without having had those disguised blessings, illness or misfortune, you were not utterly crushed by what you saw when temporarily released. While in the trance you were not in hell, but experienced the feelings that all mortals would if allowed to return immediately. Thus no lover can return to earth till his fiancee has joined him here, or till, perceiving the benevolence of God's ways, he is not distressed at what he sees, and has the companionship of a host of kindred spirits.

"The spirits you saw in the cemetery were indeed in hell, but had become sufficiently developed to revisit the earth, though doing so did not relieve their distress; for neither the development of their senses, which intensifies their capacity for remorse and regret, nor their investigations into God's boundless mercies, which they have deliberately thrown away, can comfort them.

"Some of your ancestors are on Cassandra, and others are in purgatory here. Though a few faintly felt your prayer, none were able to return and answer beside their graves. It was at your request and prayer that He freed your spirit, but you see how unhappy it made you."

"I see," replied Ayrault, "that no man should wish to anticipate the workings of the Almighty, although I have been unspeakably blessed in that He made an exception--if I may so call it--in my favour, since, in addition to revealing the responsibilities of life, it has shown me the inestimable value and loyalty of woman's love. I fear, however, that my return to earth greatly distressed the waterer of the flowers you showed me."

"She already sleeps," replied the spirit, "and I have comforted her by a dream in which she sees that you are well."

"When shall we start?" asked Bearwarden.

"As soon as you can get ready," replied Ayrault. "I would not risk running short of enough current to generate the apergy needed to get us back. I dare say when I have been on earth a few years, and have done something for the good of my soul--which, as I take it, can be accomplished as well by advancing science as in any other way--I shall pine for another journey in space as I now do to return."

"How I wish I were engaged," said Bearwarden, glancing at Cortlandt, and overjoyed at Ayrault's recovery.

Accordingly, they resumed their march in the direction in which they had been going when they found Ayrault, and were soon beside the Callisto. Cortlandt worked the combination lock of the lower entrance, through which they crawled. Going to the second story, they opened a large window and let down a ladder, on which the spirit ascended at their invitation.

Bearwarden and Ayrault immediately set about combining the chemicals that were to produce the force necessary to repel them from Saturn. Bubbles of hydrogen were given off from the lead and zinc plates, and the viscous primary batteries quickly had the wires passing through a vacuum at a white heat.

"I see you are nearly ready to start," said the spirit, "so I must say farewell."

"Will you not come with us?" asked Ayrault.

"No," replied the spirit. "I do not wish to be away as long as it will take you to reach the earth. The Callisto's atmosphere could not absorb my body, so that, should I leave you before your arrival, you would be burdened with a corpse. I may visit you in the spirit, though the desire and effort for communion with spirits, to be of most good, must needs come from the earth. Ere long, my intuition tells me, we shall meet again.

"The vision of your own grave," he continued, addressing Cortlandt, "may not come true for many years, but however long your lives may be, according to earthly reckoning, remember that when they are past they will seem to have been hardly more than a moment, for they are the personification of frailty and evanescence."

He held up his hands and blessed them; and then repeating, "Farewell and a happy return!" descended as he had come up.

The air was filled with misty shadows, and the pulsating hearts, luminous brains, and centres of spiritual activity quivered with motion. They surrounded the incarnate spirit of the bishop and set up the soft, musical hum the travellers had heard so often since their arrival on Saturn.

"I now understand," thought Ayrault, "why the spirits I met kept repeating that I should be happy. They perceived I was to be translated, and though they doubtless knew what suffering it would cause, they also knew I should be awakened to a sense of great realities, of which I understood but little."

They drew up the ladder and turned on the current, and the Callisto slowly began to rise, while the three friends crowded the window.

"Good-bye!" called the spirit's pleasant voice, to which the men replied in chorus.

The sun had set on the surface of the planet while they made their preparations; but as the Callisto rose higher, it seemed to rise again, making the sides of their car shine like silver, and, carefully closing the two open windows, they watched the fast-receding world, so many times larger and more magnificent than their own.

                       CHAPTER XV.

                      MOTHER EARTH.

"There is something sad," said Cortlandt, "about the end of everything, but I am more sorry to leave Saturn than I have ever been in taking leave of any other place."

When beyond the limits of the atmosphere they applied the full current, and were soon once more cleaving the ether at cometary speed, their motion towards the sun being aided by that great body itself.

They quickly passed beyond the outer edge of the vast silvery rings, and then crossed one after another the orbits of the moons, from the last of which, Iapetus, they obtained their final course in the direction of the earth. They had an acute feeling of homesickness for the mysterious planet on which, while yet mortal, they had found paradise, and had communed with spirits as no modern men ever did.

Without deviating from their almost straight line, they passed within a million miles of Jupiter, which had gained in its smaller orbit on Saturn, and a few days later crossed the track of Mars.

As the earth had completed nearly half a revolution in its orbit since their departure, they here turned somewhat to the right by attracting the ruddy planet, in order to avoid passing too near the sun.

"On some future expedition," said Ayrault, "and when we have a supply of blue glasses, we can take a trip to Venus, if we can find a possible season in her year. Compared with this journey, it would be only like going round the block."

Two days later they had rounded the sun, and laid their course in pursuit of the earth.

That the astronomers in the dark hemisphere were at their posts and saw them, was evident; for a brilliant beam of light again flashed forth, this time from a point a little south of the arctic circle, and after shining one minute, telegraphed this message: "Rejoiced to see you again. Hope all are well."

Since they were not sufficiently near the moon's shadow, they directed their light-beam into their own, which trailed off on one side, and answered: "All well, thank you. Have wonderful things to relate."

The men at the telescopes then, as before, read the message, and telephoned the light this next question: "When are you coming down, that we may notify the newspapers?"

"We wish one more sight of the earth from this height, by daylight. We are now swinging to get between it and the sun."

"We have erected a monument in Van Cortlandt Park, and engraved upon it, 'At this place James Bearwarden, Henry Chelmsford Cortlandt, and Richard Rokeby Ayrault left earth, December 21, A. D. 2000, to visit Jupiter.'"

"Add to it, 'They returned on the 10th of the following June.'"

Soon the Callisto came nearly between the earth and the sun, when the astronomers could see it only through darkened glasses, and it appeared almost as a crescent. The sight the travellers then beheld was superb. It was about 11 A. M. in London, and Europe was spread before them like a map. All its peninsulas and islands, enclosed blue seas, and bays came out in clear relief. Gradually Russia, Germany, France, the British Isles, and Spain moved towards the horizon, as in grand procession, and at the same time the Western hemisphere appeared. The hour of day at the longitude above which they hung was about the same as when they set out, but the sun shone far more directly upon the Northern hemisphere than then, and instead of bleak December, this was the leafy month of June.

They were loath to end the lovely scene, and would fain have remained where they were while the earth revolved again; but, remembering that their friends must by this time be waiting, they shut off the repulsion from the earth.

"We need not apply the apergy to the earth until quite near," said Ayrault, "since a great part of the top speed will be taken off by the resistance of the atmosphere, especially as we go in base first. We have only to keep a sufficiently strong repulsion on the dome to prevent our turning over, and to see that our speed is not great enough to heat the car."

When about fifty miles from the surface they felt the expected check, and concluded they had reached the upper limits of the atmosphere. And this increased, notwithstanding the decrease in their speed, showing how quickly the air became dense.

When about a mile from the earth they had the Callisto well in hand, and allowed it to descend slowly. The ground was already black with people, who, having learned where the Callisto was to touch, had hastened to Van Cortlandt Park.

"I am overjoyed to see you," said Sylvia, when she and Ayrault met. "I had the most dreadful presentiment that something had gone wrong with you. One afternoon and evening I was so perplexed, and during the night had a series of nightmares that I shall never forget. I really believed you were near me, but your nature seemed to have changed, for, instead of its making me happy, I was frightfully distressed. The next day I was very ill, and unable to get up; but during the morning I fell asleep and had another dream, which was intensely realistic and made me believe--yes, convinced me--that you were well. After that dream I soon recovered; but oh, the anguish of the first!"

Ayrault did not tell her then that he had been near her, and of his unspeakable suffering, of which hers had been but the echo.

Three weeks later a clergyman tied the knot that was to unite them forever.

While Sylvia and Ayrault were standing up to receive the congratulations of their friends, Bearwarden, in shaking his hand, said:

"Remember, we have been to neither Uranus, nor Neptune, nor Cassandra, which may be as interesting as anything we have seen. Should you want to take another trip, count me as your humble servant." And Cortlandt, following behind him, said the same thing.

Shortly after this, Sylvia went up-stairs to change her dress, and when she came down she and Ayrault set out on their journey together through life, amid a chorus of cheers and a shower of rice.

Cortlandt then returned to his department at Washington, and Bearwarden resumed his duties with the Terrestrial Axis Straightening Company, in the presidential chair.

End

This story first appeared in Charles Dickens' magazine, "Household Words," volume 16, number 382, July 18, 1857. Published anonymously, as all contributions to the magazine were, it was attributed definitely to Wilkie Collins by Anne Lohrli in her analysis of the magazine's finanacial accounts. In the original, there is an acute accent over the final "e" of "Rance"; "Theatre Francois" should have an acute accent over the first "e", a circumflex accent over the first "a", and a cedilla under the "c".

A FAIR PENITENT

Charles Pineau Duclos was a French writer of biographies and novels, who lived and worked during the first half of the eighteenth century. He prospered sufficiently well, as a literary man, to be made secretary to the French Academy, and to be allowed to succeed Voltaire in the office of historiographer of France. He has left behind him, in his own country, the reputation of a lively writer of the second class, who addressed the public of his day with fair success, and who, since his death, has not troubled posterity to take any particular notice of him.

Among the papers left by Duclos, two manuscripts were found, which he probably intended to turn to some literary account. The first was a brief Memoir, written by himself, of a Frenchwoman, named Mademoiselle Gautier, who began life as an actress and who ended it as a Carmelite nun. The second manuscript was the lady's own account of the process of her conversion, and of the circumstances which attended her moral passage from the state of a sinner to the state of a saint. There are certain national peculiarities in the character of Mademoiselle Gautier and in the narrative of her conversion, which are perhaps interesting enough to be reproduced with some chance of pleasing the present day.

It appears, from the account given of her by Duclos, that Mademoiselle Gautier made her appearance on the stage of the Theatre Francois in the year seventeen hundred and sixteen. She is described as a handsome woman, with a fine figure, a fresh complexion, a lively disposition, and a violent temper. Besides possessing capacity as an actress, she could write very good verses, she was clever at painting in miniature, and, most remarkable quality of all, she was possessed of prodigious muscular strength. It is recorded of Mademoiselle, that she could roll up a silver plate with her hands, and that she covered herself with distinction in a trial of strength with no less a person than the famous soldier, Marshal Saxe.

Nobody who is at all acquainted with the social history of the eighteenth century in France, need be told that Mademoiselle Gautier had a long list of lovers,--for the most part, persons of quality, marshals, counts, and so forth. The only man, however, who really attached her to him, was an actor at the Theatre Francois, a famous player in his day, named Quinault Dufresne. Mademoiselle Gautier seems to have loved him with all the ardour of her naturally passionate disposition. At first, he returned her affection; but, as soon as she ventured to test the sincerity of his attachment by speaking of marriage, he cooled towards her immediately, and the connection between them was broken off. In all her former love-affairs, she had been noted for the high tone which she adopted towards her admirers, and for the despotic authority which she exercised over them even in her gayest moments. But the severance of her connection with Quinault Dufresne wounded her to her heart. She had loved the man so dearly, had made so many sacrifices for him, had counted so fondly on the devotion of her whole future life to him, that the first discovery of his coldness towards her broke her spirit at once and for ever. She fell into a condition of hopeless melancholy, looked back with remorse and horror at her past life, and abandoned the stage and the society in which she had lived, to end her days repentantly in the character of a Carmelite nun.

So far, her history is the history of hundreds of other women before her time and after it. The prominent interest of her life, for the student of human nature, lies in the story of her conversion, as told by herself. The greater part of the narrative--every page of which is more or less characteristic of the Frenchwoman of the eighteenth century--may be given, with certain suppressions and abridgments, in her own words. The reader will observe, at the outset, one curious fact. Mademoiselle Gautier does not so much as hint at the influence which the loss of her lover had in disposing her mind to reflect on serious subjects. She describes her conversion as if it had taken its rise in a sudden inspiration from Heaven. Even the name of Quinault Dufresne is not once mentioned from one end of her narrative to the other.

On the twenty-fifth of April, seventeen hundred and twenty-two (writes Mademoiselle Gautier), while I was still leading a life of pleasure--according to the pernicious ideas of pleasure which pass current in the world--I happen to awake, contrary to my usual custom, between eight and nine o'clock in the morning. I remember that it is my birthday; I ring for my people; and my maid answers the bell, alarmed by the idea that I am ill. I tell her to dress me that I may go to mass. I go to the Church of the Cordeliers, followed by my footman, and taking with me a little orphan whom I had adopted. The first part of the mass is celebrated without attracting my attention; but, at the second part the accusing voice of my conscience suddenly begins to speak. "What brings you here?" it says. "Do you come to reward God for making you the attractive person that you are, by mortally transgressing His laws every day of your life?" I hear that question, and I am unspeakably overwhelmed by it. I quit the chair on which I have hitherto been leaning carelessly, and I prostrate myself in an agony of remorse on the pavement of the church.

The mass over, I send home the footman and the orphan, remaining behind myself, plunged in inconceivable perplexity. At last I rouse myself on a sudden; I go to the sacristy; I demand a mass for my own proper advantage every day; I determine to attend it regularly; and, after three hours of agitation, I return home, resolved to enter on the path that leads to justification.

Six months passed. Every morning I went to my mass: every evening I spent in my customary dissipations.

Some of my friends indulged in considerable merriment at my expense when they found out my constant attendance at mass. Accordingly, I disguised myself as a boy, when I went to church, to escape observation. My disguise was found out, and the jokes against me were redoubled. Upon this, I began to think of the words of the Gospel, which declare the impossibility of serving two masters. I determined to abandon the service of Mammon.

The first vanity I gave up was the vanity of keeping a maid. By way of further accustoming myself to the retreat from the world which I now began to meditate, I declined all invitations to parties under the pretext of indisposition. But the nearer the Easter time approached at which I had settled in my own mind definitely to turn my back on worldly temptations and pleasures, the more violent became my internal struggles with myself. My health suffered under them to such an extent that I was troubled with perpetual attacks of retching and sickness, which, however, did not prevent me from writing my general confession, addressed to the vicar of Saint Sulpice, the parish in which I lived.

Just Heaven! what did I not suffer some days afterwards, when I united around me at dinner, for the last time, all the friends who had been dearest to me in the days of my worldly life! What words can describe the tumult of my heart when one of my guests said to me, "You are giving us too good a dinner for a Wednesday in Passion Week;" and when another answered, jestingly, "You forget that this is her farewell dinner to her friends!" I felt ready to faint while they were talking, and rose from table pretexting as an excuse, that I had a payment to make that evening, which I could not in honour defer any longer. The company rose with me, and saw me to the door. I got into my carriage, and the company returned to table. My nerves were in such a state that I shrieked at the first crack of the coachman's whip; and the company came running down again to know what was the matter. One of my servants cleverly stopped them from all hurrying out to the carriage together, by declaring that the scream proceeded from my adopted orphan. Upon this they returned quietly enough to their wine, and I drove off with my general confession to the vicar of Saint Sulpice.

My interview with the vicar lasted three hours. His joy at discovering that I was in a state of grace was extreme. My own emotions were quite indescribable. Late at night I returned to my own house, and found my guests all gone. I employed myself in writing farewell letters to the manager and company of the theatre, and in making the necessary arrangements for sending back my adopted orphan to his friends, with twenty pistoles. Finally, I directed the servants to say, if anybody enquired after me the next day, that I had gone out of town for some time; and after that, at five o'clock in the morning, I left my home in Paris never to return to it again.

By this time I had thoroughly recovered my tranquillity. I was as easy in my mind at leaving my house as I am now when I quit my cell to sing in the choir. Such already was the happy result of my perpetual masses, my general confession, and my three hours' interview with the vicar of Saint Sulpice.

Before taking leave of the world, I went to Versailles to say good-bye to my worthy patrons, Cardinal Fleury and the Duke de Gesvres. From them, I went to mass in the King's Chapel; and after that, I called on a lady of Versailles whom I had mortally offended, for the purpose of making my peace with her. She received me angrily enough. I told her I had not come to justify myself, but to ask her pardon. If she granted it, she would send me away happy. If she declined to be reconciled, Providence would probably be satisfied with my submission, but certainly not with her refusal. She felt the force of this argument; and we made it up on the spot.

I left Versailles immediately afterwards, without taking anything to eat; the act of humility which I had just performed being as good as a meal to me.

Towards evening, I entered the house of the Community of Saint Perpetua at Paris. I had ordered a little room to be furnished there for me, until the inventory of my worldly effects was completed, and until I could conclude my arrangements for entering a convent. On first installing myself, I began to feel hungry at last, and begged the Superior of the Community to give me for supper anything that remained from the dinner of the house. They had nothing but a little stewed carp, of which I eat with an excellent appetite. Marvellous to relate, although I had been able to keep nothing on my stomach for the past three months, although I had been dreadfully sick after a little rice soup on the evening before, the stewed carp of the sisterhood of Saint Perpetua, with some nuts afterwards for dessert, agreed with me charmingly, and I slept all through the night afterwards as peacefully as a child!

When the news of my retirement became public, it occasioned great talk in Paris. Various people assigned various reasons for the strange course that I had taken. Nobody, however, believed that I had quitted the world in the prime of my life (I was then thirty-one years old), never to return to it again. Meanwhile, my inventory was finished and my goods were sold. One of my friends sent a letter, entreating me to reconsider my determination. My mind was made up, and I wrote to say so. When my goods had been all sold, I left Paris to go and live incognito as a parlour-boarder in the Convent of the Ursuline nuns of Pondevaux. Here I wished to try the mode of life for a little while before I assumed the serious responsibility of taking the veil. I knew my own character--I remembered my early horror of total seclusion, and my inveterate dislike to the company of women only; and, moved by these considerations, I resolved, now that I had taken the first important step, to proceed in the future with caution.

The nuns of Pondevaux received me among them with great kindness. They gave me a large room, which I partitioned off into three small ones. I assisted at all the pious exercises of the place. Deceived by my fashionable appearance and my plump figure, the good nuns treated me as if I was a person of high distinction. This afflicted me, and I undeceived them. When they knew who I really was, they only behaved towards me with still greater kindness. I passed my time in reading and praying, and led the quietest, sweetest life it is possible to conceive.

After ten months' sojourn at Pondevaux, I went to Lyons, and entered (still as parlour-boarder only) the House of Anticaille, occupied by the nuns of the Order of Saint Mary. Here, I enjoyed the advantage of having for director of my conscience that holy man, Father Deveaux. He belonged to the Order of the Jesuits; and he was good enough, when I first asked him for advice, to suggest that I should get up at eleven o'clock at night to say my prayers, and should remain absorbed in devotion until midnight. In obedience to the directions of this saintly person, I kept myself awake as well as I could till eleven o'clock. I then got on my knees with great fervour, and I blush to confess it, immediately fell as fast asleep as a dormouse. This went on for several nights, when Father Deveaux finding that my midnight devotions were rather too much for me, was so obliging as to prescribe another species of pious exercise, in a letter which he wrote to me with his own hand. The holy father, after deeply regretting my inability to keep awake, informed me that he had a new act of penitence to suggest to me by the performance of which I might still hope to expiate my sins. He then, in the plainest terms, advised me to have recourse to the discipline of flagellation, every Friday, using the cat-o'-nine-tails on my bare shoulders for the length of time that it would take to repeat a Miserere. In conclusion, he informed me that the nuns of Anticaille would probably lend me the necessary instrument of flagellation; but, if they made any difficulty about it, he was benevolently ready to furnish me with a new and special cat-o'-nine-tails of his own making.

Never was woman more amazed or more angry than I, when I first read this letter. "What!" cried I to myself, "does this man seriously recommend me to lash my own shoulders? Just Heaven, what impertinence! And yet, is it not my duty to put up with it? Does not this apparent insolence proceed from the pen of a holy man? If he tells me to flog my wickedness out of me, is it not my bounden duty to lay on the scourge with all my might immediately? Sinner that I am! I am thinking remorsefully of my plump shoulders and the dimples on my back, when I ought to be thinking of nothing but the cat-o'-nine-tails and obedience to Father Deveaux?"

These reflections soon gave me the resolution which I had wanted at first. I was ashamed to ask the nuns for an instrument of flagellation; so I made one for myself of stout cord, pitilessly knotted at very short intervals. This done, I shut myself up while the nuns were at prayer, uncovered my shoulders, and rained such a shower of lashes on them, in the first fervour of my newly-awakened zeal, that I fairly flogged myself down on the ground, flat on my nose, before I had repeated more of the Miserere than the first two or three lines.

I burst out crying, shedding tears of spite against myself when I ought to have been shedding tears of devotional gratitude for the kindness of Father Deveaux. All through the night I never closed my eyes, and in the morning I found my poor shoulders (once so generally admired for their whiteness) striped with all the colours of the rainbow. The sight threw me into a passion, and I profanely said to myself while I was dressing, "The next time I see Father Deveaux, I will give my tongue full swing, and make the hair of that holy man stand on end with terror!" A few hours afterwards, he came to the convent, and all my resolution melted away at the sight of him. His imposing exterior had such an effect on me that I could only humbly entreat him to excuse me from indicting a second flagellation on myself. He smiled, benignantly, and granted my request with a saintly amiability. "Give me the cat-o'-nine-tails," he said, in conclusion, "and I will keep it for you till you ask me for it again. You are sure to ask for it again, dear child--to ask for it on your bended knees!"

Pious and prophetic man! Before many days had passed his words came true. If he had persisted severely in ordering me to flog myself, I might have opposed him for months together; but, as it was, who could resist the amiable indulgence he showed towards my weakness? The very next day after my interview, I began to feel ashamed of my own cowardice; and the day after that I went down on my knees, exactly as he had predicted, and said, "Father Deveaux, give me back my cat-o'-nine-tails." From that time I cheerfully underwent the discipline of flagellation, learning the regular method of practising it from the sisterhood, and feeling, in a spiritual point of view, immensely the better for it.

The nuns, finding that I cheerfully devoted myself to every act of self-sacrifice prescribed by the rules of their convent, wondered very much that I still hesitated about taking the veil. I begged them not to mention the subject to me till my mind was quite made up about it. They respected my wish, and said no more; but they lent me books to read which assisted in strengthening my wavering resolution. Among these books was the Life of Madame de Montmorenci, who, after the shocking death of her husband, entered the Order of St. Mary. The great example of this lady made me reflect seriously, and I communicated my thoughts, as a matter of course, to Father Deveaux. He assured me that the one last greatest sacrifice which remained for me to make was the sacrifice of my liberty. I had long known that this was my duty, and I now felt, for the first time, that I had courage and resolution enough boldly to face the idea of taking the veil.

While I was in this happy frame of mind, I happened to meet with the history of the famous Rance, founder, or rather reformer, of the Order of La Trappe. I found a strange similarity between my own worldly errors and those of this illustrious penitent. The discovery had such an effect on me, that I spurned all idea of entering a convent where the rules were comparatively easy, as was the case at Anticaille, and determined, when I did take the veil, to enter an Order whose discipline was as severe as the discipline of La Trappe itself. Father Deveaux informed me that I should find exactly what I wanted among the Carmelite nuns; and, by his advice, I immediately put myself in communication with the Archbishop of Villeroi. I opened my heart to this worthy prelate, convinced him of my sincerity, and gained from him a promise that he would get me admitted among the Carmelite nuns of Lyons. One thing I begged of him at parting, which was, that he would tell the whole truth about my former life and about the profession that I had exercised in the world. I was resolved to deceive nobody, and to enter no convent under false pretences of any sort.

My wishes were scrupulously fulfilled; and the nuns were dreadfully frightened when they heard that I had been an actress at Paris. But the Archbishop promising to answer for me, and to take all their scruples on his own conscience, they consented to receive me. I could not trust myself to take formal leave of the nuns of Anticaille, who had been so kind to me, and towards whom I felt so gratefully. So I wrote my farewell to them after privately leaving their house, telling them frankly the motives which animated me, and asking their pardon for separating myself from them in secret.

On the fourteenth of October, seventeen hundred and twenty-four, I entered the Carmelite convent at Lyons, eighteen months after my flight from the world, and my abandonment of my profession--to adopt which, I may say, in my own defence, that I was first led through sheer poverty. At the age of seventeen years, and possessing (if I may credit report) remarkable personal charms, I was left perfectly destitute through the spendthrift habits of my father. I was easily persuaded to go on the stage, and soon tempted, with my youth and inexperience, to lead an irregular life. I do not wish to assert that dissipation necessarily follows the choice of the actress's profession, for I have known many estimable women on the stage. I, unhappily, was not one of the number. I confess it to my shame, and, as the chief of sinners, I am only the more grateful to the mercy of Heaven which accomplished my conversion.

When I entered the convent, I entreated the prioress to let me live in perfect obscurity, without corresponding with my friends, or even with my relations. She declined to grant this last request, thinking that my zeal was leading me too far. On the other hand, she complied with my wish to be employed at once, without the slightest preparatory indulgence or consideration, on any menial labour which the discipline of the convent might require from me. On the first day of my admission a broom was put into my hands. I was appointed also to wash up the dishes, to scour the saucepans, to draw water from a deep well, to carry each sister's pitcher to its proper place, and to scrub the tables in the refectory. From these occupations I got on in time to making rope shoes for the sisterhood, and to taking care of the great clock of the convent; this last employment requiring me to pull up three immensely heavy weights regularly every day. Seven years of my life passed in this hard work, and I can honestly say that I never murmured over it.

To return, however, to the period of my admission into the convent.

After three months of probation, I took the veil on the twentieth of January, seventeen hundred and twenty-five. The Archbishop did me the honour to preside at the ceremony; and, in spite of the rigour of the season, all Lyons poured into the church to see me take the vows. I was deeply affected; but I never faltered in my resolution. I pronounced the oaths with a firm voice, and with a tranquillity which astonished all the spectators,--a tranquillity which has never once failed me since that time.

Such is the story of my conversion. Providence sent me into the world with an excellent nature, with a true heart, with a remarkable susceptibility to the influence of estimable sentiments. My parents neglected my education, and left me in the world, destitute of everything but youth, beauty, and a lively temperament. I tried hard to be virtuous; I vowed, before I was out of my teens, and when I happened to be struck down by a serious illness, to leave the stage, and to keep my reputation unblemished, if anybody would only give me two hundred livres a year to live upon. Nobody came forward to help me, and I fell. Heaven pardon the rich people of Paris who might have preserved my virtue at so small a cost! Heaven grant me courage to follow the better path into which its mercy has led me, and to persevere in a life of penitence and devotion to the end of my days!

So this singular confession ends. Besides the little vanities and levities which appear here and there on its surface, there is surely a strong under-current of sincerity and frankness which fit it to appeal in some degree to the sympathy as well as the curiosity of the reader. It is impossible to read the narrative without feeling that there must have been something really genuine and hearty in Mademoiselle Gautier's nature; and it is a gratifying proof of the honest integrity of her purpose to know that she persevered to the last in the life of humility and seclusion which her conscience had convinced her was the best life that she could lead. Persons who knew her in the Carmelite convent, report that she lived and died in it, preserving to the last, all the better part of the youthful liveliness of her character. She always received visitors with pleasure, always talked to them with surprising cheerfulness, always assisted the poor, and always willingly wrote letters to her former patrons in Paris to help the interests of her needy friends. Towards the end of her life, she was afflicted with blindness; but she was a trouble to no one in consequence of this affliction, for she continued, in spite of it, to clean her own cell, to make her own bed, and to cook her own food just as usual. One little characteristic vanity--harmless enough, surely?--remained with her to the last. She never forgot her own handsome face, which all. Paris had admired in the by-gone time; and she contrived to get a dispensation from the Pope which allowed her to receive visitors in the convent parlour without a veil.

End

Chapter 5

Of the raising of the price of Money both of Silver and Gold

It is to be understood that there are three ways of raising

the price of Moneys either Gold or Silver: The first is without alteration of the Species of the Money, by encreasing the value of it, by giving more parts to it than originally it had, as by ordaining an Angel or a Soveraign to be valued at eleven shillings, which was coined for ten, or a shilling to be valued at fourteen pence. The second way is by diminishing the matter, but leaving the same name and value to the Money which it had before, as if Shillings or Angels, or Soveraigns were coined by the same name and value as before, but were diminished so many grains in weight: or, if new names were given to them and the same value retained, but the weight diminished; for in this case, there being really less Gold and Silver in weight in the piece than there was before and the value remaining the same, the Silver and Gold which remains hath a higher price set upon it. The third is when the value remaining the same of the species of Money, and the weight of the same, the fineness is abased by putting more Allay into it, for then there is really less Gold and Silver in fineness. There are two causes of the raising of Money: the first and most antient cause of raising Money, was a gain which the state made of it in their Necessities, which hath not often been practised in this Kingdom. But the second and most frequent cause hath been, an Art which States have used to rob one another of their Money, by setting on higher prices upon it; so that some States being induced, by an unjust device, to draw to themselves the Money of their Neighbours, and others by a necessity to keep their own. All these parts of the world, for some few hundred of years, have done nothing but vye one upon another who shall raise their Money highest, which hath brought great Confusion in all States; and doth threaten much greater, if it be not prevented. But first to shew the Antiquity of the practice of raising of Monies we will begin with the Romans. The As, which was originally coyned of a pound weight, was, during the first Punick War for help of publick necessities, brought to 2 ounces, and all the lesser parts of the As, as ounces and others, were abated in proportion. During the Dictatorship of Fabius Maximus the As was brought to one ounce weight, and yet reduced again by Papirius to half an ounce. The Denarii of Silver were at first current for ten As, and the Sestertii, which were quarters of the Denarii, for two and a half as. But when the weight of the as was diminished to one ounce the denarius was made worth sixteen as, and the sestertius worth four as. They did likewise make sundry abasements (by means) of the Allay, whereof that of Livius Drusus was excessive, mixing an 8th part of Copper. And hereby the confusions grew so great, that Tullie in a passage of his Offices saith, Jactobatur enim Temporibus illis Nummus, sic ut nemo posset scire quid haberet (in pecunia); where upon Marius Gratidianus, who being Triumvir monetae cudendae, brought in an exact Ordinance for the regulating of this Money, had Statues erected to him by the people. The first gold pieces were coined of 40 pieces in the pound, and in the time of Justinian, the same pieces, called Solidi aurei were 72 in the pound. After the great inundations of the Barbarous people into the Roman Empire, the Confusions in this subject of Money grew incredible. Charles the Great, in whose time the Monarchy of the Francks grew to the Height, made a new Reglement of Moneys, which is the same that continues to this day in France, and is the same which we do now practice in England, for the division of Moneys, though for the Values of them the difference is grown exceeding great: For he renewed again the Account by Livres or Pounds, and divided the Pounds into twenty Solidi, which in France they call Sols, and we Shillings; the solidus again into 12 Denarii, which in France they call Deniers, and we pence. But the values are grown so different as every of our Shillings, our Pounds, our Pence are valued at ten of theirs: and yet in intrinsical value are more. Many do hold that by the Institution of Charles the Great, twenty Sols contained in them a Pound of silver. but it is authentically to be proved, both by unquestionable Records, and by Pieces themselves, of which I have some extant, that many hundred of years after, in the time of St. Lewis, who was contemporary with our Henry the Third, that the Sols then contained in intrinsical value near six Sols of this present King, so much hath the Money since that time been raised in price, and abased in substance, which is the same. In the Reign of Philip the Second, in the year 1181, the French Mark of fine Gold, which makes almost 8 ounces of our Pound, was valued in the Moneys then at 44 livres, and the Mark of the King's Silver was valued at 2 livres, 13 sols, and 4 deniers. And by the Edict of this present King, in the year 1614, the Mark of the same Gold was valued at 278 Livres, 6 Sols, 6 Deniers. And the Mark of the same silver was valued at 20 livres, 5 Sols; so that in this time, the Gold hath been raised to six times, and almost the third part of the price which then it did bear; and the Silver hath been raised much above seven times the value which then it did bear. I will not trouble the Reader to set down by what degrees this Price has grown to so great an height which have been very various, the Price having been sometimes excessively raised and sometimes sudainly reduced back again by the French Kings, and most commonly to make a Levy of Monies upon the People, which hath bred infinite Confusions, and sometimes Rebellions in that Kingdom. But I will now come to the Kingdom of England, where the raising of the Price hath been with a more constant hand, and, almost alwayes, out of a kind of Necessity to follow the raising of other States; yet, from time to time we shall not finde the Rates of the raising much to differ from those of France. But I cannot begin from so antient (a date) as in France; The first Record that I can find for this purpose being in the eighteenth year of Edward the Third, which was in the year of Grace about 1344. And then a pound of Gold of sterling Standard, which is 23 carrats, 3 grains, and one half fine, was valued at 13 pound 4s 8d. and a pound of Silver of sterling Standard, at 22s. 2d. The 20th of Edward the Third, the pound of Gold of the same Standard was raised to 14 pound, and the pound of Silver to 22s 6d. In the 27th of Edward the Third, the same gold was raised to 15 pound, and the same Silver to 25s the pound; the rest of the reign of Edward the Third, and during all the Reign of Richard the Second, and until the Thirteenth of Henry the Fourth, the same prices remained. And then by the Advice of the Parliament, to prevent Transportation, the same Gold was raised to 16 pound, 15s and the same Silver to 30s the pound; and this price remained all the rest of the reign of Henry the Fourth, and during all the Reign of Henry the Fifth, and until the 49th of Henry the Sixth; and then the same Gold was raised to 22 l. 10s. and the same Silver to 37s. 6d. But in the fourth of Edward the Fourth, the price of the same Gold was brought back to 20 pound 16s. 8d. the Silver remaining as before. And in the eighth of Edward the Fourth, the Gold was again raised to the former price of 22 l. 10s. the Silver still remaining at 37s. 6d. And this price remained all the rest of the Reign of Edward the Fourth, all the Reign of Richard the Third, all the Reign of Henry the Seventh, and all the beginning of Henry the Eight: But in 18th of Henry the Eight, a Commission issued forth for the Alteration of the Standard, and of the Prices of Moneys, according to the Direction to be given by the Cardinal of York, and such other of the King's Council as he should call unto him: form whence issued so great a Confusion, both in the prices and Standard of the Moneys, as would prove very difficult to trace out, and tedious to read, as well for the Obscurity as for the great Variations, which succeeded: And therefore I pass over all the rest of his Reign, as also those of King Edward and Queen Mary, and until the fourteenth of Queen Elizabeth, when was again coined Gold and Silver of the antient sterling Standard, the Gold at 36 l. the pound, and the Silver of the old Standard at 3 l. the pound: and although there were at the same time and after much crown Gold coined, yet the intrinsical value of it was governed by (the weight and fineness of) the Angel of Gold: In the 25th and 26th of the Queen, she abased the standard of the Gold one quarter of a grain, and the standard of the Silver one penny weight, whereby the price of Gold was raised one shilling 10 pence in the pound, and the price of Silver 3d. in the pound. but in the second year of King James, the price of the Soveraign, in gold which is but 22 carats fine, was raised to 27 pound, 4 shill. being almost one eleventh part more; and by the Proclamation, by which every 20 shilling piece was made current for 22 shillings, the said Gold was yet raised another tenth part; so that the increase of the price of Gold has been such by the Degrees before specified, that every pound sterling, by reckoning of Gold coin, and every part of a pound, as Marks, and Shillings, etc. in coin of Gold, did in the eighteenth of Edward the Third contain in intrinsical value (id est) in pure Gold, thrice as much and above a third part more than the same pound sterling in reckoning of Gold-coin, marks, shillings, etc. does at this day contain. And every pound sterling in reckoning of Silver-coin, and every part of a pound, as marks, shillings, etc. in Silver coins did in the 18th year of Edward the third, contain in intrinsical value, (id est) in pure Silver, thrice as much, wanting about 1/6th part as the same pound sterling, in reckoning of Silver coins, marks, shillings, etc. does at this day contain. There is yet another Proportion of Gold and Silver to be inquired into as necessary to be known; and peradventure more necessary than either of these: And that is to enquire what Proportion our Gold and Silver holds in Value, being in Bullion, as it is presented to the Mint by the Merchant, in Comparison of the near adjoyning Countries: For by this Proportion we shall discover the Reason why the Merchant Brings Gold into England rather than Silver, and Silver into Holland rather than Gold, or, why he carries both, or either of them, into one Country rather than into another. And for that purpose, I will first begin with England, and then compare it with some of the nearest neighbouring Countreys. In England, where the Merchant for so much Gold fine of 24 carats, as makes a pound, Tower weight, doth receive 43 l. 7s. 1d. according to the rate of the Mint, which is 41 l. 5s. for a pound weight of sterling gold. In France, according to the Edict of this King, Anno 1614, which is yet in force, the Merchant receiveth at this Mint for so much Gold of 24 Carats, as makes a pound of Tower weight, but 426 livres, and about 7 sols and one half French more at the Mint in England for the same quantity of Gold, than the Merchant doth receive at the Mint in France. Of Silver, the Merchant, at the Mint in England receives for so much fine Silver as makes a pound, Tower weight, 3 l. 4s. 6d. the Merchant receives at the Mint in France, for the same quantity of Silver, 2 livres, and 2 sols French, or 4s. and almost 2d. half penny more than the Merchant receives at the Mint of England. This Account I do make reckoning the 12 ounces, Tower weight to make, as by tryal it has been proved, 12 ounces and 6 deniers, Paris weight. As for the United Provinces, etc.

Chapter 6

Of Base Money

I do not mean by base Money, Money of pure Copper, which in

all States and in all Ages hath almost always been used, at the first for want of Gold and Silver, and now since, for the necessity of the poorer sort onely, and not for Commerce and Trade, as our farthlings have lately bin introduced: But I mean that mixture of Metals, wherein Silver is incorporated with other baser Metals, not for Allay but to the extinction of the denomination of Silver; as Wine, when it is watered beyond a certain proportion looseth the name of Wine. And in all the Countries of Europe, as far as I can learn, except England and Muscovia, is used for Commerce and Trade amongst the people: which mixtion of mettals however it hath been practised at times in former Ages, out of the extream Necessities of the Common wealth, yet I do not find that it hath been constantly embraced (as now it is in all parts) until about Eightscore years since, about which time it was introduced into France by Charles the Seventh. The pretences whereof were these. First, That there was no Intention thereby to raise the price or to diminish the weight of Silver, but that this Money should be as good in intrinsical value, as in the Money of purer Silver, save only a small charge laid upon it for the coinage: then that by coining small pieces of a penny, two pence, or three pence, and thereabouts, the pieces, by the mixtion should have a greater bulk, and so be preserved from loss, which must needs frequently happen by reason of the smallness of the pieces, if they were made of pure Silver, so likewise they should be preserved from wearing: and again, that the Gold-Smith should by this means be kept from melting them, and the Stranger from exporting them, because the charge of refining them and drawing the pure Silver out of them would far exceed the profit: These are the Pretences by which base Money was first introduced, but if they be weighed against the Inconveniences, which have followed upon it, it will be found one of the most mischievous Inventions that ever was found in matters of Money. I could hardly resolve with myself to insert this Chapter in this Discourse, because having mine aim only a the good of this State, it seemed unnecessary to treat of this Subject, since we have no base Money in England; but when I consider, that in some unhappy seasons heretofore we have had base Money; and that it is not impossible, but that the like Projects may again be revived, I determin'd not only to treat, but to go through with it all at once, and not to interrupt this Discourse any more with that Subject: And therefore to set down the Inconveniences that have followed it, which in the former Chapter I did forbear, reserving both the Inconveniences and the Remedies to be treated of apart. The first Inconvenience then of the great mixture of Mettals, is the falsifying of them; for both in reason it is too true, that by this mixture both the Colour, Sound, Weight, and the other more hidden Qualities of the different mettals are so confounded as the falsity cannot be discovered, but with extream difficulty: and by experience it is verified, that in all those Countries where base Money hath-course, the greatest part of it is not coyned by the State, but either counterfeited by the Natives, or brought in by several Strangers. Secondly, It is true that the base Money was first coined in France, of an intrinsical value, almost equal to that of purer mettals, and so it continues to this day, for so much of it is coined by ordinance of the State, (the greatest part being falsifyed:) But in most other Countries (as namely in Spain) the State in self, to raise a Tribute upon the people, hath extreamly falsified the intrinsical value, by which means both the State hath for gain, Coins much more than there is occasion to use, and there is incomparably more counterfeited by others, so as the mischief doth hourly multiply. Thirdly, The values of Money are continually raised from time to time, which is no new Device (as is already more particularly declared) the base Money must then in Proportion be likewise raised, which cannot be done by increasing the value of the particular pieces for being of so small price, the fractions would be irreconcilable, so as there is no other way left to raise the base Money, but by coining new, of a weaker Intrinsical value. I would then gladly know what becomes of all the old base Money, either it is melted down by Bullioners, which is the name in French of those who by culling and trying of Coins make their profit to melt them; or it is transported by strangers, so as in effect the use of base Money doth bring that inconvenience, the avoiding whereof was made one of the chiefest Pretences for Coinage of it. Fourthly, It is truly observed, that in all those Countries where base Money is current, there the price of Gold and Silver is daily raised by the people, not only without the Ordinance of the State, but contrary to, and in despight of all Prohibitions to the contrary, which draws with it extream disorders and mischiefs, so it is in the Low Countries, so it is in France, so in Germany, and in Spain; although the Ordinance for the value of the Gold and Silver may securely be maintained by this help, that no Forrein Coin is there current; yet when you come to change base Money for Silver or Gold, you shall find how the people there raise the price unto you of the purer Money; But in England and Muscovia, where no base Money is in use, there the people never raise the price of Gold and Silver (except by Ordinance of the State it be directed) neither doth Experience only try this Conclusion, but Reason also; for the people when they see the Money of base and uncertain mixture, do disesteem it, and in comparison thereof do esteem the Money of purer Gold and Silver above the proportion, and so do raise the price of it; and this esteem is not meerly out of opinion, for that really, that piece of base Money which hath as much fine Silver as a penny, is notwithstanding not worth a penny, because the mixture makes that you cannot extract this penny in pure mettal, without loss and charge: and if the people do hold this base esteem of this mixture which hath in it the intrinsical value for which it is current, how much more base esteem must they hold of that mixture, which they know hath not neer in it that intrinsical value for which it is current, and how much more must they needs raise the Silver. And certainly base Money, when either it is at first coined much in the intrinsical value under the extrinsical, or is by degrees brought unto it and long so continued, doth in the end breed either Insurrections among the People, or rejections of it; whereof the examples of Insurrections are very frequent, and therefore I will forbear to instance in them. But I cannot omit one example of Rejection, because it is so fresh in Memory, which was in Ireland in the end of the Reign of Queen Elizabeth; which Country although it was newly vindicated from Rebellion, and did patently endure all the imperious Directions which a late fresh Victory did bring with it, yet as soon as the Exchanges of base Moneys sent thither did cease in England, it was instantly rejected there, and would not pass current for so much as in the true intrinsical value it was worth, but was brought up at under rates by such as made profit by melting it. Fifthly, The Dishonour that accompanies base Moneys, is of a more important Inconvenience than all the rest, for what can be more dishonourable than to have the Image of the Prince, or the Mark of the Publick Attestation impressed upon false and counterfeited stuff: according to the saying of an Emperour, Quid enim erit tutum si in nostra peccetur Effigie? And if there be gain made of it, it is a manifest breach of the publick Faith, for that it hath no other course than as it hath publick warrant to be good. Nay, this point of Honour hath so far prevailed in the World, that it hath been made an Observation by many, that in all great Divisions in States and Monarchaies, that partly hath infallibly the juster cause which doth most warily proceed, either to the raising of the price, or the abasing of the matter thereof: which Observations are not without warrant of Experience nor of Reason also; for that all raising of the price and abasing of the matter of Money for gain, drawing with it an unjust, ruinous and unequal burthen upon the people, they that maintain the better cause, like the true Mother, will choose to loose the cause than the Child should be destroyed. In which loyal maintenance of the public Faith in matters of Money our Kings do incomparably outshine all other Princes and States of Europe: for if Spain, and some other States do equal them in the pureness of the mettals, and the low values of their Monies of Gold and Silver, yet they have made themselves farr inferiour unto them by filling their Countries with base Money. And if in Muscovy they have coined no base Money, yet they have raised the Standard of their Silver so high, by diminishing both the fineness and weight, that the Silver itself scarcly deserves that name. And this I have seen and can learn by other means, that there is no State in the World more excellently tempered than this of England, or wherein the Prince is more absolute in all things, wherein it is good for himself and the publick, that he should be absolute; or where the great men are more honoured without license of oppressing the People; or where the People do live more freely or so happily as in England. As for the Remedies of this Inconvenience of base Money, I do leave those Countries to struggle with them that are afflicted with it, for us in England the remedy is plain and easy, which is mainly and constantly to keep it out. Thus far I have proceeded in the History of Money to set down, as briefly as I could, by what degrees Money hath grown into that form and state as now it is governed; but have forborn to speake of the Inconveniences grown therein, and of the Remedies thereof, save only in the last Chapter, which I mean to propound, and debate in the rest of this Discourse, for the opening of the Readers understanding without making any positive conclusion, but leave that to every ones private Judgment.

Chapter 7

Of the Inconveniences in general grown in the matter of Money.

The inconveniences which are accident to this Subject of

Money are in general but two, Raritie and Confusion; which although they do coincide many times in the subject, that is, that Rarity breeds Confusion, and Confusion breeds Rarity, yet in their Nature they do differ, and many times likewise in the Subject; and there is seen Confusion without Rarity, and Rarity without Confusion: yet this latter branch of Confusion will yield small matter to our discourse, because in England no forrein Coins are current, nor base Money; there is no variation in the Mints, there being but one; and there is very small Varietie in Allayes; in the Silver Money none at all, and in the Gold, but two, all which are occasions of confusion in the matter of Money. As for the other branch of Rarity, the causes thereof, when we come to handle them, will appear both very various and very intricate. And, if I were to handle this Subject as part of a Treatise of the best Form of a Common-wealth, I would first endeavour to search out what proportion of Money were fittest for the Common-wealth, for if MOney were invented for the Exchange of things useful to man's life, there is a certain Proportion for that use, and there is as well a too much as a too little: Because that the want of Money makes the life of the Citizens penurious and barbarous, so the over-great Abundance of Money makes their lives luxurious and wanton, by reason of the great Commutability of all things for Money, by which the vain and vicious Fancies of men are presently supplied with all that they do affect. But I must apply my Conceit to the Common-wealth as it is, not as a Philosopher may frame it is to perfect the Horse in all his natural actions, and to redeem and win him from all vicious affections; but for the Rider it is enough if he do use him to the best Advantage such as he finds him. ow all the Common-wealths of the World are grown to such a Depravation, that not only the exchange of Necessaries, for which Money was first invented, but all things else are valued by Money, the services and duties of the Commonwealth, the virtue and the lives of the citizens; so that in the common opinions, that State that abounds in Money, hath Courage, hath Men, and all other Instruments to defend itself and offend others, if it have wisdom how to make use of it: and upon this ground it was said, during the time of the late Wars in France, that that side that had the last Crown to spend must be infallibly victorious. And it seems that in the Low Countries, on both sides they are of the same opinion; for so they may draw Money by it from their Enemies, they do furnish them with Victuals and other Provisions to sustain their Armies by Pasport and publick Avowal. Hence it is that in the modern Forms of Common-wealths there is no Proportion, no Mediocrity of Money, but all do strive to abound with it, without any stint. And hence it is that Rarity is almost the sole Inconvenience in matter of Money; the Rarity of Money doth grow out of these Four Causes following, viz. First, Want of means to bring in the Materials of Money. Secondly, Facility of exporting them. Thirdly, The wasting of them in the Kingdom. Fourthly, The great encrease of the proportion between Gold and Silver, and the things valued by them.

First, the want of means to bring in the Materials of Money,

may be reduced into these heads. First, The want of Manufactures, for Manufactures do breed Money, and Money again doth breed Manufactures, which is apparent in divers States and Cities, that have no natural commodities of their own, either to exchange for other Commodities or to bring in Gold and Silver, which do yet notwithstanding abound with both by reason of their Manufactures, and as the Stocks of their Money do encrease, so do their Manufactures encrease withall. But the ways of encreasing and maintaining Manufactures do depend upon other considerations in civil Government, and in no sort upon the course of Money except by accident, that the good Government of the course of Money may breed plenty of money, and plenty of Money doth help to encrease Manufactures, and therefore to speak no more of this Subject; I purpose. A Second cause of want of Means to bring in the Materials of Money, is the want of Sumptuary Laws to be made and executed, for as in private Families there is no so easie and certain way to thrive, as the cutting off superfluous expences, so is it in the Common-wealth; and that which the Industry and Will of the Master doth perform in every Private Family, that the Magistrates and Law ought to perform in the Common-wealth. But this Title likewise hath not Coherence with my Subject; and therefore I do omit to speak any further of it. A Third cause, is the want of Sufficient Search of these Mettals in the Bowels of the Earth within the Kingdom, and it is a certain Experiement that there are sundry Mines of Silver in this Kingdom: and there is ground to believe both that they are of great Profit and of long continuance, if the working of them shall be well regulated by the State, and judiciously prosecuted by the Undertakers: but this also hath no dependance upon my Subject, and therefore here I leave it. The fourth cause of the want of means to bring in the Materials of Money is the impediments of Trade, which are very many, and of subtile disquistion; but have no dependance upon our Enquiry, but by accident; and therefore I leave them to be discussed where it appertaineth. A fifth Defect, in the bringing in of the Materials of Money, is the Prohibition of Forrein, especially Spanish, and this Title hath entirely relation to our Subject, and hereof I purpose hereafter to examine the Inconvenience apart, together with the Remedies propounded. A sixth cause, is the Low price of our Moneys, especially of our Silver Moneys, which is the cause assigned by many that much of the Materials that would be brought hither into England, if the price were higher, is now transported into other parts: And in this Title I mean first to examine apart the disproportion between our Money of Silver and Gold. But the low price of our Money in respect of our Neighbours and the raising of it higher, or not raising of it, or the reducing of it yet lower, according to the values of more ancient times, and the Inconveniences that may grow by the one or the other, and the remedies propounded will occurr to be considered in every division of the causes of the Rarity of Money. But to avoid Confusion, I do purpose to handle them all together in one Chapter. The Second cause of the rarity of Money and the Materials thereof, is the facility of exporting them out of the Kingdom which doth arise out of these Causes; First, out of raising of prices of Moneys by our Neighbours, which in effect is the same with the former of the low prices of our Moneys; for by giving a greater price for our Moneys, than it is valued here with us, they allure both our own and Forrein Merchants to carry our Moneys to them. A second Cause is the unequal Coinage of our Moneys, by which cometh to pass that those pieces which are over heavy and of finer Allay, are tried and culled out, and either exported into Forrein parts, or melted down for other uses. And although it might be thought that the strict care used by the State in this behalf should have prevented this mischief, yet daily experience doth shew that great Quantities of the weightiest and best Moneys are daily exported, and that the Silver which remaineth amongst us is so much under the Standard as is hardly credible: which matter I purpose to handle, being naturally incident to this subject. The want likewise of Manufactures and Sumptuary Laws, are two causes of the facility of the exporting the Money and the Materials thereof our of this Realm, for by the encrease of Manufactures, the Commodities of the Kingdom are increased, and by Sumptuary Laws Forrein commodities are made less useful, both which conduce to the keeping of the Money and Bullion within the Realm. But these causes are not of our consideration. A third cause of the Rarity of Money and the Materials thereof, is the wasting and consuming it within the Kingdom, as in guildings, gold and silver-thread, and inlayings, all which is consumed in a manner to nothing; the excessive use likewise of Plate maketh Money scant, but all these Defects are to be remedied by Sumptuary Laws. The laying up of Money also in Treasure, is likewise a Cause of Rarity: But the Interest of Money is so high and quick in England, as I believe that cause doth little prejudice.

Together with a short Account of our Common Law therein.

by Rice Vaughan, late of Grayes-Inn, Esq;

London, Printed by Th. Dawks, for Th. Basset, at the George, near Cliffords-Inn, in Fleet-street. 1675.

To the Right Honourable Henry Earl of Clarendon, Viscount Cornbury, and Baron Hide of Hindon; Lord Chamberlain to the Queens most excellent Majesty.

Most Noble Lord, It being become a thing so usual in this most scribling Age, (nam scripturire quam parturire mallet hoc soeculum) to crave shelter under the wings of some renowned Person, from the severity of Censurers; without which, Learning shall scarcely have Admittance: and this piece though not my own, yet coming to my hands amongst other manuscripts of a Gentleman of Grayes Inn, lately deceased; (and very near related to me) whose Genius, I may safely say, was not a little curious in the search of other knowledge than the Law, (to which he served five Apprenticeships). And humbly conceiving nothing could more seasonably appear in View for the better instructing our worthy Countrymen in the Knowledge of a thing whose want is so generally complained of, yet the Invention, Use, and Species with their Advantages scarce truly understood; I presumed through that true knowledge of your Lordships Person, and most zealous Honour of your greatly to be admired Endowments, with your Love to Learning, which the most plebeian ears and eyes were not ignorant of, to recommend unto your Lordships hand this Treatise, in a more ample and different manner than that lately published out of the Mss. of the never to be forgotten Earl of Sandwich, shewing the first Invention, Use, Matter, Forms, Proportions, and Differences, Ancient and Modern of that Coy Lady Pecunia, with the Advantages and Disadvantages of the Rise or Fall thereof in our own and neighbouring Nations; and the Reasons Pro and Con, with other things in the other piece not contained. And here I cannot, without great unworthiness, be silent in the due praises of his most Excellent Majesty that now is, who with abundance of Royal Care and Wisdom, with no small charge, hath set forth a Coin in Form, shape, Goodness, and Beauty, not second to any used in the world, in Common Commerce, and so uneasy to be patterned or imbellished, a thing of no small consequence in Commonwealths. Herewith you have a short account of our books of Law; as also Tables of the value of all sorts of Pearls, Diamonds, Gold, Silver, and other Metalls.[omitted from this edition]. I shall not undertake to say, but that n the Tables of values, in these mutable times, some variation may happen, to the common practice of Artists, in that nature, whose private unmeasurable Ends are, to some more their Gods than Justice or Honesty their Practise: but the Grounds being herein plainly stated; a pregnant wit, with a little Commerce, may soon rectify those diary Deceits, and for the other part, whose Theory perhaps in some places, may be thought too much to reflect on the too often practised Abuses of the Gold-Smiths in that Nature; I hope all but themselves will readily grant me Pardon for the Publishing, and they being but a few, and Justice on our side, the Authors Bones I trust will not disturb, nor I much suffer by the selfish Censures of a People so obstinately unreasonable. Mr Lord, I shall now only beg pardon for this presumption, in hopes of success, till time give opportunity to testify how much I am My Lord, truly devoted to your Lordships service, and your Admirer, Henry Vaughan.

Chapter 1

Of the First Invention and Use of Money.

The first invention of Money was for a Pledge and instead of

a surety, for when men did live by Exchange of their Wants and Superfluities, both parties could not always fit one another at the present; in which case the Corruptions of Man's Nature did quickly grow to make it behooful, that the party receiving should leave somewhat worthy to be esteemed for a Pledge, to supply the givers want upon the like occasion: Time did easily find out that this Pledge should be something not too common, not easy to be consumed with use, or spoiled for want of use, and this was Money. The first use of Money was then by it to supply every man's particular wants. This introduced a second use of Cauponation, when men did by the Pledge of Money procure not only those things which they themselves wanted, but which they might sell to others for more money: and under that kind is all Trades comprehended, whether it be grose sale, or retale; and this use hath brought in a third use of Money, for the gain of cauponation did give a Colour to those that lent Money to such as did encrease it by Trade, to take usury for it, which is therefore termed the most unnatural use of Money, because it is most remote from the natural Institution. Of this there are many kinds of which the most refined is that of Exchange, which is mix'd with an usury of place, as that is of time. Thus did Money grow inseperably necessary to all Exchange, to make the things exchanged equal in value, for that all exchange is either by the actual or intellectual valuation of Money; that is to say, Either the thing is exchanged for Money, or if it be exchanged for another thing, the measure of that exchange is how much Money either of the things exchanged is conceived to be worth; and Practice hath found out that in values, which the Geometricians have found out in quantities, that two lines which are equal to a third line, are equal to one another: So is money a third line, by which all things are made equal in value, and therefore it is not ill compared to the Meteria Prima, because, though it serves actually to no use almost, it serves potentially to all uses. It is not impertinent to examine these things from their ground in nature, or in use: For intending to treat by what meanes the course of money may best be governed to the advantage of the common-wealth, (a matter of so curious and subtil a search as the most solid understandings are dazled with it) it is necessary, first to lay down the first and plainest principles of the Subject, by which the understanding of the Writer and the Reader may be guided in the Labyrinths ensuing; and this subject being much obscured, not only by the intricasie of its own nature, but by the Art and Terms of those who do manage these affairs, I do intent to lay open all the mysteries to the comprehension of the attentive Reader. And for that purpose, I intend first Historically, to set down by what Degrees, and upon what Reasons the forms of Money and of Coinage, now practised are given into use, and without any censure or observation upon them: and I will afterwards treat a part of the inconveniences grown into this Subject of Money, and of the Remedies that may be applied thereunto.

Chapter 2

Of the Matter of Money

Of all things whereof Money could be made, there was nothing

so fit as Metalls, as Copper, Silver, but above all Gold; for they are first useful, which doth increase it; they may be divided into as little parts as you will, and then returned into a greater mass: they are susceptible of any form, mark or impression to be made and fit to conceive it; they are of an exceeding long indurance against the Injuries of time or accident, they are hardly subject to any natural corruption, especially Gold, of the continuitie and incorruptableness whereof the Alchimists, who have most vexed that body, do write wonders; so as one affirmeth, That it is harder to destroy Gold than to make it; and they have sundry other properties accomodating them for the matter of Money; as the world hath by a general consent, and from all times received them for that purpose, especially Gold and Silver, of which chiefly I mean to treat: It is true that many particular Countries have antiently, and do as this day use other things in stead of Money: (as to instance in some of the modern) in AEthiopia they use certain stones of Salt in stead of Money; in Guinney, Shells; in New Spain, Cacao, Coco in Peru, one of which is a fruit, the other an herb: but in all these Countries you shall find that there is a certain value set upon Gold and Silver, by which chiefly the value of all other things is raised, and that these other things do but serve as base Money doth in sundry Countries of Europe, where it is current in certain limits, by the Law or Custom of the Place; but yet they cannot be without Gold and Silver Money, unless they will barr themselves from all commerce with other Nations: And to that purpose the Invention of Licurgus was admirable, who desiring to lock up his Citizens from all commerce with other nations, did upon great penalties banish all Gold and Silver out of the City; and as long as that Prohibition was observed, the manners and Customs of the City were preserved entire from the mixture of other Nations: but when their ambition and voluptuousness had entangled them in the Commerce of other Nations, then did Gold and Silver grow into use in despite of all Laws, by this universal value given unto Gold and Silver. I shall convince hereafter an important and a popular Error, by which many are perswaded, that Princes can give what value they list to Gold and Silver, by enhansing and letting fall their Coins, when as in truth Gold and Silver will retain the same proportion towards other things, which are valued by them, which the general consent of other Nations doth give unto them, if there be a Trade and Commerce with other Nations: By which intercourse it comes to pass, that if the price of Gold and Silver be raised, the price of all Commodities is raised according to the raising of Gold and Silver; so as let any particular Prince or State raise the price of Gold and Silver as they list, yet they will still hold the same proportion towards other things valued by them, which the general consent of other Nations neer about them doth give unto them: and this universal value of Gold and Silver, the mint, even in money, do call Intrinsical, and the local value they call Extrinsical, as depending upon impression of the mark and ordinance of the State. Now Money is said to have an Intrinsical value so much as there is Gold and Silver in it in fineness and weight, which is computed in France (and was antiently likewise the Computation in England) first for Gold, it is divided into 24 parts, which are called Carrats, and so when they say, the Gold is 23 Carrats fine, then it is understood there is a 2th part base, which is Allay mingled with Gold; or if they say, it is 22 Carrats fine, then there is a 12th part of Allay: or if they say 22 Carrats and one quarter fine, then there is so much Allay as there wants to make up 24 parts. Silver is divided into 12 Deniers and every Denier into 25 grains; as if it be said, that Silver is jj Deniers and 12 grains fine, then there is 12 grains of allay, which is a 24th part; or if it be said to be jj Deniers and 6 grains fine, there is then so much allay as it wants in the fineness to make it 12 deniers: But with us in England, ever since the time of Edward the third, the Computation hath been dividing the Gold into 24 carrats, and every carrat into a 4 grains, and every grain into so many parts as there is occasion offered to divide it; as for Example, The antient Standard of the sterling Gold was 23 Carrats, 3 grains, and one half of fine, and half a grain of Allay, which is the 192 part; and the Silver is divided in England into 12 Ounces; every Ounce into 20 Pence, every Penny into 24 grains; as for Example, the old sterling standard is jj Ounces fine, and two Penny weight, then there remains eighteen Penny weight of Allay and, if there were jj Ounces two Penny weight, and 6 grains fine, then there would remain 17 Penny weight, and 10 grains of Allay: and again, when mention is made of a Pound of Silver fine, and Gold fine, the meaning is so much Gold or Silver pure, is a pound weight, besides the Allay which is mingled with it,but a pound of Gold or Silver wrought, is but just a pound weight as it is wrought either in Money or in Plate. The Allay being mingled with it according to the ordinance of the State, for the practise is now, almost in all States, to set a price upon Silver and Gold, according to the weight and fineness, above which price Gold-Smiths or others who trade in those metals wrought in Money, may not sell them; which price is in certain proportion underneath the value which is given to the same metals wrought in Money; the over-value allowed to the Money, being so much advantage given to the State in recompence of the charge of Coynage, and in Acknowledgement of the Soveraignty, which hath with it likewise this necessary use, that it makes the Money so much the less valuable to him that either would transport it into forrein parts, or melt it, and consequently retaineth the Money so much the better within its proper limits and natural form.

Chapter 3

Of the Forms of the Money anciently and now in use

It follows in the next place to be Considered, by what

degrees Gold and Silver came into these forms of Money, which are now in use. And for that purpose it is most manifest that the most proper measure in nature for mettals is weight; and the notice of Antiquity doth confirm it that it was so in practice; for when the use of money hath excited the industry of men to search for these rich metals and by study and practice to discover their natures, it was easily found out that there was no measure so fit to them as weight: But it was speedily found out and discovered that weight alone was not a sufficient measure for them, by reason that they are subject to mixture, and therefore there was an examination made of the pureness of them, and a mark impressed upon them to shew that they were approved; which was of no other nature, but as the Assaymaster in the West Indies doth mark the wedges of Silver to shew that they were approved of such a fineness, and as the Corporation of Gold smiths in London, and other Cities, do mark the Bullion which is melted as a Testimony of fineness, but not to make it Current at any Price, because the mark hath no relation to the weight but onely the fineness. The most ancient and most undoubted Testimonies whereof are in Scripture: as that of Abraham, when he had bought the field of Ephron for the burial of Sarah, for which it is not said that he paid, but weighed four hundred shekels of silver, approved among Merchants; which denoteth the fineness. And it is said that the sons of Jacob brought back their silver in the same weight that they carried into Egypt; and Tobit lent unto Gabael the weight of ten Talents: By which it is manifest they did not count their Moneys in pieces,as they did in succeeding ages, or by imaginary, or abstracted sums, as we do make their valuation, but by weight, the fineness only is approved of by the mark. It were tedious to search the proofs of Antiquity in this kind, but it is manifest that almost all the Names of Moneys, both among the Hebrews and Greeks, were not properly the names of any species of Money, but of several sorts of weight. As of Sicle, Mina, Talent and Drachma; so likewise the Original Moneys, both of the Romans, the Francks, and of the Monarchy of England, were the As, the Livre, the Pound and the Mark; and amongst the Romans, the ancient Receivers were not called numeratores, but libripendes; the names of Moneys being originally only the proportions of weight, and the mark serving only for a proof of the pureness of the Metal: There did succeed a form of Money, wherein the impression did not only signify the fineness, but the weight also. This among the Romans was moneta, from when our name of Money is derived a Monedo: it is attributed to Servius Tullius, to have bin the first in Rome, to have stamped with an Impression a certain piece of Money which was called As (as being of Copper, and weighing a pound weight) and that he coyned lesser parts, distinguished by ounces: it was long after in the Consulat of Quintus Fabius, that the first Silver coin was made, called Denarius, because it was valued at ten As, and at the same time were made half and quarters of the Denarii, called Sestertii, marked LLs, to signifi duas libras cum semisse. The first Denarii were made of Sextula or six in the ounce: it was above threescore years after 'ere any Gold was coined, the first pieces were of such a weight as 40 made a pound: which Example of the Roman Coins, I do not alledge as the first, for it is manifest, that both the Median, Persian and Grecian states did use Coins, which by their Impression did signify both the weight and fineness; but because they were the first, whereof I have any certain relation, and upon whose ground all these parts of the World have formed their Coins and made their divisions of weight. It doth now appear what Allay was mingled or what Tribute was charged in the first Roman moneys of Gold and Silver; by which word of Tribute, I do understand whatever was substracted out of the Intrinsical value of the Money, and allowed to it as an over-value towards the charge of Coinage, or right of Soveraignty, rated by the State, or what remedies were allowed for their weight and fineness; only it appeareth by their medals that they were cast in a mold. But after ages did grow to stamp their Coins finding how useful it was to have lesser coins than could well be cast in a mould, and also to avoid counterfeiting, which is with more difficulty in Coins stamped: and because it was hard to observe an exact proportion of weight, there was a certain remedy of grains, beyond which, if the pieces of Coin did not fall of their just weight, they were to be received of Officers appointed, otherwise they were rejected to be new coyned. There was a remedy of fineness, for when Allay grew to be mingled in the Coins, the workmen could not constantly and precisely hit upon the mixture, and therefore had allowed them a certain proportion for Remedy, which if they did not exceed, their work was not subject to censure. This allowance of Remedy hath been of two sorts, for when States would coin their Money strong and rich in value, they did not give any allowance to any pieces of Coin under the just weight and fineness: but if they were of a just weight and fineness, not exceeding the grains of Remedy, then they were allowed; so as in this case, the Coins were upon accompt to be recompence for so much as the over-put in the Money, being within the remedy permitted, and this they call in French Battre le fort. But all States rather inclining to make their Moneys weak than strong, there is in these latter Ages another way practiced, which is more general; that is, that Coins are not made one jot above the just proportion of weight and fineness, but (notwithstanding) the fail of either, so as it be no more than the grains of remedy, they are allowed as compleat: and by this means, upon Accompt, the Coiners are to make recompence to the State of so much as is short in their Coins, of the just weight and fineness, being within the permission of their remedy, which in French they call Battre Sur le foible. This is as much as I hold fit to be spoken of the Antient and Modern forms; Except I should discourse of the Inscriptions or Characters, or of the Figures of Money, which in some times and places, have been long, oval, or square,and are now almost everywhere round, which to the searchers of Antiquity might prove grateful, but to my purpose would be of no use.

Chapter 4

Of the Proportion held between Gold and Silver, Antient and Modern.

Use and Delight, or the opinion of them, are the true causes

why all things have a Value and Price set upon them, but the Proportion of that value and price is wholly governed by Rarity and Abundance: And therefore the Proportion of value between Gold and Silver must needs differ in several Times and Places, according to the scarcity or abundance of those Mettals. There is much Variety amongst Authors what Proportions Gold and Silver held to one another amongst the Hebrews, not out of the Difference of Times, but out of the Difference of Interpretations; for Bodine doth alledge the same places to prove the Proportion was twenty five for one, which other Authors do alledge to prove it to have been 45 for one; and others 10 for one. There is a Passage in Thalia, of Herodotus (sect. 95) by which it appears, that Thirteen Talents of Silver were valued at one of Gold in the Revenues of Darius. And there is an Opinion received, That in the time of the flourishing of the Grecian Common-wealths, those Mettals were in the Proportion of twelve to one. It is also reported in Pliny, (without mentioning any certain time) That antiently the Romans did value a scruple of Gold at twenty Sestertii of Silver, which, if it were when the Sestertii were at the greatest weight, made the Proportion of twenty for one: and if it were when they were at their least weight, it made the Proportion of fifteen for one. But there is a clear Passage, in the 8th Book (sect. 11) of the 4th Decade of Livy, of an Accord between the Romans and AEtolians, that the AEtolians might pay, instead of every Talent of Gold, ten Talents of Silver; and (in Suetonius) it is said, that Caesar, at his coming out of Gallia brought such a quantity of Gold, that the Proportion betwixt Gold and silver abated to seven and one half of Silver to one of Gold: the abatement had not been credible, if the Proportion of Pliny had been twenty for one, or fifteen for one. But to come to later times, and to our Neighbours, which have therefore a more near Relation to us, both in time and place. The proportion in France, in the time of King John, who was contemporant with Edward the Third, was 11 for one: and in the time of Charles the Fifth, who succeeded next to him, it was 11 and almost 12 for one. And ever since the Proportion has been held between 11 and 12 for one. But by the edict of this French Kind now reigning, December 1614, the mark of Gold fine is valued at 27 l. 16 s. 7 d. the mark of Silver called Argent le Roy, is valued at 14 s. 6 d. and almost one half penny. But adding a 24th part to the two, to make it fine, which the Silver called Argent le Roy doth want of fineness, the proportion will arise into 13, wanting about a seventh part to one of Gold. In Germany about the year 1610, the Proportion held 13 for one, sometimes a little more, sometimes a little less; though antiently the Proportion was eleven for one. The Proportion in Spain hath a long time remained near about twelve for one. The Proportion in the United Provinces, by the Placcard 1622 (which is yet in force) is about 12 and two thirds fine silver, to one of Gold. But before I come to set the Proportions that have been held in this Kingdom of England I shall first set down, How I do inquire and resolve of the said Proportions, to the end I may satisfy such whose Curiosity may carry them to examine the truth of the said Proportions.

"Let thou and I the battle try, And set our men aside." "Accurst be he," Earl Piercy said, "By whom it is denied."

Then stepped a gallant squire forth,-- Witherington was his name,-- Who said, "I would not have it told To Henry our king, for shame,

"That e'er my captain fought on foot, And I stand looking on: You be two Earls," quoth Witherington, "And I a Squire alone.

"I'll do the best that do I may, While I have power to stand! While I have power to wield my sword, I'll fight with heart and hand!"

Our English archers bent their bows-- Their hearts were good and true,-- At the first flight of arrows sent, Full fourscore Scots they slew.

To drive the deer with hound and horn, Douglas bade on the bent; Two captains moved with mickle might, Their spears to shivers went.

They closed full fast on every side, No slackness there was found, But many a gallant gentleman Lay gasping on the ground.

O Christ! it was great grief to see How each man chose his spear, And how the blood out of their breasts Did gush like water clear!

At last these two stout Earls did meet Like captains of great might; Like lions wood they laid on load, They made a cruel fight.

They fought, until they both did sweat, With swords of tempered steel, Till blood adown their cheeks like rain They trickling down did feel.

"O yield thee, Piercy!" Douglas said, "And in faith I will thee bring Where thou shalt high advanc-ed be By James our Scottish king;

"Thy ransom I will freely give, And this report of thee, Thou art the most courageous knight That ever I did see."

"No, Douglas!" quoth Earl Piercy then, "Thy proffer I do scorn; I will not yield to any Scot That ever yet was born!"

With that there came an arrow keen Out of an English bow, Which struck Earl Douglas to the heart A deep and deadly blow;

Who never said more words than these, "Fight on; my merry men all! For why? my life is at an end, Lord Piercy sees my fall."

Then leaving life, Earl Piercy took The dead man by the hand; Who said, "Earl Douglas! for thy life Would I had lost my land!

"O Christ! my very heart doth bleed For sorrow for thy sake! For sure, a more redoubted knight Mischance could never take!"

A knight amongst the Scots there was, Which saw Earl Douglas die, Who straight in heart did vow revenge Upon the Lord Pierc-y;

Sir Hugh Montgomery he was called, Who, with a spear full bright, Well mounted on a gallant steed, Ran fiercely through the fight,

And past the English archers all Without all dread or fear, And through Earl Piercy's body then He thrust his hateful spear.

With such a vehement force and might His body he did gore, The staff ran through the other side A large cloth yard and more.

So thus did both those nobles die, Whose courage none could stain. An English archer then perceived The noble Earl was slain;

He had a good bow in his hand Made of a trusty tree; An arrow of a cloth yard long To the hard head hal-ed he,

Against Sir Hugh Montgomery His shaft full right he set; The grey goose-wing that was thereon, In his heart's blood was wet.

This fight from break of day did last Till setting of the sun; For when they rung the evening bell, The battle scarce was done.

With stout Earl Piercy there was slain Sir John of Egerton, Sir Robert Harcliffe and Sir William, Sir James that bold bar-on;

And with Sir George and Sir James, Both knights of good account, Good Sir Ralph Raby there was slain, Whose prowess did surmount.

For Witherington needs must I wail As one in doleful dumps, For when his legs were smitten off, He fought upon his stumps.

And with Earl Douglas there was slain Sir Hugh Montgomery, And Sir Charles Morrel that from the field One foot would never fly;

Sir Roger Hever of Harcliffe too,-- His sister's son was he,-- Sir David Lambwell, well esteemed, But saved he could not be;

And the Lord Maxwell in like case With Douglas he did die; Of twenty hundred Scottish spears, Scarce fifty-five did fly.

Of fifteen hundred Englishmen Went home but fifty-three; The rest in Chevy Chase were slain, Under the greenwood tree.

Next day did many widows come Their husbands to bewail; They washed their wounds in brinish tears, But all would not prevail.

Their bodies, bathed in purple blood, They bore with them away; They kissed them dead a thousand times Ere they were clad in clay.

This news was brought to Edinburgh, Where Scotland's king did reign, That brave Earl Douglas suddenly Was with an arrow slain.

"O heavy news!" King James did say, "Scotland may witness be I have not any captain more Of such account as he!"

Like tidings to King Henry came Within as short a space, That Piercy of Northumberland Was slain in Chevy Chase.

"Now God be with him!" said our king, "Sith 'twill no better be, I trust I have within my realm Five hundred as good as he!

"Yet shall not Scots nor Scotland say But I will vengeance take, And be reveng-ed on them all For brave Earl Piercy's sake."

This vow the king did well perform After on Humble Down; In one day fifty knights were slain, With lords of great renown,

And of the rest of small account, Did many hundreds die: Thus ended the hunting in Chevy Chase Made by the Earl Piercy.

God save our king, and bless this land With plenty, joy, and peace, And grant henceforth that foul debate Twixt noble men may cease!

THE NUT-BROWN MAID

Be it right or wrong, these men among On women do complain; Affirming this, how that it is A labour spent in vain To love them wele; for never a dele They love a man again: For let a man do what he can, Their favour to attain, Yet, if a new to them pursue, Their first true lover than Laboureth for naught; and from her thought He is a banished man.

I say not nay, but that all day It is both writ and said That woman's faith is, as who saith, All utterly decayed; But nevertheless, right good witn-ess In this case might be laid. That they love true, and contin-ue, Record the Nut-brown Maid: Which from her love, when her to prove He came to make his moan, Would not depart; for in her heart She loved but him alone.

Then between us let us discuss What was all the manere Between them two: we will also Tell all the pain in fere That she was in. Now I begin, So that ye me answere: Wher-efore, ye, that present be I pray you give an ear. I am the knight. I come by night, As secret as I can; Saying, "Alas! thus standeth the case, I am a banished man."

And I your will for to fulfil In this will not refuse; Trusting to shew, in word-es few, That men have an ill use (To their own shame) women to blame, And causeless them accuse: Therefore to you I answer now, All women to excuse,-- "Mine own heart dear, with you what cheer? I pray you, tell anone: For, in my mind, of all mankind I love but you alone."

 HE. "It standeth so:  a deed is do   Whereof much harm shall grow; My destiny is for to die   A shameful death, I trow; Or else to flee.  The one must be.   None other way I know, But to withdraw as an out-law,   And take me to my bow. Wherefore, adieu, my own heart true!   None other rede I can: For I must to the green wood go,   Alone, a banished man."

 SHE. "O Lord, what is this world-es bliss,   That changeth as the moon! My summer's day in lusty May   Is darked before the noon. I hear you say, farewell:  Nay, nay!   We de-part not so soon. Why say ye so? whither will ye go?   Alas! what have ye done? All my welf-are to sorrow and care   Should change, if ye were gone: For, in my mind, of all mankind   I love but you alone."

 HE. "I can believe, it shall you grieve,   And somewhat you distrain; But, afterward, your pain-es hard   Within a day or twain Shall soon aslake; and ye shall take   Com-fort to you again. Why should ye nought? for, to make thought,   Your labour were in vain. And thus I do; and pray you, lo,   As heartily as I can: For I must to the green wood go,   Alone, a banished man."

 SHE. "Now, sith that ye have shewed to me   The secret of your mind, I shall be plain to you again,   Like as ye shall me find. Sith it is so, that ye will go,   I will not leave behind. Shall never be said, the Nut-brown Maid   Was to her love unkind: Make you read-y, for so am I,   Although it were anone: For, in my mind, of all mankind   I love but you alone."

 HE. "Yet I you re-de, take good heed   When men will think and say: Of young, of old, it shall be told,   That ye be gone away Your wanton will for to fulfil,   In green wood you to play; And that ye might from your delight   No longer make delay. Rather than ye should thus for me   Be called an ill wom-an, Yet would I to the green wood go,   Alone, a banished man."

 SHE. "Though it be sung of old and young,   That I should be to blame, Theirs be the charge that speak so large   In hurting of my name: For I will prove, that faithful love   It is devoid of shame In your distress and heaviness   To part with you the same: And sure all tho that do not so,   True lovers are they none: For, in my mind, of all mankind   I love but you alone."

 HE. "I counsel you, Remember how   It is no maiden's law Nothing to doubt, but to run out   To wood with an out-law; For ye must there in your hand bear   A bow to bear and draw; And, as a thief, thus must ye live,   Ever in dread and awe; By which to you great harm might grow:   Yet had I liever than That I had to the green wood go   Alone, a banished man."

 SHE. "I think not nay, but as ye say,   It is no maiden's lore; But love may make me for your sake,   As ye have said before, To come on foot, to hunt and shoot   To get us meat and store; For so that I your company   May have, I ask no more; From which to part, it maketh mine heart   As cold as any stone: For, in my mind, of all mankind   I love but you alone."

 HE. "For an out-law, this is the law,   That men him take and bind; Without pit-ie, hang-ed to be,   And waver with the wind. If I had nede (as God forbede!)   What rescues could ye find? Forsooth, I trow, you and your bow   Should draw for fear behind. And no mervayle:  for little avail   Were in your counsel than: Wherefore I to the wood will go,   Alone, a banished man."

 SHE "Full well know ye, that women be   Full feeble for to fight; No womanhede it is indeed   To be bold as a knight; Yet, in such fear if that ye were   Among enemies day and night, I would withstand, with bow in hand,   To grieve them as I might, And you to save; as women have   From death many a one: For, in my mind, of all mankind   I love but you alone."

 HE. "Yet take good hede; for ever I drede   That ye could not sustain The thorny ways, the deep vall-eys,   The snow, the frost, the rain, The cold, the heat:  for dry or wet,   We must lodge on the plain; And, us above, none other roof   But a brake bush or twain: Which soon should grieve you, I believe:   And ye would gladly than That I had to the green wood go,   Alone, a banished man."

 SHE. "Sith I have here been partynere   With you of joy and bliss, I must al-so part of your woe   Endure, as reason is: Yet am I sure of one pleas-ure;   And, shortly, it is this: That, where ye be, me seemeth, perde,   I could not fare amiss. Without more speech, I you beseech   That we were soon agone: For, in my mind, of all mankind   I love but you alone."

 HE. "If ye go thyder, ye must consider,   When ye have lust to dine, There shall no meat be for to gete,   Nor drink, beer, ale, ne wine. Ne sheet-es clean, to lie between,   Ymade of thread and twine; None other house, but leaves and boughs,   To cover your head and mine; Lo mine heart sweet, this ill di-ete   Should make you pale and wan: Wherefore I to the wood will go,   Alone, a banished man."

 SHE. "Among the wild deer, such an archere,   As men say that ye be, Ne may not fail of good vitayle,   Where is so great plent-y: And water clear of the rivere   Shall be full sweet to me; With which in hele I shall right wele   Endure, as ye shall see; And, ere we go, a bed or two   I can provide anone; For, in my mind, of all mankind   I love but you alone."

 HE. "Lo yet, before, ye must do more,   If ye will go with me: As cut your hair up by your ear,   Your kirtle by the knee, With bow in hand, for to withstand   Your enemies, if need be: And this same night, before daylight,   To woodward will I flee. An ye will all this fulfil,   Do it shortly as ye can: Else will I to the green wood go,   Alone, a banished man."

 SHE. "I shall as now do more for you   Than 'longeth to womanhede; To short my hair, a bow to bear,   To shoot in time of need. O my sweet mother! before all other   For you have I most drede! But now, adieu! I must ensue,   Where fortune doth me lead. All this make ye.  Now let us flee;   The day comes fast upon: For, in my mind, of all mankind   I love but you alone."

 HE. "Nay, nay, not so; ye shall not go,   And I shall tell you why,-- Your appetite is to be light   Of love, I well espy: For, right as ye have said to me,   In like wise hardily Ye would answere whosoever it were,   In way of company, It is said of old, Soon hot, soon cold;   And so is a wom-an: Wherefore I to the wood will go,   Alone, a banished man."

 SHE. "If ye take heed, it is no need   Such words to say by me; For oft ye prayed, and long assayed,   Or I you loved, pard-e; And though that I of ancestry   A baron's daughter be, Yet have you proved how I you loved.   A squire of low degree; And ever shall, whatso befall;   To die therefore anone; For, in my mind, of all mankind   I love but you alone."

 HE. "A baron's child to be beguiled!   It were a curs-ed dede; To be fel-aw with an out-law   Almighty God forbede! Yet better were, the poor squyere   Alone to forest yede, Than ye shall say another day,   That by my wicked dede Ye were betrayed:  Wherefore, good maid,   The best rede that I can, Is, that I to the green wood go,   Alone, a banished man."

 SHE. "Whatsoever befall, I never shall   Of this thing you upbraid: But if ye go, and leave me so,   Then have ye me betrayed. Remember you wele, how that ye dele,   For if ye, as ye said, Be so unkind to leave behind   Your love, the Nut-brown Maid, Trust me tru-ly, that I shall die   Soon after ye be gone: For, in my mind, of all mankind   I love but you alone."

 HE. "If that ye went, ye should repent;   For in the forest now I have purveyed me of a maid,   Whom I love more than you; Another fairer than ever ye were,   I dare it well avow; And of you both, each should be wroth   With other, as I trow: It were mine ease to live in peace;   So will I, if I can: Wherefore I to the wood will go,   Alone, a banished man."

 SHE. "Though in the wood I understood   Ye had a paramour, All this may nought remove my thought,   But that I will be your: And she shall find me soft and kind,   And courteis every hour; Glad to fulfil all that she will   Command me, to my power: For had ye, lo! an hundred mo,   Yet would I be that one: For, in my mind, of all mankind   I love but you alone."

 HE. "Mine own dear love, I see the proof   That ye be kind and true; Of maid, and wife, in all my life,   The best that ever I knew. Be merry and glad; be no more sad;   The case is chang-ed new; For it were ruth that for your truth   You should have cause to rue. Be not dismayed, whatsoever I said   To you, when I began: I will not to the green wood go;   I am no banished man."

 SHE. "These tidings be more glad to me,   Than to be made a queen, If I were sure they should endure:   But it is often seen, When men will break promise they speak   The wordis on the spleen. Ye shape some wile me to beguile,   And steal from me, I ween: Then were the case worse than it was   And I more wo-begone: For, in my mind, of all mankind   I love but you alone."

 HE. "Ye shall not nede further to drede:   I will not dispar-age You (God defend!), sith you descend   Of so great a lin-age. Now understand:  to Westmoreland,   Which is my heritage, I will you bring; and with a ring   By way of marri-age I will you take, and lady make,   As shortly as I can: Thus have ye won an earl-es son   And not a banished man."

Here may ye see, that women be In love, meek, kind, and stable; Let never man reprove them than, Or call them vari-able; But, rather, pray God that we may To them be comfort-able, Which sometime proveth such as he loveth, If they be charit-able. For sith men would that women should Be meek to them each one; Much more ought they to God obey, And serve but Him alone.

ADAM BELL, CLYM OF THE CLOUGH, AND WILLIAM OF CLOUDESLIE.

It was singing in very melodious tones through the long August afternoon two summers ago, while we, the chief, his happy-hearted wife and bright, young daughter, all lounged amongst the boulders and watched the lazy clouds drift from peak to peak far above us. It was one of his inspired days; legends crowded to his lips as a whistle teases the mouth of a happy boy, his heart was brimming with tales of the bygones, his eyes were dark with dreams and that strange mournfulness that always haunted them when he spoke of long-ago romances. There was not a tree, a boulder, a dash of rapid upon which his glance fell that he had not some ancient superstition to link with it. Then abruptly, in the very midst of his verbal reveries, he turned and asked me if I were superstitious. Of course I replied that I was.

"Do you think some happenings will bring trouble later on--will foretell evil?" he asked.

I made some evasive answer, which, however, seemed to satisfy him, for he plunged into the strange tale of the recluse of the canyon with more vigor than dreaminess; but first he asked me the question:

"What do your own tribes, those east of the great mountains think of twin children?"

I shook my head.

"That is enough," he said before I could reply. "I see, your people do not like them."

"Twin children are almost unknown with us," I hastened. "They are rare, very rare, but it is true we do not welcome them."

"Why?" he asked abruptly.

I was a little uncertain about telling him. If I said the wrong thing, the coming tale might die on his lips before it was born to speech, but we understood each other so well that I finally ventured the truth:

"We Iroquois say that twin children are as rabbits," I explained. "The nation always nicknames the parents. 'Tow-wan-da-na-ga.' That is the Mohawk for rabbit."

"Is that all?" he asked curiously.

"That is all. Is it not enough to render twin children unwelcome?" I questioned.

He thought awhile, then with evident desire to learn how all races regarded this occurrence, he said, "You have been much among the Palefaces, what do they say of twins?"

"Oh! the Palefaces like them. They are --they are--oh! well, they say they are very proud of having twins," I stammered. Once again I was hardly sure of my ground. He looked most incredulous, and I was led to enquire what his own people of the Squamish thought of this discussed problem.

"It is no pride to us," he said, decidedly; "nor yet is it disgrace of rabbits, but it is a fearsome thing--a sign of coming evil to the father, and, worse than that, of coming disaster to the tribe."

Then I knew he held in his heart some strange incident that gave substance to the superstition. "Won't you tell it to me?" I begged.

He leaned a little backward against a giant boulder, clasping his thin, brown hands about his knees; his eyes roved up the galloping river, then swept down the singing waters to where they crowded past the sudden bend, and during the entire recital of the strange legend his eyes never left that spot where the stream disappeared in its hurrying journey to the sea. Without preamble he began:

"It was a grey morning when they told him of this disaster that had befallen him. He was a great chief, and he ruled many tribes on the North Pacific Coast; but what was his greatness now? His young wife had borne him twins, and was sobbing out her anguish in the little fir-bark lodge near the tidewater.

"Beyond the doorway gathered many old men and women--old in years, old in wisdom, old in the lore and learning of their nations. Some of them wept, some chanted solemnly the dirge of their lost hopes and happiness, which would never return because of this calamity; others discussed in hushed voices this awesome thing, and for hours their grave council was broken only by the infant cries of the two boy-babies in the bark lodge, the hopeless sobs of the young mother, the agonized moans of the stricken chief--their father.

"'Something dire will happen to the tribe,' said the old men in council.

"'Something dire will happen to him, my husband,' wept the young mother.

"'Something dire will happen to us all,' echoed the unhappy father.

"Then an ancient medicine man arose, lifting his arms, outstretching his palms to hush the lamenting throng. His voice shook with the weight of many winters, but his eyes were yet keen and mirrored the clear thought and brain behind them, as the still trout pools in the Capilano mirror the mountain tops. His words were masterful, his gestures commanding, his shoulders erect and kindly. His was a personality and an inspiration that no one dared dispute, and his judgment was accepted as the words fell slowly, like a doom.

"'It is the olden law of the Squamish that lest evil befall the tribe the sire of twin children must go afar and alone into the mountain fastnesses, there by his isolation and his loneliness to prove himself stronger than the threatened evil, and thus to beat back the shadow that would otherwise follow him and all his people. I, therefore, name for him the length of days that he must spend alone fighting his invisible enemy. He will know by some great sign in Nature the hour that the evil is conquered, the hour that his race is saved. He must leave before this sun sets, taking with him only his strongest bow, his fleetest arrows, and going up into the mountain wilderness remain there ten days--alone, alone.'

"The masterful voice ceased, the tribe wailed their assent, the father arose speechless, his drawn face revealing great agony over this seemingly brief banishment. He took leave of his sobbing wife, of the two tiny souls that were his sons, grasped his favorite bow and arrows, and faced the forest like a warrior. But at the end of the ten days he did not return, nor yet ten weeks, nor yet ten months.

"'He is dead,' wept the mother into the baby ears of her two boys. 'He could not battle against the evil that threatened; it was stronger than he--he so strong, so proud, so brave.'

"'He is dead,' echoed the tribesmen and the tribeswomen. 'Our strong, brave chief, he is dead.' So they mourned the long year through, but their chants and their tears but renewed their grief; he did not return to them.

"Meanwhile, far up the Capilano the banished chief had built his solitary home; for who can tell what fatal trick of sound, what current of air, what faltering note in the voice of the Medicine Man had deceived his alert Indian ears? But some unhappy fate had led him to understand that his solitude must be of ten years' duration, not ten days, and he had accepted the mandate with the heroism of a stoic. For if he had refused to do so his belief was that although the threatened disaster would be spared him, the evil would fall upon his tribe. This was one more added to the long list of self-forgetting souls whose creed has been, 'It is fitting that one should suffer for the people.' It was the world-old heroism of vicarious sacrifice.

"With his hunting-knife the banished Squamish chief stripped the bark from the firs and cedars, building for himself a lodge beside the Capilano River, where leaping trout and salmon could be speared by arrow-heads fastened to deftly shaped, long handles. All through the salmon run he smoked and dried the fish with the care of a housewife. The mountain sheep and goats, and even huge black and cinnamon bears, fell before his unerring arrows; the fleet-footed deer never returned to their haunts from their evening drinking at the edge of the stream--their wild hearts, their agile bodies were stilled when he took aim. Smoked hams and saddles hung in rows from the cross poles of his bark lodge, and the magnificent pelts of animals carpeted his floors, padded his couch and clothed his body. He tanned the soft doe hides, making leggings, moccasins and shirts, stitching them together with deer sinew as he had seen his mother do in the long-ago. He gathered the juicy salmonberries, their acid flavor being a gratifying change from meat and fish. Month by month and year by year he sat beside his lonely camp-fire, waiting for his long term of solitude to end. One comfort alone was his-- he was enduring the disaster, fighting the evil, that his tribe might go unscathed, that his people be saved from calamity. Slowly, laboriously the tenth year dawned; day by day it dragged its long weeks across his waiting heart, for Nature had not yet given the sign that his long probation was over.

"Then one hot summer day the Thunder Bird came crashing through the mountains about him. Up from the arms of the Pacific rolled the storm cloud, and the Thunder Bird, with its eyes of flashing light, beat its huge vibrating wings on crag and canyon.

"Upstream, a tall shaft of granite rears its needle-like length. It is named 'Thunder Rock,' and wise men of the Paleface people say it is rich in ore--copper, silver and gold. At the base of this shaft the Squamish chief crouched when the storm cloud broke and bellowed through the ranges, and on its summit the Thunder Bird perched, its gigantic wings threshing the air into booming sounds, into splitting terrors, like the crash of a giant cedar hurtling down the mountain side.

"But when the beating of those black pinions ceased and the echo of their thunder waves died down the depths of the canyon, the Squamish chief arose as a new man. The shadow on his soul had lifted, the fears of evil were cowed and conquered. In his brain, his blood, his veins, his sinews, he felt that the poison of melancholy dwelt no more. He had redeemed his fault of fathering twin children; he had fulfilled the demands of the law of his tribe.

"As he heard the last beat of the Thunder Bird's wings dying slowly, slowly, faintly, faintly, among the crags, he knew that the bird, too, was dying, for its soul was leaving its monster black body, and presently that soul appeared in the sky. He could see it arching overhead, before it took its long journey to the Happy Hunting Grounds, for the soul of the Thunder Bird was a radiant half-circle of glorious color spanning from peak to peak. He lifted his head then, for he knew it was the sign the ancient Medicine Man had told him to wait for--the sign that his long banishment was ended.

"And all these years, down in the tidewater country, the little brown-faced twins were asking childwise, 'Where is our father? Why have we no father like other boys?' To be met only with the oft-repeated reply, 'Your father is no more. Your father, the great chief, is dead.'

"But some strange filial intuition told the boys that their sire would some day return. Often they voiced this feeling to their mother, but she would only weep and say that not even the witchcraft of the great Medicine Man could bring him to them. But when they were ten years old the two children came to their mother, hand within hand. They were armed with their little hunting-knives, their salmon spears, their tiny bows and arrows.

"'We go to find our father,' they said.

"'Oh! useless quest,' wailed the mother.

"'Oh! useless quest,' echoed the tribes-people.

"But the great Medicine Man said, 'The heart of a child has invisible eyes, perhaps the child-eyes see him. The heart of a child has invisible ears, perhaps the child-ears hear him call. Let them go.' So the little children went forth into the forest; their young feet flew as though shod with wings, their young hearts pointed to the north as does the white man's compass. Day after day they journeyed up-stream, until rounding a sudden bend they beheld a bark lodge with a thin blue curl of smoke drifting from its roof.

"'It is our father's lodge,' they told each other, for their childish hearts were unerring in response to the call of kinship. Hand-in-hand they approached, and entering the lodge, said the one word, 'Come.'

"The great Squamish chief outstretched his arms towards them, then towards the laughing river, then towards the mountains.

"'Welcome, my sons!' he said. 'And good-bye, my mountains, my brothers, my crags and my canyons!' And with a child clinging to each hand he faced once more the country of the tidewater."

The legend was ended.

A key element to the ongoing development of these AI systems is the labeling of vast troves of data, which must be done largely by humans. The costs of this labeling can be immense in terms of the time it takes and the large number of people needed to collaborate on these projects. But a new way is emerging that combines the decentralization of blockchain with the incentive structures of crypto that can take data labeling for AI to the next level.

EpiK Protocol reduces the costs of labeling AI data via a sharing economy platform based on blockchain technology. Since the launch of the EpiK Protocol mainnet on Aug. 15, 2021, the EpiK Protocol ecosystem has been rapidly adopted. There are four core components in this innovative platform: the incentive model, the governance model, an AI data storage system and an AI data labeling system.

In the two months since the mainnet went live, EpiK Protocol has proven three of the four components are working well.

• The stable mainnet and growing global community can prove the feasibility of the EPK incentive model.

• EPIP-1, the first IPFS ecological proposal passed through DAO governance, proves the strong consensus brought by the governance model.

• More than 30,000 knowledge nodes joining the network to contribute idle storage resources prove the success of the AI data storage system.

In order to complete the last component of decentralized storage protocol for AI data, EpiK Protocol started the first round of domain experts elections on Oct. 15, 2021. These domain experts will lead all EPK holders to label the most valuable AI data to prove the value of the EpiK Protocol network.

EpiK Protocol offered two domain expert candidates from the emotion AI and finance fields, each with achievements and rich industry experiences in their respective domains. Pending the votes of EPKers in the next 30 days, these candidates will be nominated as active domain experts on Nov. 15, 2021.

Since its inception, EpiK Protocol has always been based on an open, sharing economy network for AI data. With the participation of the domain experts, EpiK Protocol can not only build larger and more comprehensive graph databases in different domains, but also can develop smarter AI with these valuable AI data.

More domain experts are wanted in the EpiK Protocol network. If you have rich experience in AI development and a clear understanding of what kind of data is needed in a specific AI domain, you can follow this guideline to apply to be a domain expert with the incentive to collect high-quality AI data in the EpiK Protocol network.

The era of cognitive intelligence depends on the participation of an increasing number of experts and data labelers. In the near future, AI will gradually learn human knowledge and replace human work in various fields. This won’t be a short journey, but education is never short term.

The new update came after Apple announced last month that it would soon roll out an iOS update to allow users to download and store verifiable health records to the Wallet app, including COVID-19 vaccination records.

According to USA Today, the feature went live on Monday through Apple’s iOS 15.1. update.

Once vaccine cards are added to the Wallet app, they can be viewed and presented at any time, according to a statement from Apple. The front of the card features the user’s name, the type of vaccine they received, the dates the doses were administered, the issuer and a QR code.

The full details of the card, however, are not accessible until the device is unlocked through face ID, touch ID or a passcode.

Additionally, vaccine cards cannot be shared with other iPhone, iPod Touch or Apple Watch users, according to the company.

The vaccine cards can be uploaded to the app through a QR code from a COVID-19 vaccination or test provider, through a downloadable file with verified health records from a provider, or from an existing verifiable vaccination record in the Health app, according to the company.

• FDA panel recommends authorizing Pfizer COVID vaccine for younger kids

• Merck to share its COVID-19 pill with developing nations

Apple also announced that with the iOS 15 update, users can store verifiable versions of their COVID-19 vaccine and test result records in the company’s Health app on iPhones and iPod Touches.

The vaccine and test result records are downloaded in a verifiable format and digitally signed by the provider of the vaccine or test, according to the company.

Apple said the software “is similar to providing paper documents with an official seal.”

Why has the country turned against Uncle Joe? Simple: Biden is ignoring voters’ concerns. 

Voters are worried about inflation, jobs, crime, education and our open border, while the Biden White House is laser-focused on climate change, transgender rights, racism and reducing inequality. 

LIZ PEEK: BIDEN TEAM OFF TO UN CLIMATE SUMMIT AS THEIR GREEN ENERGY POLICIES FUEL INFLATION AT HOME

In a recent CBS/YouGov poll, only 37% of respondents said Biden and Democrats are focused on issues they "care a lot about." That’s not good. 

Joe Biden is not walking down this misguided path alone; he is hauling nearly every agency of his government right along with him.  

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For instance, the FBI, instead of focusing on the surging murder rate in our nation, has been ordered to hunt down "domestic terrorists" among the parents rightfully objecting to the racist curriculums being taught to their children.  

The State Department, having abandoned hundreds of Americans in Afghanistan and grievously misplaying every encounter to date with China, recently took time out to celebrate "International Pronouns Day," issuing an explainer about "Pronoun Proficiency."   

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The Treasury Department, which completely missed the boat on skyrocketing inflation, in March undertook a "formal racial equity review of the agency and its programs," according to the New York Times, which reported that Treasury Secretary Janet L. Yellen "is making racial equity a centerpiece of her agenda…" 

Maybe that’s important, but probably not as important to most people as bacon prices soaring 19% over the past year, or the 42% hike in the cost of gasoline or the rapid rise in rents. 

But even as gender and racial issues are a priority for the Biden team, it is climate change that truly preoccupies this White House.  

The Biden administration just released several reports about climate change and its impact on national security. One of those, according to the New York Times, includes a warning that – this is not a joke – that "countries like Iraq and Algeria could be hit by lost revenue from fossil fuels, even as their regions face worsening heat and drought." 

The unhappy fact is that Joe Biden has slipped not only in overall approval, but in ways that will be hard to repair. 

Got it? If climate activists succeed in weaning consumers off oil and gas, the world could become less safe. Hint: then don’t do it.   

While tilting for windmills, our intel groups have missed some pretty big events. In August, China launched a nuclear-capable hypersonic missile. The Financial Times, which broke the story, reported that the advanced rocket took "U.S. intelligence by surprise." One source was quoted saying, "We have no idea how they did this." The FT noted that "The test has raised new questions about why the US often underestimated China’s military modernisation." 

This is alarming. In fiscal 2020 the United States spent $86 billion on intelligence, more than the entire GDP of Guatemala. That is a lot of money, much of which, one presumes, is spent gleaning information about our biggest rivals. 

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That would include China which, unlike North Korea, is open to travelers and, presumably, intelligence sources. How is it possible we knew nothing about a weapons/space program that must have been underway for several years?   

The Defense Department, bruised by the disgraceful and disastrous pullout from Afghanistan, also issued a climate report, warning that food shortages brought on by global warming might increase conflicts around the world.  

According to the 2020 Food and Agriculture Organization of the U.N., between 2000 and 2018 (latest available), global primary crop production increased by 50%, vegetable oil production more than doubled and meat output rose 47%. During the same period, the world’s population expanded by 24%. 

Tragically, there is and always has been hunger in the world. But the root of the problem is not climate change, but poverty in regions like Africa, brought on by corruption, inadequate development and so much more. 

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The Department of Homeland Security added its two cents on climate, reporting that ice melting in the Arctic would increase competition for fish and minerals in the region. Yes, as Artic ice melts, the fish and resources in the area would become accessible, for the first time. That might actually seem a good thing, especially if you were worried about food shortages. 

That is the same Homeland Security that is incapable of stopping the flow of people illegally entering the country, reporting that a record 1.7 million people were detained at our border in the last fiscal year.  

This is not to suggest we should ignore the warming of the planet, or gender issues or racial divides. But as the Biden White House diverts the energies and resources of the federal government toward solving issues not top-of-mind for most voters, they must be prepared for the fallout. 

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The unhappy fact is that Joe Biden has slipped not only in overall approval, but in ways that will be hard to repair. When 49% of people in a recent Economist/YouGov poll say that Biden cares "not much" or "not at all" about the needs and problems of people like them (versus 22% who says he cares a lot), something is seriously wrong. 

When a majority (52%) of middle-income Americans and of Independents (51%) think Biden has abandoned them, Democrats should hit the panic button and radically rethink their agenda. Unhappily for Joe Biden, a reboot seems unlikely, as does a turnaround in his ratings anytime soon.

Last night’s telecast of SNL with host Sudeikis and musical guest Brandi Carlile drew a 3.7 household live + same day rating in the 41 metered local markets and 1.6 in 18-49 in the 22 markets with local people meters. 

That was up from last week’s show, hosted by Rami Malek with musical guest Young Thug (3.4, 1.3). It tied in 18-49 and was off by a tenth in households from the highest-rated telecast so far this season, the Oct. 9 episode hosted by Kim Kardashian West with musical guest Halsey (3.8, 1.6).

SNL is taking a week off, returning with an original on Nov. 6 hosted by Succession‘s Kieran Culkin. Ed Sheeran is currently scheduled as musical guest. Sheeran earlier today announced that he is self-isolating after testing positive for Covid-19. It is unclear yet whether that would impact his planned SNL performances.

On YouTube, besides  Sudeikis’ monologue, the Cold Open featuring Sudeikis as Joe Biden and two other skits in which he reprised fan-favorite characters, The Devil on Weekend Update and What Up With That, getting the most views so far are Weekend Update’s headline section, Parent-Teacher Conference and Science Room.

The storms are called "atmospheric rivers," which are narrow bands of concentrated moisture in the atmosphere emerging from the warm waters of the Pacific Ocean, cruising more than two miles above the sea. An average atmospheric river transports more than 20 times the water the Mississippi River does, as vapor.

Throughout the weekend and into next week, parts of the West Coast will go from extreme drought to facing a series of bomb cyclones and an associated atmospheric river. The weather whiplash may unleash rains, flash floods, debris flows, and potential hurricane-force winds, particularly in the Pacific Northwest and Northern California.

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"Wherever the storms hit shore on the West Coast is where the heaviest precipitation occurs, and that can be very beneficial in areas that often don't have enough water — and we have the drought going right now," Ralph told CNN.

"And then there are times when there's too much and it can create flooding," he added. "A few of these storms really make the difference over the course of the year."

Human-caused climate change has increased the potential for this weather whiplash, where dramatic shifts in periods of drought and high precipitation can to occur more often. Scientists say the chances of sudden transitions from severe drought to atmospheric river events will become more common in California in the coming decades.

Naturally, Google is also turning to software to tackle the challenge. Engineers developed a tool, called “carbon-intelligent computing platform,” that schedules computing tasks during dips in energy use. Google deems certain activities, such as encoding a YouTube video or adding a new term to Google Translate, “nonurgent,” unworthy of instant gratification. These software tasks are put on hold until enough sunshine or wind is available. Other computer models are used to predict when wind power will be strongest. Google later added a feature for shifting tasks to different data centers.

In Virginia, Google offloaded its 24/7 plan to energy distributor AES Corp. The companies signed a 10-year deal in May, for an undisclosed amount, covering 500MW of renewable projects that AES owns or will buy. The power distributor is relying on a “mix and match” of solar and wind generation as well as its lithium-ion batteries that store energy to deliver for Google, says AES CEO Andrés Gluski. Other tech companies have inked similar decarbonization deals with AES, he says, though he declines to name them. That corporate rush might complicate Google’s 24/7 plans or at least make them pricier. Land with the exact interconnection rights utilities require is scarce, and AES anticipates shortages on some equipment, such as solar panels and batteries, as soon as 2023. “There are going to be bottlenecks,” Gluski says. The former telecom executive compares the upcoming renewables market to mobile phones in the 1990s, when demand suddenly skyrocketed. “We’re talking about a ramp-up which is nothing like the electricity sector has seen,” he says. AES has committed to provide Google with entirely clean energy by its target date.

Google has a different problem in Asia. There aren’t enough clean energy producers or much room for production. In Singapore the company bought electricity from rooftop solar on public housing. In Taiwan it managed a deal with government officials to gain access to 40,000 panels hoisted on poles above lakes. Still, most Google Asian operations run on fossil fuels. “I’m not sure we can reach 100% in Asia,” Hölzle admits. Terrell says policy changes are probably the only way Google hits its 24/7 goal there.

In 2020, Google released a lengthy white paper on the 24/7 plan, listing its methodology and accounting standards in surprising detail—at least for Google, which rarely reveals internal data. Such disclosure has won over previous critics including Cook, who now serves as global climate campaigns director for the environmental advocacy group Stand.earth. “You’re certainly not getting this from Amazon,” Cook says.

Google has some advantages: It doesn’t have Amazon’s gigantic fulfillment centers and counts fewer employees than Apple and Microsoft. Rob Jackson, an environmental scientist at Stanford, says he wishes Google offered granularity about its storage battery capacity and its plans to power sites at night and on cloudy days. (A Google spokesperson says the company has signed commitments of more than 280 megawatts in energy storage and it plans to tap “always on” clean energy sources, like geothermal, to cover electricity bills around-the-clock.) Still, Google’s endeavor “goes beyond what I’ve seen from most other companies,” Jackson says. “It’s exciting to see.”

Geothermal heating and cooling system.

Photographer: Kelsey McClellan for Bloomberg Green

Even if Google manages major breakthroughs in battery storage or geothermal, it’s still beholden to the grid and to lawmakers.

In the past, Google toyed with ideas for remaking utilities altogether. Co-founder Larry Page often told staff about his desire to modernize the power grid by switching it from alternating current to direct current voltages, which can transmit electricity across long distances more efficiently; he reportedly brought this up at a sit-down with President Donald Trump in late 2016. (Page has since stepped away from the company.) Years before, Google hired a former U.S. Department of Energy official who, according to reports, began work on Google-style tools for managing power lines and systems. Hölzle says Google actually applied for a license to trade excess renewables it purchased and this maneuver was mistaken as a plan to overhaul utilities. Although remaking the grid was tempting, Google didn’t pursue it. (“I mean, you can’t do everything,” Hölzle offers.)

Google will have hard choices ahead if it wants Bay View to be anything more than an exhibition of an unattainable dream

More recently, Google has opted to work with utilities and lean on grid customers. In 2015 the company recruited Kate Brandt, another Energy Department alum, to oversee the sustainability efforts across Google’s services, not its real estate or energy procurement. Part of her remit includes nudging consumers toward greener decisions. Nest, which Google owns, rewards thermostat owners with bill credits if they turn down the AC or heat during grid rush hours. Google lists greener options in Maps and carbon emissions for flights in its travel search. Google Finance, its information service, lists Carbon Disclosure Project scores next to other stats for close to 10,000 companies. “There’s a lot more coming,” Brandt says.

She also deals with curbing emissions that don’t fall under Google’s carbon-free commitment: those from employee commuting, business travel, and device manufacturing. Google’s carbon contributions here are smaller than those of some peers, such as Apple, but they’re not nothing. (In 2020, Google reported 9.4 million metric tons in greenhouse gas emissions in these categories.) The company has pledged to invest 5GW of new clean energy over the decade in places where its gadgets are made. The pandemic helped cut employee travel footprints, for now.

Chief Sustainability Officer Brandt

Photographer: Kelsey McClellan for Bloomberg Green

Brandt’s most significant work might be persuading others to follow Google. She was a keynote speaker for the company’s recent software developer summit and its shareholder meeting. Her team is creating a blueprint of its 24/7 plan for cities and companies—those outside tech and without Google’s piles of cash. “This isn’t just about Google reaching a goal,” she says. “This is about how we share our practices.” Pichai says most conversations with fellow CEOs touch on sustainability and Google’s carbon-free plan, even if that’s not on the agenda. “People want to understand how we are doing it,” he says. He declined to share how much Google is budgeting for its endeavor. To achieve carbon-free operations, Google would need to spend at least $491 million for an additional 10.8 million megawatt-hours of renewable energy, according to estimates from BloombergNEF, a clean energy research group.

Money isn’t a major concern for Google, which has about $135 billion of cash on hand. But it needs massive amounts of clean energy to buy, and it knows laws must change for that to happen. The company has endorsed a U.S. clean energy standard and says it’s backing similar proposals elsewhere. To some outsiders, however, Google’s policy efforts are inadequate. Bill Weihl worked at the company from 2006 to 2011 as its “green energy czar” and now runs ClimateVoice, an advocacy nonprofit. He says he believes, as do many experts, that the fastest way to decarbonize the grid is through rewriting laws, not corporate procurement. With Democrats controlling the White House and Congress, Weihl sees a very short window for expansive new legislation. And he sees relatively little activity from Silicon Valley. “Most companies are silent,” Weihl says. “And the fossil fuel companies are really vocal trying to weaken, slow down, or just stop all those kinds of policies.”

At 11:34 UTC (7:34 a.m. ET), the price fell from around $65,760 to as low as $8,200, then quickly bounced back up to almost exactly where it was before.

“One of our institutional traders indicated to us that they had a bug in their trading algorithm, which appears to have caused the sell-off that was reported this morning,” a Binance.US spokesperson told CoinDesk.

“We are continuing to look into the event but understand from the trader that they have now fixed their bug and that the issue appears to have been resolved,” the spokesperson said, declined to comment on further details about the crash.

On other cryptocurrency exchanges, bitcoin’s price dropped around the same time, but by nowhere near as much. On Bitstamp, for example, the price fell about 2.3% at 11:34 UTC but never got below $63,600.

In a Tuesday missive, U.S. Senators Brian Schatz (D-Hawaii), Sherrod Brown (D-Ohio), Richard Blumenthal (D-Conn.), Elizabeth Warren (D-Mass.) and Tina Smith (D-Minn.) ordered Facebook CEO Mark Zuckerberg to “immediately discontinue the company’s pilot of Novi” and end its work on the diem stablecoin project.

The lawmakers said Facebook cannot be trusted to protect user data or manage a payments network, in an open letter Tuesday just hours after Facebook announced it was launching a pilot program for its Novi wallet subsidiary in the U.S. and Guatemala.

0 seconds of 7 minutes, 13 secondsVolume 90%

Read more: Facebook’s Novi Taps Paxos, Coinbase Ahead of Diem Rollout

Under the pilot project, Facebook will let users purchase Paxos dollars (USDP) and custody the funds with Coinbase.

”We urge you to immediately discontinue your Novi pilot and to commit that you will not bring Diem to market,” the lawmakers wrote on Tuesday.

Libra 2.0

The backlash is reminiscent of the response to the original libra announcement. At the time, Facebook unveiled a massive stablecoin vision that drew the ire of lawmakers and regulators around the world, including both the U.S. House of Representatives and the Senate.

Tuesday’s letter referenced the past pushback, and noted that at the time both Zuckerberg and Facebook payments chief David Marcus had committed to not launching until they had secured regulatory approvals.

”To be clear, your ability to secure state-issued money transmitter licenses is not equivalent to obtaining the blessing of ‘all U.S. regulators,’ as you said in your testimony two years ago,” the letter said.

The lawmakers also pointed to Facebook’s other interactions with Congress, including allegations that the company may have misled lawmakers in the past.

Tuesday’s letter also pointed to the fact finance regulators are currently examining the global stablecoin industry, with at least one set of recommendations expected soon from the President’s Working Group on Financial Markets.

”In addition to the risks products like Diem pose to financial stability, you have not offered a satisfactory explanation for how Diem will prevent illicit financial flows and other criminal activity,” they wrote.

After the publication of this article, a Novi spokesperson said “We look forward to responding to the Committee’s letter.”