Frank quite understood what was happening. Several witnesses were introduced, examined, and cross-examined, proving the fact that the signature was a forgery, and then the police sergeant was called to the stand.

The officer was asked to detail or to give in substance the conversation which had passed between him and Royal, the accused man. By this time young Gray was deeply interested, his ruddy face the picture of rapt attention. He drank in every word of the sergeant's story, approving it as remarkably accurate. In fact, he could hardly comprehend how the man remembered everything so clearly. His learned brother apparently ignored the case on trial, looking over the pages of a volume of reports with a very intellectual frown between his eyes.

"You may state, Sergeant Greeting, if possible, the exact reply of the defendant when you asked what cause required him to secure the money at that particular time," asked the counsel for the state.

"You want me to give his very words ?" "Yes, sir; if you can."

Well, he said this: 'I just had to have $35 that night. I had been gambling and had to pay my losses or be kicked out of the club-I belong to the "Bear Club."

Frank heard this statement with growing wonder. He straightened up in his chair and allowed his astonished eyes to wander from the witness to the prisoner, on whose face there was a look of hopeless misery. Then his own sturdy frame stiffened, his honest blue eyes flashed from beneath a flushed brow, and his strong young voice cried out boldly: "He didn't say that at all. He said"Silence!" shouted the astonished court, and two bailiffs hurried toward the dissenter threateningly. His brother half started from his chair with the shock he had received, his cheek flushing and then blanching, as if a sort of terror had seized upon his heart.

99

"I ask to have this young man ejected from the court room," cried the state's attorney, sputtering in amazement. The sergeant of police looked guiltily defiant, the prisoner's face lit up, and a whole room full of people strained their necks to see the owner of the disturbing voice.

"Well, he lied, that's all! Mr. Royal didn't say that he said he had to have it because his wife had been sick two months and the doctor wouldn't come to see her any more if he didn't pay him. I heard him say it, Judge," cried Frank, his heart now beating with a fright which strove to overpower the truth that struggled to his indignant lips.

"Take him from the room, sheriff! I never heard of such impudence," cried the outraged judge. "I never did in all my life."

"But I'm a witness," stammered Frank, a surly resentment taking possession of him. He was looking at the court manfully. "That's enough, sir! Is it possible that you do not know enough to observe order in a court room? Where do you come from? I shall attend to your case in a few moments, sir. You cannot disturb the order of this court with impunity-why, I never heard of such a thing!" blustered the judge, and to see his expression was to believe him.

By this time the young fellow's face was white and drawn. Humiliation was stamped all over his crushed, drooping person. Still the boyish indignation and resentment would not down, his pride was cut to the quick, his very heart cried out within him. A sharp glance at the white face of his brother-a glance which was a prayer for help-showed him that he was alone in the fight; the ally was trembling and his eyes were riveted on the floor. As the court concluded his last exclamation the boy's lips trembled, his teeth clashed together sullenly, and his angry voice rang out with:

"Oh, I don't care, you darned old fool!"

Imagine the consternation this rash retort produced. There followed a moment's silence, like unto the space which intervenes between the flash of lightning and the clap of thunder. Scores of eyes peered at the bowed, stubborn head of the boy, whose face was red and twitching; then they turned toward the court, upon whose turkey-red features grew the blue of rage. His eyes were glaring down upon the boy ominously; his back was very straight; the cords in his neck were strained and hard with the tension his anger imposed.

Young man," he began, and then stopped to clear the lump of wrath from his throat. "Young man, you have committed an indiscretion which cannot be overlooked; you have insulted this court; you have outraged this bench of justice. In sheer amazement realize that you are almost a man and not a child, as one might suspect from your rashness, from your utter indifference to the consequences which you must certainly have known would be the result of your outburst. I do not know who you are, but you surely have not been reared with an absolute disregard for the respect due to age and to men who occupy such positions as that held by this court. To me it looks like pure viciousness on your part, and I shall certainly teach you the

error of your way. It will be a painful duty for me to fine you and to send you to jail, but I firmly believe it is the only course to pursue where one of your age and apparent intelligence commits an act such as you have committed."

Frank's sudden burst of uncontrollable weeping interrupted the court at this juncture. The poor boy threw his arms upon the table beside which he sat; his face was instantly buried upon them, and his body shook with the most pitiful sobs. Before the judge could resume his reprimand, the tall, unsteady figure of that deserting brother arose, his embarrassed face turned toward the bench, his bloodless lips moving stiffly as if they were uttering words. No sound, however, came from them. There was a supreme effort pat forth. One hand clutched the back of the chair against which his stiff legs braced themselves, and these words came out in strange, unnatural tones, clear and strong, as if some unusual power produced them:

"Your honor, I beg your indulgence for a moment. You certainly will listen to a weak appeal for leniency before you too severely condemn my brother-my ignorant, impulsive brother. If a penalty must be inflicted for the dishonor shown to this court, I feel that all the punishment should fall upon another and more deserving head. Your honor, upon me should be cast all the blame, all the indignant reproaches brought about by this unfortunate occurrence. It was I who, knowing full well the conduct he should have pursued during the hours when justice reigns, refused, through an unbrotherly exaltation of my own superiority, to respond to his eager questions when he sought for information. I revelled in my knowledge and in his ignorance. He had never seen a court room before; knew nothing of its rules, its exactions. In my miserable heart I felt that I was unkind to him, but my foolish pedestal was too high to allow me to come down to him in his helplessness. It was, perhaps, an added fault of mine that I told him to tell the truth only while here; a fault, I say, your honor, because he needed no such caution, no such insult from one who knows his virtues as I know them. He has never told a lie, that I swear. Not all the power on earth could make my brother utter a falsehood. What he interposed during the testimony of that witness was true, absolutely true, or he would not have said it. His blunder in crying out was due to his own uncovered honesty and to my injunction to tell the truth. He did not know the rules; he knew nothing, may it please your honor, save that a lie was being

told, and his heart cried out the truth. I am to blame for his first mistake. For the second the insult to the court-nature itself must be held accountable. I ask you to go back to the day when you were of his age, the years when youthful pride overruled discretion, judgment everything. Place yourself in his position, your heart bursting with injury to your boyish pride, filled with that young anger, turbulent resentment and youthful horror of ridicule stirring every fiber, and how would you have felt it? He, with the unfortunate courage of ignorance, blurted out his ill-suppressed feelings; you would have felt as he did, you might have done as he did. I leave that to the considerate remembrance of your own boyish impressions. Remember, your honor, the heat of your despairing anger when you, as a boy, were subjected to sharp criticism, merited or not; whether before the eyes of others or not; whether by age or youth. Remember, sir, your resentment even against your father, your best of friends, the mother you now hold so dear, and then put yourself in this boy's place. Can you again feel the insufferable rankling of pride, of scorned immaturity in your heart-you, a judge of men and all their emotions? Go back, your honor, to the days when your very soul burned with the fires of resentment, and have pity on this offender. He is innocent of a wrong intention. He would not show the least dishonor to you or to any man on earth had he not felt that a man-that prisoner--was being harshly treated. He is honest; he is a boy, a boy such as you were; such as all of these men were; such as I am who speak to you. I ask you not to punish him, for he would never forget the disgrace. I ask you to suspend further reprimand and allow me to take him from the room until he is asked to come and tell his honest story under oath. What more you might say to him could have no more weight than what you have said. Your first command, Silence'! crushed him. It was sufficient for the tender, untried heart. He feels as you felt when you were a boy, your honor!"

The stiff figure relaxed, the pleading white face dropped forward, as if unsupported, the tall frame sank into the chair, and the advocate's first plea was over. Tears stood in the eyes of the court, a glow of sympathy went around the room, a clapping of hands arose from the reminiscent old lawyers, and it was evident that the young fellow had won his point.

He did not hear the plaudits, for he had fainted!

I

CHAPTER XVII

The Price of Silence

T was the misfortune of Mr. Cummings's final literary offering to annoy one of the editor's friends. The "Journal" was brought to the new Corporal at noon, while he was considering whether he should rise from his bed or sleep another hour. Reclining among his pillows, he glanced through Cummings's description with the subdued giggle he always had for the good William's style, but as his eye fell upon one paragraph, he started, sat upright, and proceeded to read the passage several times with anxious attention.

"Only two or three sources of regret occurred to mar the delight (in which young and old participated) of that festal and dazzling scene. One was the absence of Miss Fanchon Bareaud, one of the donors; another, that of Corporal Gray; a third was the excessive modesty of Major Vanrevel, who, although present at the time, refused to receive the ladies' sumptuous offering, and insisted that Captain Marsh was the proper person to do the honors, to which the latter reluctantly, though gracefully, consented. Also, we were sorry that the Major appeared in citizen's dress, as all were anxious to witness him in his uniform. However, in our humble judgment, he will be compelled by etiquette to don it this afternoon, to receive the officers of the regular army, who will arrive by the stage about five o'clock, it is expected, to inspect the company and swear them into the service of the Federal Government at the Court House. We, for one, have little doubt that, owing to the Major's wellknown talent in matters of apparel, his appearance will far eclipse in brilliancy that of

his fellow-officers."

Crailey dressed slowly, returning to the paper now and then with a perturbed countenance. How would Miss Betty explain this paragraph to herself, and how account for the fact that she had not seen Crailey, how for the fact that she had seen Tom? It seemed unlikely that she could have overlooked the latter Tom was one of those whom everybody saw, wherever he went. And

what inquiries would she make? For Crailey had no means of knowing that she would not see the "Journal." To-morrow he would be gone-it would be all over-but he wanted this last day to run smoothly. What wild hopes he had of things that should happen when they all came marching home, no one can say; even if it were not to be doubted that Crailey ever entertained hopes of any kind whatever, since to hope is to bestow thought upon the future.

But, however affairs ran with him so far as hope was concerned, he seldom lacked an idea; and one came to him presently, a notion that put the frown to rout and brought the old smile to his lips-his smile of the world-worn and tolerant prelate. He flicked the paper lightly from him, and it sped across the room like a big bird in awkward flight. For he knew how to preserve his last day as he wished, and to make it all smooth.

Finishing his toilet with particular care, he took a flower from a vase on his table, placed it in his coat, and went down to the dusty street, where everything was warm and bright with summer. It was joy to be alive; there was wine enough in the air; and Crailey made up his mind not to take a drink that day— the last day! The last day! The three words kept ringing through his head like a minor phrase from a song. To-morrow, at noon, they would be churning down the river; and this was the last day-the last day!

"But not too late to make another friend at home," he said, stopping to pat the head of a mangy street cur that came crouching and wobbling toward him like a staveless little keg worried by scurries of wind. Dogs and children always fell in love with Crailey at first sight, and he never failed to receive them in the spirit of their approach. Now the mongrel, at his touch, immediately turned himself over and lay upon the pavement with all paws in air, as if to say: "Great lord, magnificent in the graciousness which deigns to cast a glimpse upon this abject cluster of ribs, I perceive that your heart is too gentle to kick me in my present helplessness; yet do with me as you will."

"I doubt if you've breakfasted, brother," Crailey responded aloud, rubbing the dog's

head softly with the tip of his boot. "Will you share the meagre fare of one who is a poet, should be a lawyer, but is about to become a soldier? Eh, but a corporal! Rise, my friend. Up! and be in your own small self a whole corporal's guard! And if your Corporal doesn't come home from the wars, perhaps you'll remember him kindly? Think?"

He made a vivacious gesture, the small animal sprang into the air, convoluted with gratitude and affection, while Crailey, laughing softly, led the way to the hotel. There, eating sparsely himself, he provided munificently for his new acquaintance, and recommended him, with an accompaniment of silver, to the good offices of the Rouen House kitchen. After that, out into the sunshine again he went, with elastic step, and a merry word and a laugh for every one he met. At the old English gardener's he bought four or five bouquets, and carried them on a round of visits of farewell to as many old ladies who had been kind to him. This done, leaving his laughter and his flowers behind him, he went to Fanchon and spent part of the afternoon bringing forth cunning arguments cheerily, to prove to her that General Taylor would be in the Mexican capital before the volunteers reached New Orleans, and urging upon her his belief that they would all be back in Rouen before the summer was gone. But Fanchon could only sob and whisper, "Hush, hush!" in the dim room where they sat, the windows darkened so that, after he had gone, he should not remember how red her eyes were, and the purple depths under them, and thus forget how pretty she had been at her best. After a time, finding that the more he tried to cheer her, the more brokenly she wept, he grew silent, only stroking her head, while the summer sounds came in through the window: the mill-whirr of locusts, the small monotone of distant farmbells, the laughter of children in the street, and the gay arias of a mocking-bird swinging in the open window of the next house. So they sat together through the long, still afternoon of the last day.

No one in Rouen found that afternoon particularly enlivening. Even Mrs. Tanberry gave way to the common depression, and, once more, her doctrine of cheerfulness relegated to the ghostly ranks of the purely theoretical, she bowed under the burden of her woe so far as to sing, "Methought I Met a Damsel Fair" (Her of the Bursting Sighs) at the piano. Whenever depression sat upon her soul she had acquired the habit of resorting to this unhappy ballad; and to-day she sang it thrice.

Mr. Carewe was not at home, and had announced that he intended to honor the evening meal by his attendance, but should be away for the evening itself; as comment upon which statement Mrs. Tanberry had offered ambiguously the one word, "Amen!" He was stung to no reply, and she had noted the circumstance as unusual, and also that he had appeared to labor with the suppression of a keen excitement, which made him anxious to escape from her sharp little eyes; an agitation for which she easily accounted when she recalled that he had seen Vanrevel on the previous evening. Mr. Carewe had kept his promise to preserve the peace, as he always kept it when the two met on neutral ground, but she had observed that his face showed a kind of hard-leashed violence whenever he had been forced to breathe the air of the same room with his enemy, and that the thing grew on him.

Miss Betty exhibited not precisely a burning interest in the adventure of the Damsel Fair, and wandered out of the room during the second rendition, wandered back again, and once more away. She had moved about the house in this fashion since early morning, wearing what Mamie described as a "peak-ed look." White-faced and restless, with absent and distressed eyes, to which no sleep had come in the night, she could not read; she could no more than touch her harp; she could not sleep; she could not remain quiet for three minutes together. Often she sank into a chair with an air of languor and weariness, only to start immediately out of it and seek some other part of the house, or to go and pace the garden. Here, in the air heavy with roses and tremulous with June, as she walked rapidly up and down, late in the afternoon, at the time when the far-away farmbells were calling men from the fields to supper, the climax of her restlessness came; nay, it was more than restlessness. The old rebellion against the law that inaction must be her part-that anguish and desperation, so old in her sex-had fallen upon her for the first time. She came to an abrupt stop and struck her hands together despairingly, and spoke aloud.

"No'm; but he'll be waitin' at his office, Gray and Vanrevel,' on Main Street, for the

66

"You're Miss Carewe?" he asked; but before she could answer he said, reassuringly, Why of course you are! I remember you perfect, now I git the light on you, so to speak. Don't you remember me?" "No, I don't think I do."

"Then hurry!" said Betty.

He needed no second bidding, but, with wings on his bare heels, made off through the gap in the hedge. At the corner of the street he encountered an adventure-a gentleman's legs and a heavy hand at the same time. The hand fell on his shoulder, arresting his scamper with a vicious jerk; and the boy was too awed to attempt an escape, for he knew his captor well by sight, although never before had he found himself so directly in the company of Rouen's richest citizen. The note dropped from the trembling fingers, yet those small fingers of the boy did not

But at this point the youth recalled the fact that he had an errand to discharge; and assuming an air of business-like haste too pressing to permit farther parley, he sought in his pocket and produced a sealed envelope, with which he advanced upon her.

"Here. There's an answer. He told me not to tell nobody who sent it, and not to give it to nobody on earth but you, and how to slip in through the hedge and try and find you in the garden when nobody was lookin', and he give a pencil for you to answer on the back of it, and a dollar.”

Miss Betty took the note, glancing once over her shoulder at the house, but Mrs. Tanberry was still occupied with the Maiden, and no one was in sight. She read the message quickly: "I have obeyed you, and shall always. But you have not sent for me. Perhaps that was because there was no time when you thought it safe or maybe you have still felt there would be a loss of dignity. Does that weigh with you against good-by? Tell me, if you can, that you have it in your heart to let me go without seeing you once more, without good-by-for the last time. Or was it untrue that you wrote me what you did? Was that dear letter but a little fairy dream of mine? Ah, will you see me again, this once-this once-let me look at you, let me talk with you, hear your voice? The last time!"

There was no signature.

Miss Betty hastily and nervously wrote four lines upon the same sheet: Yes yes! I must see you, must talk with you before you go. Come at dusk. The garden-near the gap in the hedge. It will be safe for a little while. He will not be here." She replaced the paper in its envelope, drew a sharp line through her own name on the letter, and wrote "Mr. Vanrevel" underneath.

"Do you know the gentleman who sent you?" she asked.

Carewe seized upon the missive with his disengaged hand and saw what two names were on the envelope.

66

Nothing!" mocked Carewe. "Nothing! You didn't carry this to the young lady in there and get her answer?"

"No, sir!" answered the captive, earnestly. "Cross my heart, I didn't. I found it!" Slowly the corrugations of anger were leveled from the magnate's face, the white heat cooled, and the prisoner marveled to find himself in the presence of an urbane gentleman whose placidity made the scene of a moment ago appear some trick of distorted vision. And yet, curious to behold, Mr. Carewe's fingers shook even more violently than before as he released the boy's shoulder and gave him a friendly tap on the head, at the same time smiling benevolently.

"There, there," he said, bestowing a wink upon the youngster. "It's all right; it doesn't matter-only I think I see the chance of a jest in this. You wait, while I read this little note, this message that you found!" He ended by winking again with the friendliest drollery.

He turned his back to the boy as he opened the note; and he continued to stand in that position while he read the two messages. It struck the messenger that, after this, there need be no great shame in his own lack of this much-vaunted art of reading, since it took so famous a man as Mr. Carewe such length of time to peruse a little note. But