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UNDER THE BIG DIPPER

HELÈNE

UNDER
THE BIG DIPPER

BY
D. GEORGE DERY

BRENTANO’S :: :: :: NEW YORK
MCMXVI

Copyright, 1916, By D. George Dery

TO HER
TO WHOSE GRACIOUS FORBEARANCE
AND NEVER FALTERING FAITH THE
EXISTENCE OF THIS BOOK IS DUE,
I HEREWITH DEDICATE THIS, MY
FIRST LITERARY EFFORT
TO MY DEAR WIFE

March nineteenth, 1916

UNDER THE BIG DIPPER

UNDER THE BIG DIPPER

BOOK I

CHAPTER I

INDIA the wonderful—India the home of Buddha and the land of mystery and misery. The country of glorious traditions and unsatisfied desires! What ambitions have not been dreamed, what visions not conjured in your cause! Assyrian and Greek, Mongol and Parsee, Portuguese rover, Dutch trader, Russian diplomat and English merchant prince—all have sought thee and thy wealth, all have fought and striven, chicaned and murdered, sneaked and schemed—for thy gold and dominion over thy people.

And the result? A land teeming with beings abject and low; a land where Paradise might have been nestling amongst the giant hills of the North, now laid waste and desolated of its ancient splendors—a land of dreams, but a land of unfulfilled desires. The country of caste and the grave of unborn ambitions; the country of dirt and superstition; the cradle of plagues and epidemics and famines; the land of the noblest palaces and temples, as well as of the meanest hovels which serve as dwellings for its sad-eyed patient inhabitants.

And over all rises and sets the sun of the tropics, over all shine the moon of Gautama and the stars of Zoroaster. Over all there rest the curses of disease, dirt and ignorance, the ready tools of greed and lust of power, the outcome of lack of coherence and the terrible rule of classes.

This cradle of humanity is still a couch of prodigious productiveness—and to our eternal shame be it confessed—these all-enduring, passive, gazelle-like creatures are really white—white like we are, of the same color as are the gay crowds of Hyde Park, or the Boulevards of Paris, Rome or Vienna, New York or Boston! And older as race and nearer to Eden than any of these. They pray to Brahma and many-armed Shiva, to Buddha and Mohammed, to the sun and fire of Zoroaster—and even to the cobra of the jungle; but forlorn and without hope as they seemingly are, they are still human beings.

Along the dusty highway leading from Madras to Pondisherry, well inland and therefore removed from the life-giving breezes of the Coromandel coast and the Bay of Bengal, under a straggling group of ficus, a native dwelling on low stilts raises its squalid roof above the yellow grime of its surroundings.

From the distant hills resounds the shrill blast of the locomotive; every once in a while the contour of gently rolling land permits a glimpse of a curious looking behatted smokestack, copied after the model of early Pacific days, belching soot and smoke, and pulling noisily amidst groans and creaks their little dingy cars. Along the highway the ungainly telegraph poles with their odd crosspieces copied after the favorite gallows-construction of remote rural England, bear witness to the encroaching hand of western civilization on the land. Even India is now but another source of supply for trade and commerce.

Near this native structure, in the shade of a clump of hybiscus and a few doleful fig trees, some saddle-horses and donkeys are tethered; sprawling in the deep weed-like grass and scrubby undergrowth a number of natives with swathed limbs and streaky, greasy turbans are contemplating with expressionless mien the cloudless sky in which float and soar buzzards and vultures upon seeming motionless wings. At some distance from this group and seated on a well-filled saddle-bag, a European is smoking a cigarette, as if unaware of the proximity of his humbler companions.

The stilted building itself, containing two compartments separated by a narrow hallway, is made accessible from the tangle of weeds and caked mud by a crude ladder-like few steps of filth-covered boards.

Even the bounty of the tropics and wealth of vegetation in this favored clime have not succeeded in hiding the unattractive nakedness of the mean dwelling. Straggling, unkempt brush and creepers but emphasize the wild condition of its near surroundings. Rough weathered beams, decaying boards, cracked dirty bamboo and sunbaked grayish clay afford the only protection against burning sun, heating wind and drifting rain.

In the larger of the two compartments, which hardly justify the appellation of rooms, two men are seated upon a low, rough-hewn bench. In the middle of the space an irregular heap of straw, covered with a torn and unclean sheet of unbleached muslin, serves as a couch upon which a man is lying prostrate—pale and evidently very ill.

One of the two seated men, a dark-skinned, bright-eyed native, heavily bearded and dressed in garments denoting a position of high standing, rises from the bench to kneel before the prostrate form. He holds the unresisting wrist in his capable brown hand and feels carefully with long prehensile fingers the pulse of the invalid.

The eyes of the sick man are covered by silky lashes; the features are calm and resigned; the nostrils expand and contract while the native physician, machine-like, listens and counts. Then the hand he holds is laid gently down on the coverlet and slowly rising he beckons to the other figure in the room to follow as he moves towards the door.

This other figure, until now silent and rigid in its vigil on the bench, sends a look of deep concern and pity upon the recumbent young man, and follows his companion into the adjoining space, where both retire to the wall farthest removed from the sick youth.

“There is no hope for your young friend, my lord. The ague has weakened his frame, the drug and excess have sapped his strength. He will die before the setting of the sun. I shall give him a draught that will ease his pain and hold the spirit to the last. Help I cannot; he is beyond the power of man.”

His companion, a tall, lean man of fine features, and even in his begrimed linens and dusty pith helmet a man of importance, gave the speaker a searching look and then bowed his head in evident grief.

“Doctor Saklava, I know you to be a physician of great judgment and equal skill. The governor vouches for you and I am more than grateful to have had your aid so promptly. If you say there is no hope, I must cease to indulge in any. But oh—if only something could be done!” Then in a calmer voice he continued: “The boy is young, his constitution strong, and after all youth clings to life! Is there truly no hope? It means so much to me!” The Parsee remained motionless and silent. The other went on:

“When I asked the governor for help he dispatched his chief surgeon at the same time he sent for you; Major Murdock might arrive at any moment. Will you not await him, pray, while I go in to the boy? How soon do you think will he awaken to consciousness?”

“In less than half an hour, my lord. And I think his mind will be clearer; indeed he may be perfectly rational. But his heart is very weak and his vitality low. The next attack of fever, which I beg to assure you cannot be prevented, will be his last, I fear. His temperature is now as high as any man can bear and live; his pulse is galloping and his lungs are under the maximum tension. I shall join your man in the grove and will await Major Murdock’s arrival. I presume he will bring a nurse and a cot?”

“The governor had arranged with the hospital at Mahabalibar. Would we could have found the boy a day sooner!”

“My lord, the seed of death is in man when the seed of life is planted. Any time during the past week your friend’s chances would have been no better. This district of ours is not the place for passionate youth from foreign lands, nor is it the country where indulgence can be committed with impunity. Our sun is cruel, our climate is deadly. He who cares not for his life here—is lost. Grieve not, my lord; fate has overtaken your young friend, but he will pass out free from pain and unconscious of the end that is inevitable. Until later, my lord.”

While the deeply salaaming physician retired, his tall companion returned with careful, noiseless step to the sick-room and seated himself facing the sufferer.

His elbows on his knees and his face buried in his palms, he contemplated the white and almost lifeless features of the dying youth. The regular, finely moulded face was fair like a woman’s, the proud, bold nose, high faultless brow and beautiful, wavy, chestnut hair, arched lips and delicate chin betokened a distinguished and even noble ancestry. Two spots of crimson showed on the cheeks, almost the only signs of life, and imparted an appearance of extreme youthfulness and innocence; the lips were red and bright, the closed eyelids clear and smooth. Must the boy die?

This silent musing brought a flood of memories to the motionless watcher. His eyes grew clouded, tears gathered in them. The boy slept on insensible to the bitter grief he was causing, unconscious of everything, peaceful and still.

A shadow fell across the doorway. Brushing his eyes the man rose quickly and cautiously passed out to greet the new arrival. It was Major Murdock, the surgeon, a severe-looking, stout man in undress uniform. A few whispered words, a handshake and the two physicians followed the tall man into the sick-room.

Dr. Murdock examined the sleeper’s face carefully, thoroughly investigated chest, heart-beat, pulse and temperature. His examination over he, in a low voice, requested the others to join him in the primitive porch.

“Your Excellency, I can but confirm the diagnosis and prediction of Dr. Saklava; your friend cannot be saved. He lives but under the influence of the narcotic that the doctor gave him, the only drug we know which will hold life until the next fit of this awful fever consumes it finally. Dr. Saklava has more experience in enteric fevers than anyone in this province; he is both competent and skillful in the knowledge and treatment of all native diseases. You could not have had a better physician. Your friend will pass away with the next attack. He will regain consciousness and there can be no harm in speaking to him. But after his fever returns he will be delirious—and in his weakened state neither drug nor cold bath nor nurse can avail. Do you wish me to watch with you beside your young friend, Count Rondell?”

“No, Major, I think I will remain alone with him and save him the shock of seeing too many strange faces upon his awakening. He doesn’t know of my presence, if you remember. Will you gentlemen kindly remain within hearing?”

“Certainly, my lord; when you want us, pray call.”

The Parsee doctor deposited a cup and bottle upon the bench, and after giving some whispered instructions to the man who had been addressed as “Count,” he followed the surgeon out of the dwelling. The tall man resumed his post of observation.

The oppressive quiet of the chamber was broken after a long interval by a sigh followed by the sound of a slight cough. Count Rondell leaned forward eagerly. The invalid had moved, an arm had been thrown up and the hand was feeling for the throat. Gradually the eyes opened and the sick man gazed stupidly upward at the dingy mud-plastered bamboo lace work of the ceiling, and then slowly and almost devoid of intelligence swept the foreground and rested curiously upon the watcher. Count Rondell half rose as he intently observed the change, and wondered vaguely whether he should speak or await the actions of the sufferer.

The void expression of the eyes, now free of fever, slowly yielded to one of recognition and then of shame. A heightened color mantled the brow of the sick youth and an elusive twitch upon the poor lips as they spoke: “How are you, Count? So you have caught me at last?”

The old man flushed, sank to his knee and with both arms extended, leaned over the invalid.

“God greet you, Your Highness! I am more than happy to have found you!”

His voice broke and he grasped the nerveless hands of the youth before him with deep emotion, whispering huskily, “My Prince—my boy!”

Tears gathered into the now softened eyes of the sick youth. The deep feeling shown by the man kneeling at his pallet touched him keenly.

“Do not grieve, dear Count! I am not worth it. Why should you weep for me? Why should you still extend your love and care for one so useless as I?”

“My Prince, I beseech you, do not speak thus of yourself! Let us forget what has passed and look forward to what is to come. I am glad to have found you, so glad to be with you. Now, all will be, must be, well!”

“No—no, my dearest friend and guardian. No—there is nothing to look forward to. I feel that the end has come. I know I shall never again see my loved ones, my land, my king. I knew it when they brought me here. Ill as I was, I was not unconscious. How long have I been lying here? Raise my head so that I may look at you well—and, pray, be seated!”

The Count gently adjusted the head and sat down.

For some moments not a word was spoken, then the young man broke the stillness:

“Dear General, I have given you and all the world a great deal of trouble, have I not? It will be all over and done with soon—pray, don’t grieve, don’t worry. What difference will it make to the world or to our Roumelia if I go and another succeeds to the throne? It could only be a worthier man whoever he may be! Why should you waste a thought on one who has been foolish as I have been? Why waste time on the dreamy fool who bartered a throne, the love and respect of a people, your friendship, Count, for the smiles of a false woman, a wanton? Have I not shown myself a coward? A man who after his first failure turned tail and ran off like a sulking boy? A good riddance I call it! Better to know the truth now than burden a hopeful land with so worthless a ruler. Do not weep; truly, I am not worth it!”

Count Rondell, his cheeks wet with the tears that were freely coursing down his now deathly pale face, extended his hands imploringly. With a great effort he recovered his calmness, and vehemently exclaimed, “I beg of you, my Prince, do not let us harp on actions which must have been beyond your control. Let us rather speak of your welfare and your health. May I ask you to look at it in this light, your Highness?”

“Very well, my good teacher; let it be as you will. What do you wish me to say or tell?”

“Your Highness, I trust and confidently believe we shall get you well and out of this deadly place very soon. But you may shortly relapse into a fever and with it into unconsciousness. I beg of your Highness to state now what you wish to have attended to. I ask for your commands! But first take this draught the physician has left for you.”

Indifferently at first, but after a sip or two, with grateful expression in his features, the invalid partook of the drink.

“Ah, that is good, General! I was very thirsty without realizing it. Well, there is really not much to tell and surely nothing to command. I am here alone, with no obligations towards anyone. As it possibly may be my last chance, you may want to hear how I came to this place?”

“I beg of your Highness not to tell more than you wish. Of course I shall be glad to know your reasons for choosing this dangerous country”—then once more breaking down, he murmured: “Why did you, my boy, why did you?”

The sick man lightly pressed the older man’s arm, letting his hand rest upon the sleeve. Count Rondell mutely gazed upon the suffering youth, and saw that the boy before him knew the price he was to pay for his folly, knew it all—and it seemed as if he wanted to pay it. Through his mind there flitted thoughts of the futility of man’s plans when God willed otherwise. With this bitter reflection there came the grief of the thought of the death of this young life that had had no chance for fulfillment.

“Count, the woman who made me forget my duty, who caused me to quarrel with you and his Majesty—the woman for whose sake I was willing to give up honor, glory and a throne—she was nothing but a wanton. I shall be brief. Returning one day to our villa in Mentone, rather earlier than usual, I found her with Monsieur Goddard, her late business manager as I thought, in very intimate seclusion. I asked for explanations—she laughed! The man had the best, the only right in the world to be intimate with her—he was her lawful husband—the only man she ever really loved and always had loved. What cared she for a romantic boy—a fool! He was the man who had introduced me to her, who had aided my wooing—and who had conspired with her to gull me! During the months I was whispering words of love and endearment to the woman I was craving to make my wife, she and he were in a conspiracy to ruin me. All they wanted was my money.

“Humiliated and desperate, I grew reckless. How well you knew it, my friend! How you pleaded with me when first this great passion took hold of me! Would I had listened to you and obeyed your wise counsel; but it was too late. The poison of this ignoble passion, which I mistook for the holy fire of love, had entered my heart, had clouded my brain!

“After this discovery—I felt I had broken with everything in life. As I sinned—I became reckless.”

The sick boy sank back, breathing hard and gazed absently into space. His friend rose to soothe his agitation, but was arrested by an imperious motion of the feeble hand.

“Let me conclude, General. After this blow—I chose to show that I cared not for one woman’s treachery—and tried to prove this by publicly making love to other women. And when one morning my valet reported your arrival in the town, I felt that I dared not see you, that I must flee! That day I joined the troupe of ‘Le Ballet Occidental,’ which was to leave for Naples. I joined the company as the admirer of Mademoiselle Genée, and I followed this troupe to Alexandria and Cairo, thence to Bombay and Calcutta—and finally to Madras.

“On the way to the French settlement at Pondisherry I became very ill and they thought it best to take me off the train and put me in charge of the hospital. And the first night I could bear it no longer—they wouldn’t give me morphine to ease my pain—and I ran away—and—here I am. During all these latter weeks I always felt and sometimes knew that you, my dear Count, were near me—but fate was against you, my would-be saviour—against you and with me—the lost one—and so here I am!”

The last words came almost in a whisper. The Count sat still, his forehead damp with cold perspiration. The young man had spoken like a judge pronouncing his own doom!

He could not move, he could not speak. His lips were parched, his mind numb. He gazed at the ashen face of the boy, at the crimson lips of the smiling, bonny face—God, what should he do?

“And now, General, the last stage has been reached,” said the youth recovering his voice. “All there is left to do is for me to ask your forgiveness, the pardon of his Majesty, my uncle, for all the unhappiness caused by me. You have in the vaults of the Credit Lyonnaise at Nice my formal renunciation of all claims to the succession and all family rights. There never was a marriage between Madelain and me—the proofs are with the Austrian Legation at Rome. Madelain was paid and all my dancer and actor friends are settled with. Come, General, be brave, be strong! Forget me—and if you can—forgive me. You in your wisdom will find a way to alter the succession, perhaps my little sister can secure the dynasty. Come, be cheerful, and do not grieve. It is but a worthless life that is about to pass out—I have lived my life—and lost. May God forgive me!”

The hand clutching the arm of the General fell back. The Count, in his agitation, mumbled terms of love and endearment as he eased the sick boy upon the mean couch—but the youth had swooned. Quivering and faint he hastened to the porch and summoned the physicians.

They came quickly, the Parsee first, who bent over the prostrate form. A light touch upon the sick youth’s chest and brow and Doctor Saklava announced the fit of fever had returned. He begged the Count to retire to the adjoining room or outdoors. Nothing could be done; he would watch and render all the help needed.

With the sinking of that day’s sun, in the meager light of a battered lantern, and attended by the doctors and servants, General Rondell knelt by the couch of straw and closed forever the eyes of the boy who was to have been his king—but who had willed it otherwise. The falling darkness found a sad cavalcade slowly riding back to Madras, carrying all that remained of one of the world’s chosen. And the tall, sorrow-stricken man rode on alone behind and found no balm for his broken heart in his thoughts.

CHAPTER II

A NARROW strip of haze above the western horizon obscures the coastline and dims the burning rays of the setting sun. The blood-red ball, just visible above that indefinite line where ocean, sky and land might meet, burnishes the lazy leaden waves of the sea, oily and sluggish as if affected by the oppressive heat. Purples and blues, reds and greens vie with each other in a seeming desire to extinguish the burnt orange which fades but slowly and reluctantly. Everywhere reigns the deep dusky yellow heat, with an utter absence of either sound or motion.

It is as if a thick sheet of glass had been interposed between the observer and the rest of creation, with nothing tangible, nothing real except the one all-prevailing sensation of oppressive heat.

The P. & O. liner gliding through the fiery molten bronze seems as if it were “a painted ship on a painted sea”; its motion barely perceptible, like that of a phantom ship, the wake in its path but a feeble streak in the dull coloring, and the funnels reluctantly and faintly releasing a timid cone of hazy smudge.

Dimly outlined against the Northeast the slowly receding line of grayish ochre marks the mute sentinels of Arabia; to the West a heavy bank of sienna-edged clouds veils the shore of Dana Kill and the African hill desert.

On the aft deck are grouped in nondescript neglect a few men in the uniforms of British East India troops. A stolid, swarthy Sikh and some lean Bengals with their patient, gentle eyes, clad in filthy though picturesque garments, huddle in the shade of dirty awnings. Forward, the solitary figure of the watch drowsily moves with halting nerveless steps in the narrow confines of his little realm. All is pervaded by quiet and repose, a sort of fatalistic waiting for the cooler evening.

A man reclining in a steamer chair on the hurricane deck is the one human being on the upper structure of the vessel. He is a slender sunburnt man past middle age with commanding features and a close-cropped beard flecked with gray. He is well groomed in immaculate white flannels. The half-hidden gray fathomless eyes, created to observe and to remain discreet, the fine mouth closely compressed, the long slender hands idly crossed on his knees, he sits seemingly as if in a dream.

He strikes a close observer as one who could not easily be overlooked in any gathering. His face would remain in the memory—a face of one born to direct the thought and work of others, to lead and command. It shows the marks of the inroads of time and care, the severe pallor of weariness beneath the tan of exposure. His posture betrays the soldier beaten in life’s battle.

A nearby cabin door is opened and a pleasant-faced young man in the uniform of a ship’s officer steps toward the dreamer.

“How do you feel on this hot afternoon, Your Excellency?”

The dreamer turns with a smile and replies, “Very well indeed, but a little lazy. Won’t you sit down a minute, doctor?”

“Thank you, Excellency.” Dr. Brown, the ship’s surgeon, with a little nervous motion and a quiet apology, draws a camp-stool near and seats himself facing the older man.

“I have completed the examination and analysis which my limited equipment permits, Count. I have read up the case and I should like to make my report. You know that my practice of late years has been restricted to the traveling public, but I feel I am competent to diagnose fairly accurately.”

“My dear doctor, I have the fullest confidence in your judgment,” with a deprecating gesture.

“I should say that owing to your sojourn in that confounded India your case has been considerably aggravated and has become more severe; it is not now acute or at all serious, but requires careful attention. Avoid excitement and do not undertake anything which will strain your physical powers. I regret that I must be strict with you with regard to your diet and habits. But when you arrive at Brindisi, go to Karlsbad, and in a few weeks you’ll be well enough to take up the affairs of your country.”

“Thank you, doctor. But to me time means the trust and perhaps the fate of others. It is, therefore, more than a question of self. Doctor, how long do you give me?”

The doctor flushed and looked pained. “Count, you must believe what I have said. I will not hide from you that you are in a serious condition but—once you get on land and out of this floating inferno, you’ll be as well as ever, I think. Don’t attempt to do too much now and don’t worry.”

“Thank you most sincerely, doctor. Well, I suppose even a diplomat can live plainly and give up wine and tobacco.”

He bade the doctor a pleasant “au revoir” and sauntered toward the ship’s side. In deep thought he leaned against the railing, gazing into the now fiery sienna of the horizon. The smile on his lips faded, his assumed indifference had left him. Deep lines of care contracted his brow and the eyes looked troubled and sad.

A quick step and a cheerful voice called out heartily, “Good evening, Excellency! Dreaming or thinking—or both?”

Heavily set, smooth-faced and jovial, Captain Pollard of the ship walked toward him.

“My dear Captain, I am only too glad to have you break in on my dreams. They were not the rosiest just now, even though the evening looks beautiful enough to charm an anchorite.”

The Captain nodded his head. “That red sky is rather a promise of another hot day for to-morrow, Count. In a few hours we’ll be in the Red Sea, the furnace of creation. I am afraid to-morrow will be a broiler. Look, Count, there to our left is the Ras Séan with the cloud wreath on top of him. In an hour we shall be in ‘Bab El Mandeb,’ the Gate of Dirge of the Arab. Gloomy premonition, I call that. We are going fine and are ahead of our schedule.”

“All right, Mr. Malone, what is it?” This to the officer of the deck who was rapidly approaching.

“The pilot is signalling from Tadshurra Bay, sir. Shall I slow down, Captain?”

“Very well, sir, glad to get him promptly. What is the boat’s number?”

“Seven, sir.”

“Good, that is old Abdullah, a good sailor and a fine fellow. Report when he gets aboard, please.”

“Yes, sir.”

The officer hurried away and shortly after the siren gave two short blasts and the boat lost headway.

“May I join you for a bit, Count?” Captain Pollard took the stool vacated by the doctor following the gesture of polite assent of the Count.

“The doctor’s report left a bad taste in your mouth, eh? If you don’t mind, I’d like to say a few words more on this same subject, your Excellency.”

The Captain stuck his hands deeply into his coat pockets, looking straight at the Count. “You are an old soldier and a gentleman who knows the world, Count. Dr. Brown came to me this afternoon somewhat worried. He doesn’t want to scare you needlessly but neither does he intend you should get off the boat a sick man. He is probably a little over-cautious. Now, just to please us all, let him look after you until we land. There is nothing more trying after a residence in India than the passage we have ahead of us for the next five or six days. Do as Dr. Brown advises and when you get home send him a nice letter telling him he was right. Is it a bargain?”

“My dear Captain, it certainly is; and I appreciate your interest very much and won’t fail you and the good doctor.”

He had regained his smiling manner: “Captain, why are we men such restless wanderers? You could settle down in your nice little cottage at Bournemouth, draw your pension, trim your apple trees, read your old friend Marryat, chat with Mrs. Pollard and curse the Liberal Party; and I—I could write my memoirs, raise tulips and roses and blooded sheep, sneer at the Radicals and Progressives, and criticize the weak policy of the Hapsburgs! What fun we could have, Hein?”

“Your Excellency, I guess we both do what we believe to be our duty. Neither of us is good at idling, I think, and our work is our life. Some day I might do as you say—but I hope that day is a long way off,” with a merry chuckle.

A crunching sound against the ship’s side and the pilot’s dingy pulled by two powerful negroes had come alongside. With the pilot two other figures were visible in the dim light. The nimble, old, beturbaned Arab pilot, with broad red sash around his ample waist, swung himself aboard, the two men following him.

On the upper deck the conversation which had lagged during this busy interval was further interrupted by the approach of a steward in search of the Captain.

“Two passengers boarded with the pilot, sir. One of them requests permission to speak to you for a minute, Captain.”

“Has the purser seen him?”

“Yes, sir; but he asked for you; he says you know him.”

“Very well, send him up.”

The steward left and shortly after a heavily bearded, well-set-up, broad-shouldered man, in rather shabby linen blouse and baggy trousers, a pith helmet in hand, walked towards the Captain. In the rapidly failing light the deeply tanned features with calm eyes and pleasant smile were just visible. With hand outstretched he stepped up to the group and in a hearty voice exclaimed: “How do you do, Captain Pollard! I was most anxious to meet an old friend again and couldn’t wait. Don’t you remember me, Captain? The clothes and beard make it hard, I guess. I am John Morton.”

“Why, bless my soul, I wouldn’t have known you! My dear Mr. Morton, I am delighted to see you!” He shook the visitor’s hand heartily.

“My, but you do look like a globe trotter—and one that has done some trotting! It is good to shake hands with you once more and to have you on the ‘Hindoostan.’”

“I am, indeed, glad to have the chance to get your boat, Captain. From my last camp the bay was easier to make than the upper Nile, and when I found at Aa-nin that you were expected to-night, I made a run for the shore and was just in time for the pilot’s sloop. I haven’t been near civilization in eighteen months, Captain! I have with me my man, Donald, whom you may remember. He looks, if anything, even worse for wear than I. May I see you again after the cleaning-up process, Captain?”

“Certainly, my dear Mr. Morton. I shall be delighted if you will honor me. I am as curious as an old magpie to hear what brought you here of all spots in the world! Are you nicely placed aboard?”

“Yes; thank you.”

He made a movement to withdraw but Captain Pollard took him by the arm and led him towards the Count.

“Your Excellency, will you permit me? This is Mr. Morton, an old friend of mine, an American gentleman who is quite a traveler and explorer—his Excellency Count Rondell.”

“Happy to make your acquaintance, Your Excellency; I trust you will pardon my appearance.”

“Very glad to meet you, Mr. Morton. Don’t apologize. You look fit and ready for good sport.”

The men shook hands. Morton stepped back: “Gentlemen, permit me to retire. I trust I shall have the honor later, Your Excellency.”

“There goes one of the finest young men,” said the Captain, looking after the rapidly retiring form, “a man in a million, Count.”

“He looks keen and strong; a bold man and true,” gently said the Count with almost a sigh. “Sportsman?”

“I don’t quite know, Count. I think he went out to explore the Soudan and the Blue Nile country, if I remember correctly. He comes of a very fine family—a man of rare good judgment and the very man to have around when trouble is brewing. Some time I will tell you how I met him. If you’ll permit me, Count, I’ll now look up that pilot. We are getting under way. Good evening, Excellency!”

“Au revoir, Captain. I shall have to interview the chief steward and see if Dr. Brown will allow me another meal to-day.”

Now that he was once again alone, the Count forgot the evening meal, forgot the steward and the man he just had met—he had weightier matters on his mind. This man of the world, trained to think while chatting and seemingly enjoying small talk—this old diplomat realized that he had arrived at a parting of the ways. The oppressive heat of earlier day had yielded somewhat to the gentle breeze rising from the ever-nearing mountainous shore. A brilliant crimson band silhouetted sharply the deep purple of Ras Séan, the bluish haze half hid the frowning abrupt cliffs of Perim Island; the first twinkle of the lighthouse shone like a firefly, coming and going in rhythmic flashes. To the north the broad dome of Disohebel Menghéli rose high, the towering guardian of the strait, the dread of the unwary skipper. Over the ultramarine hills rose the red moon of the silent East, mysterious and alluring, the light of the romantic night. Count Rondell, obeying the promptings of weary limbs, sank into his seat and gazed as if fascinated into the glory of the tropical eve.

The world was so beautiful and life so promising! Moments of the years gone by passed in rapid succession through his mind; the days of youth and hope—the years of ambition and fulfillment. The shadows of beloved faces rose to disappear; the joy of deeds performed, the regret of acts omitted. As in a panorama he saw his life over again and lived it once more.

A flock of buzzards flying across the hazy light of the moon that looked for all the world like a flattened giant orange, by a curious disconnection of the phenomenon so well known to him, awoke him to the present; to the warning he had received, to the call of a life which was to end. A slight tremor passed over the frame of the man, who seemed to have aged considerably within the last hour.

The training of decades, the inbred desire to suppress thoughts and control the mind, supervened. He lightly passed his hand over the smoothening brow, caressing the thick hair upon his temple and the old gentle smile appeared again in his eyes. “Well, I have run a long race—and on the homestretch I am beaten. Vivat sequens!” he whispered to himself.

He rose and walked freely to the rail, contemplating the wondrous evening, admiring the marvelous light effects in the now rapidly darkening sky. He gazed at the minute wavelets springing from the sides of the boat and spreading their gory crests endlessly toward the east, ever widening and disappearing in purplish black shadows. The first stars as if by magic had leaped upon the zenith, new born, blinking mockingly to him.

A smile gentler than before illuminated the fine features. “God is great, nature is full of wonders, and I shall not cry quits and sulk. There is work before you, my boy, work and duty. And when that is done, my beloved, I shall be glad to join you.”

With a deep sigh and a proud smile he wearily turned toward the line of cabins from whence a light step now proceeded.

His valet came forward, cap in hand. “Your Excellency, dinner will be ready in twenty minutes. Will you not come to your room, sir?”

“Very good, Jean; but I believe I shall not dress to-night. I am fatigued and I expect no one else will. Just a little touching up and a dark coat and scarf. I shall follow you.”

Musing, he turned once more to the waters which had lost their mirror-like smoothness upon entering the narrow channel. Before him rose the escarpment of Perim’s forts, with their twinkling lights; the breeze carried to his ears the bugle call from the barracks, the one discordant sound in the serene stillness of the fairy landscape.

“Gate to an ocean—England will hold it,” he muttered. “Passage to power and trade—Albion will rule it. Other nations may strive and plan, dream and scheme, but Albion takes and holds. I wonder if, when my last call comes, I shall find a Briton guarding the Pearly Gates? Well, I have done the best I could for my king and my country. I must not grudge the men who have done theirs for their queen and land—and with more glorious and happier results. The race is to the swift, the laurel to the victor, glory to the lucky! L’homme propose, Dieu dispose!”

He gave one more look round, turning in all directions, and then slowly left the deck.

The moon had risen above the haze and shone a lustrous brightness. The sky, a deep unfathomable marine, was dotted with countless blinking stars; the shimmering sea was scales of silver; the hum of giant machinery throbbed on the balmy air. It was a night so glorious that one doubted if there could be anything but beauty and happiness on earth.

And yet—how much misery and sorrow, pain and tears are mingled with joy in life! The lure of the East, the mystery of dreamed-of Eden and with it strife and labor! The nobility of creation, the pettiness of life; the loveliness of nature, the emptiness of man’s efforts.

Five bells—the Vesper on shipboard.

The muffled call of the Muezzin from the nearby minaret of Perim town drifted across the silvery stream.

And the bells, re-echoing from fore and aft, seemed to call out: “All’s well, good night!”

CHAPTER III

AFTER a long, weary night, made seemingly longer by the slow passage through the tortuous channels, threatened by reefs and coral shallows, the “Gate of Dirge” was passed. The pilot dropped, the P. & O. liner entered through the picturesque Dacht il Mayum, the sluggish waves of the Red Sea.

Through the wondrous waters the ship cut her way energetically. The moon had set long since, the east was bathed in sulphur light and one by one the stars dropped out of existence.

The lower decks, forsaken the evening before, are now lively with passengers. The heat had made sleep impossible and now, one after another, they came up to breathe the reviving morning air.

What wind blows is from the starboard, but the port side is the shadier for the greater part of the day. It is this side which is quickly taken possession of by the Mohammedan part of the passengers. The gaunt Sikh, bewhiskered and beturbaned, the Persian venders with their fierce mustachios and fiercer eyes, shrewd-looking Syrians and fleshy Mamelukes, all congregate or segregate according to their individual desires, and all are bent upon their morning worship.

More or less gaudily colored patches of carpets and prayer rugs are spread upon the boards, devout heads bow down from prostrate bodies, turned to the east, to the rising sun, to praise Allah and to pray to Mohammed his prophet. They will turn to the east, even though Mecca is due north of the boat!

On the promenade and hurricane decks a couple of early risers are taking their constitutionals. On the bridge strides the fresh-looking skipper, and a neat second officer in glaring white is adjusting his sextant as he awaits the sun’s coming. A few deckhands and sailors are holystoning the decks and adjusting the striped awnings.

Upon the free and lofty upper structure in the broad space between the cabins and the captain’s quarters some privileged travelers, to judge by the important bearing of the men and the well-groomed appearance of the ladies, are languidly settling themselves down. They show scarce a sign of sleepless tossing in heated berths. One of these, a tall, lean man in Pongee, cap and scarf to match, bearing carefully trimmed little chops below the grayish hair, is Sir Balingbroke-Smith, Under-Secretary of the Colonies. He is holding forth to his daughter Muriel on the history of the islands which are just sinking below the southern horizon.

Miss Muriel endeavors to show some interest, appearing to listen with careful attention; but her eyes are wandering around the deck. She is waiting for the appearance of the stranger who had come on board the evening before and whom the Captain had discussed at dinner. The new passenger had declined coming to table as he needed “civilizing.” So Captain Pollard had put it; but he was a gentleman, though an American, who had spent the last eighteen months in the wilds of the Soudan and the mountains of Somali, instead of lounging at Shepard’s Hotel at Cairo or at the Casino at Nice. He was young, rich, independent and “as fine a chap as ever came out of Eton or Oxford, my lord.”

“Muriel seems tired or sleepy, or both,” said her aunt and duenna, the Hon. Mrs. Fitzhugh, the wife of an Indian officer. The good lady was returning to winter in London to recuperate after a trying season with her husband at Lahore, and incidentally was acting as chaperon to Miss Muriel. The ladies of the group duly agreed. Who would dare to differ from her? But all are casting side glances in the direction in which Miss Muriel insists on keeping her pretty face.

The Rev. Mr. Akley, in sober gray, with solemn face and pained, bloodshot eyes, is gazing intently at a group of prostrated orientals, a martyr to faith and duty. The latter, however, do not seem to mind the sad, pained expression in the eyes of the churchman. But even the countenance of the reverend gentleman is somewhat askew from the vertical—since he also is partaking in the general interest. Will this much-talked-of young man ever make his appearance?

And now that the sun has risen above the slight mist to the east, chairs are being pushed into shady and cool places. Chatting and fussing and good-natured pushing, the one business of the day must he attended to first—how to avoid the heat of the day.

“It is going to be beastly hot! If one could but get one’s Times and know what the world is doing? Muriel, my dear, if you insist upon taking such violent exercise before your breakfast you will not be really comfortable for the rest of the day. May I remind you that the next few days are the most trying of the voyage and that the best means to make it bearable—would be—a-a-absolute rest—very little food and liquid refreshments?”

Sir Balingbroke was very impressive. As breakfast had been mentioned by so high an authority as the Under-Secretary of the Colonies, the subject became now the general topic of conversation.

But the ladies managed to turn it into a more interesting channel, and Sir Balingbroke was gradually drawn into speaking of the new passenger whom he had met in the smoking room.

“A very estimable young man, I believe; Captain Pollard tells me that he met him on transatlantic liners—he says he is a well-connected, affluent American—a Mr. Morton, I think; quite refined and unassuming. I understand he has been engaged on some exploring or observation work in southern Egypt and the adjacent territory. It may be—semi-officially of course—that he is under the wings of the Royal Geographical Society. He mentioned that Lord Salisbury was kind enough to recommend him to the authorities—expects to go to London to report the results of his research. Very nice fellow, indeed.”

Eight bells, and shortly after the gong sounds for breakfast—the first important function of the day. The little coterie gathered on the forepart of the deck abandon chairs and troop down to the dining saloon.

In the saloon Mr. Morton was duly presented to the ladies at the Captain’s table and to a few of the gentlemen to whom he had not been introduced the evening before in the “smoker.”

The Hon. Mrs. Fitzhugh sarcastically remarked that there were still some men who were old-fashioned enough to remain on deck with the ladies after dinner—denying themselves their whiskey and soda. The men thus referred to tried to look pleased, but those who had sinned did not seem to mind the lady’s sarcasm.

Captain Pollard was evidently taking great pains to impress those sitting around the table that Mr. Morton was a man of importance. He singled him out in conversation and gave marked attention to what the traveler said. On a liner everyone takes his cue from the captain, and the American immediately became a full fledged member of the select coterie.

Mr. Morton frankly and almost boyishly admitted his delight at being once more in civilized surroundings. He smilingly pleaded guilty to an enjoyment of the society of ladies and hoped that his manners had not deteriorated. The ladies were charmed with him. He was good to look at and his pleasant voice and delightfully sympathetic smile won them over completely. His ignorance of the news of the day afforded them an opportunity for further conversation, and he listened with an old-world courtesy that only educated Americans show to their women. The ladies lionized him.

To the many inquiries about his adventures in the desert, he answered good-naturedly and in a rather off-hand way. Life in the desert had its interesting side and the months he had spent there had enabled him to gather valuable data which he expected to apply to work in the Great Basin of his own country, where his father and the federal government were interested in the question of irrigation. There had not been much danger in his adventures, for the natives were human and rather helpful than otherwise.

As he sat at table enjoying anew the amenities of civilized society, Morton confessed to himself that really the most important thing to him was the stimulating and pleasant expectation of being soon home again among his own people, with his dear mother and fine-souled, humor-loving father. How pleased and happy they would be to have him with them again! How jolly to sit once more in the cozy den, his friends and loved ones listening to his tales of adventure! Unconsciously his mind wandered to scenes of his intimate family circle. When the longing heart travels homeward, the half-way inns are but little conveniences on the journey; we take advantage of them because we must; always the heart’s eye looks longingly forward to its goal—home. His little sister—by George, she would be a young woman now, like the blue-eyed, clear-skinned English girl across the table, and better looking, if the promise of earlier remembrance was to be fulfilled. Two years do make a great change!

Yes—he must stop off at Paris for a couple of days and buy his sister and mother something worth bringing home. His heart grew warm as he pictured their happy eyes and heard their pleased exclamations. And his father! Won’t the governor be proud of the reports he was bringing back. Figures don’t lie, his father used to say. And what else should he bring him? Yes—he would have to go to London, too.

He hoped the fine old Nubian sarcophagus which he had shipped by stealth from Assab by the old rascal Ben Bandar (the old chap surely dealt in slaves on the sly) on a Greek sailing vessel had reached New York safely. What would his neighbor, Sir Balingbroke, have said if he knew that the Egyptian custom-house servants were the same old grafters they had been before Alexandria was bombarded and the Khedive all powerful on the Nile?

Almost with a start he awoke to his surroundings, mumbling some words of apology for his absent-mindedness. Mrs. Fitzhugh had addressed some remarks to him—Miss Muriel’s eyes were dancing as she smiled wickedly at him. Mrs. Fitzhugh haughtily forgave him.

This meeting at the table was the type of many others which took place during the next days, varied with some small talk on deck, and broken by some lengthier and more interesting conversations in the smoking room.

Whether the ladies approved or not, the shady depths of the small “smoker” on the upper deck proved a veritable Mecca for all the men. Here one always was pretty sure to find some of the passengers enjoying their cigars or cigarettes or even pipes, chatting of trade and drinks, horses and games, politics and policies.

Here was to be found the man who could foretell the number of knots the boat would cover that day; who knew the hour they would sight the African shore again. Another would descant of the ever-inspiring topic—the great Canal—the time it took to go through it, the money a boat had to pay, the advantages of being on a British boat and so on.

Here also it was where Jones told of Smith’s affairs while the latter was with the ladies, where Smith in turn was telling what Jones had been doing in India when the last-named gentleman had to obey the call of his better half and absent himself from the round table. It was not long, therefore, before everyone knew all about everybody else; or, at least, thought they did.

For Morton and some of the older men there was the evening gathering in the Captain’s roomy cabin, the exchange of tales and adventures with the jolly-faced seaman and the recital of some traveler’s tale of older days by some visitor.

From the Captain, Morton obtained his information about Count Rondell, who had once been the Captain’s superior officer some years back, when the latter had been in the service of Roumelia as a nautical instructor.

He heard from Sir Balingbroke how, during the memorable days of the Congress of Berlin, Count Rondell, then at the head of the diplomatic corps of his little country, fought hard and unremittingly for admission to the inner chambers of the historic conference, and how, in spite of the weighty opposition of Giers and the fact that he could not get official admission as a delegate, he had so won the esteem of all the statesmen there present that he had secured full independence, autonomy and great economic advantages for his country, and, then and there, had laid the foundation of the kingdom of Roumelia.

From this austere and cautious member of the British cabinet he also learned of the Count’s romantic quest in eastern lands for the young prince who had disappeared from home, and how necessary this only heir to the throne was for the continuance of existing conditions in the little kingdom. But Sir Balingbroke could not say whether the Count’s search had been crowned with success or not.

Captain Pollard pictured the Count as a man of unbending character, thoroughly upright and just. A man who ruled at court with iron hand but who had remained unsullied by its machinations—an aristocrat in office, a student and loving husband in his home. Sir Balingbroke nodded his head emphatically by way of confirmation of the Captain’s statements.

Morton spent considerable time in his own cabin, tabulating his collected material with the help of his assistant. During his absence from the ship’s circle he was largely discussed. The ladies especially were eager for information.

All the skipper knew, it seemed, was that Mr. Morton was the only son of Daniel B. Morton, the Arizona Copper King, one of the wealthiest and most influential of the many powerful men which America’s mineral wealth had created during the last decades. Young Morton was said to be a chip of the old block, well educated, manly and straight. After his college days at home, he had pursued special post-graduate studies at Oxford and Bonn, and had prepared himself to take up his father’s work. The Captain couldn’t explain why the young man had gone seemingly on a new tack. Rich as Croesus and living in a tent with no one but a man servant for over a year! Sir Balingbroke was puzzled.

Count Rondell was the least regular attendant at the Captain’s board. The latter explained that the Count’s health was not good. Dr. Brown had so reported to him.

Thus the days of heat and monotony stretched their weary lengths. They passed the harbor of Dshidda with its many picturesque boats, from little catamarans to large clumsy steamers. On the southern horizon disappeared also the rocks of Yanbu Bar, Sudan, Suakim and Loheia. On the fifth day after Morton had boarded the liner, when the sea once more showed the fiery red of sunset, they reached the head of the Gulf of Suez and the ship slid carefully into the basin which marks the southern terminal of the great Canal.

From Suez town the lights shot their sporadic blinking; the great tangle of boats of all descriptions and sizes tied up in the basin and adjoining docks began to show their mast lights and port lamps; the lighthouse on the narrow tongue of land stretching into the shadowy bay sent out its rhythmic signal flashes.

Morton, sitting opposite Count Rondell, gratefully leaned back in his flattened steamer chair and remarked: “What a relief to be so far north and at last on the eve of leaving this insufferable quarter of the world! I am glad to see a town once more, glad to see lights and real streets and hear real human noises even if they are as hideous as these are. It is good to look up to the heavens of our own familiar constellations and find our polar star promising the arrival home. See, Count, there, for the first time, can be distinguished all the stars of the Big Dipper! The Southern Cross is glorious, and I have admired it during many soundless nights in the desert; but give me our own starry sky, our own air, my own people!”

Count Rondell looked up with a smile. “To tell you the truth, my dear sir, I have traveled along latitudes I never expected to see and I barely noticed the Southern Cross. I certainly must be getting old and unobservant. But I can appreciate how you feel when you think of the loved ones who are waiting for you in your distant country, and to know that your coming home means so much happiness to them. I also am glad to see again the stars of the north—my stars—though I am returning with a heavy heart.

“I cannot help thinking,” added the Count, “of the part this waterway has played in the history of the world’s civilization. I see it as the highway of the trend westward of our humanity’s progress. You will recall, Mr. Morton, that in the dawn of civilization the traders of Egypt brought their spices and gold and ivory from India. They resigned their profitable trading to the shrewder Phoenician sailors who were followed by those of Syracuse and Carthage. Then came in the Middle Ages the merchant princes of the Venetian, Pisan and Genoese republics.

“It was a marine from this lost city who, with the aid of Spanish gold, discovered your own country when the trade of the then known world had already drifted into the hands of the enterprising people of the Hisparian peninsula. We know what the aggrieved Portuguese and the stolid Dutch contributed to this westward march; but then had to yield, in their lives, to the superior gifts and stronger physique of the English race.

“Always it has been the cry of the ‘Westward Ho!’ And it always will be so. It would seem as if man could not resist following the path of the sun. Your people, Mr. Morton, your country will now step into the heritage of the world’s commerce. I am sure of it. It is the will of destiny.”

Morton looked at the speaker with a feeling of awe. The thought so clearly developed was entirely new to him, and he had no answer to make.

A bond of mutual sympathy had grown up between the two men, so divergent in their aims and ambitions, so far apart in their ages. The younger admired the poise, the gentle courtesy and faultless manner of the elder. He admired his freedom from prejudice, his absolute toleration of the failings and frailties of others, and his prompt, unqualified condemnation of everything wrong, cowardly and selfish.

The older man on his part had become strangely attached to this virile, modest young man with his quiet calm ways, his broad and sound judgment of men and things and his democratic heartiness, which Morton possessed with all his seeming indifference towards others. An affection truly paternal had been awakened in him for this American who could not fail to represent to him a national type. He had met but few of his kind and had to confess to himself that in the past he had wronged them by his opinion. An American had meant to him an overaggressive boor; but in this young Morton he found as fine a gentleman as even he could wish for, a man also without the flaws of artificial mannerisms.

He could not help comparing him to the youthful prince who, by failing to suppress a morbid tendency to resist authority and restraint, had brought such fatal consequences upon himself and his country. “Why couldn’t this clean-cut young man have been of the line of the King’s dynasty?” he asked himself despairingly.

The subject discussed by the two had been of a broad character and general interest. Just before the interruption caused by the sight of land, they had been talking about the great similarity in the desires and aims of all people. Morton, who had intimated that his isolation in the desert had been somewhat of an intentional retirement to study himself and his own duty toward his country, had expressed himself in ways highly interesting to his companion. Returning to the subject, Morton said:

“It is remarkable that the seeming great differences between races and tribes are but outward and rather in their customs and habits than in their mental processes. I believe that the established use of the dromedary as a beast of burden, the necessity of living in tents owing to the absence of water courses and springs, the diet of fruits and sweetmeats, are really the things that remove the Arabs of Africa from the Europeans far more than their actual thoughts, their ambitions and emotions. These outward signs are what, next to language, strike us first as distinguishing marks. Once we get over these, to me at least, minor characteristics, it is surprising how easy it would be to trace the course of their thoughts, their actions, as running on lines almost similar to those that actuate the Frenchman or Italian or even the man from more northern countries. I have found love of truth, manliness and honesty, pride of descent, loyalty to kindred, affection for one’s own offspring, appreciation of learning, strong traits with these primitive men; while gluttony, drunkenness or license in almost any form is entirely absent from the nature of these children of the desert.”

Count Rondell had listened with close attention to Morton’s remarks. “There is no doubt,” he said, “much truth in your observation, my friend. To me it has ever been a matter for wonder how short the step is from the highest to the lowest. I am a member of a proud aristocracy and have been called the ‘Kingmaker,’ and yet I confess that beneath the outer skin of manners and polished bearing there is often but common clay—indeed, the common man frequently gains by being compared to his more exalted brother. I remember,” he continued, thoughtfully, “our party was very much entertained in Paris by the fine play of a small band of Gypsies then performing at our favorite restaurant. One evening, while giving the customary douceur to the leader, I asked him for his address as it was my intention to engage his orchestra for some small affair. The man could not write, and he asked me to put his address into my memorandum book. He owned but a single name. His pockmarked face, his little beetle eyes and low forehead gave but scant promise of intelligence. I asked him some questions about his life and ambitions—the man grew quite loquacious. He liked France and the French. He made a nice living, he had saved quite some money, had a good and thrifty wife, a cozy apartment and many comforts. The one thing which marred his happiness was the sad fact that his marriage had proved childless. The ‘bon Dieu’ had not blessed them. But for that he would not change with the manager of the hotel or any other man in Paris! I was deeply impressed because my own king had said the same words to me. But still, my dear Mr. Morton, blood will tell. And a nobleman is the product of many generations of thought, virtue and manliness.”

Morton nodded thoughtfully as he lighted a cigar. Both remained silent. From the shore came the sounds of murmuring crowds, the splashing of oars, the shrill tones of muleteers and the hoarse laughter of negroes. Then followed the clanking of chains, the straining of ropes, a few short commands from the bridge and the anchors had dropped.

Everyone was delighted to have reached another milestone in the long journey home. Passengers were discussing as to whether they should continue in the “Hindoostan” or take the night train to Ishmaila or Alexandria. Perhaps there might be some excitement in Suez, or at Port Said? Congestion of traffic in those days delayed the passage through the Canal and even the P. & O. liner might lose two days.

Stewards passed back and forth, in and out of saloons, and announced, in loud voices and in intonations ranging from Cockney to the resonant drawl of Aberdeen, “Mail distributed in Purser’s office at 6.30.” One, more respectful than the rest, approached the Count, “Your Excellency, the chief has cables for you; shall I bring them to you?” The Count rose and with a courteous leave went to the purser’s cabin.

Morton, to whom the sights were not novel, leaned over the starboard side, looking toward the quiet dark waters of the bay. He thought over the past few days of his life on shipboard, the acquaintances he had made, and the new experiences that had come to him. How strange these all were! What would they mean to him in after years? Then thoughts of home surged over him, and a great longing seized him to be there again. If he took the express boat from Alexandria he would be in Brindisi in time to take the train for Paris—and then London, and then the Cunarder for home—New York by the twentieth—and a whole month before Christmas! Christmas—and the snow! He’d cable and advise his folks. No, perhaps he’d better wait for his mail. His eyes wandered back to the deck below and saw his man leaning against the bulwark. He gave a low whistle and addressed the upturned face: “Don, I am going down to get the mail. Shall I bring you yours?”

“Allright, Mr. John, thank you. There won’t be much to carry when you get it, I guess. Haven’t many correspondents these days.”

“I’ll see you in the smoker, Don.”

The mail he received was more voluminous than he had expected. There were several letters, some with dates months back, and a cable.

He retired into a quiet corner of the smoking room. Don was there and handing him one lean looking letter, he excused himself and broke the seal of the cable. It was but one day old. “Glad know you out of desert well and homeward bound. Mother sister well. Send love. Am not very well myself. Better hurry home, boy.”

Mechanically he looked for the signature which was lacking. It seemed less personal without his father’s name, and he was puzzled that his father had not used the code.

The letters contained nothing but good tidings. There was no reference to his father’s health except in the one from his mother bearing the latest date. She wrote: “Father seems quieter than usual and somewhat restless. Nothing wrong but the doctor advises putting off his usual trip to the Rockies for the present and would like to see him go South before the cold weather sets in. We expect to leave Bar Harbor earlier than usual and go to Cleveland before the middle of October as father would be more happy if we joined him there. If you, my dear boy, could get home in time, we might spend Christmas in California together and for once escape the cold of the lakes.”

Morton grew pensive; he had never before given a thought to his father’s health. His father had always seemed to him as young as ever and a more rugged and sturdy man, a man of better habits could not be found. He hoped the plaintive word meant nothing—nothing but the longing of the old man for his son. Still—he guessed it was time for him to step in and ease the governor’s burden. After all—what better work could he do?

He lay back, smoking and dreaming, somewhat in revival of his solitary habits of the past months, and abandoned himself once more to the charm of being alone—alone with his thoughts and removed from undesired companionship.

After an hour or so he rose and went to his cabin, where he threw himself on his couch. Unable to rest, he busied himself with a survey of his few belongings that might need packing. Then nervously drawing up a table he began working on his report. But he could not collect his thoughts. Evidently he was not in the humor. He was about to put his things away preparatory to trying once more the darkened deck, when the door opened and a steward entered with a note.

In the envelope he found a card bearing the inscription:

“Count Arnim Barton-Rondell.”

and on the reverse side in a precise clear handwriting, “May I request you to call at my cabin at your convenience?—Rondell.”

Morton hesitated but an instant. “Tell his Excellency I shall be with him right away.”

Anything was better than this moping, and the Count was the very companion to brush away the cobwebs from his mind. He stuffed his papers into the nearest table drawer, gave a cursory examination to his appearance before the mirror, locked his cabin door and sauntered over to the Count’s quarters.

Why had Count Rondell sent for him? He wondered.

CHAPTER IV

WHEN Morton entered Count Rondell’s stateroom he found him standing behind a small flat desk in the middle of the room, his commanding, almost gaunt figure erect and tense. As he looked at the man, he experienced the same peculiar sensation he had felt upon receipt of the message asking him to call—a sense of indefinable anxiety mingled with curiosity.

In response to an expressive motion of the slender pale hands he seated himself opposite the Count. His eyes slowly traveled around the stateroom and noted its appearance in some detail.

Two swinging bracket lamps lit up the wall to his right, leaving the lower part of the room in deep shadow. The stateroom itself, somewhat roomier than the customary steamer cabin, had been transformed into a rather pleasing den. Along the lighted walls a low couch in some dark plush was enlivened by the brilliant coloring of a leopard skin thrown carelessly over the back and by a saddle-bag in bright crimson and gold. Above it were fastened a garniture of Persian helmet, shield and battle-axe, the gold inlay upon the damascene scintillating in the slightly moving light which fell upon it.

The floor, covered with a soft rug in deep maroon and with tan arabesques in design, contrasted oddly with the green baize of the traveling desk piled with books and portefeuilles. A curiously wrought bronze lamp shed a bright circle of light over it; an unusual article of furniture, it struck Morton, to take on a voyage. It was a handsome thing and he made a mental note to obtain one like it. His glance now rested upon the figure and face of the Count, who had sat himself in his deep, low chair and was resting his hands upon his knees.

“You will forgive an old and ailing man, my dear Mr. Morton, for making the most of his privileges as such. I trust my request to have you call has not inconvenienced you?”

“Not at all, Excellency; I was glad to come.”

“Thank you. It may not be considerate of me to ask you here—but I believe you won’t mind the limited space and closed portholes. I imagine your camp life has accustomed you to a great extent to discomfort and heat. What I want to say to you demands privacy.”

He paused and continued. “Mr. Morton, I beg you to permit me to approach what I wish to say in my own way, even if it may seem odd and unwarranted to you.”

“Go ahead, Your Excellency, I am listening.”

The older man leaned back and pushed a box of cigars toward his visitor. “Won’t you take one? I think you will like the flavor.”

His voice, until now somewhat strained, had become calm, and with an assumed nonchalance of manner, he added:

“I was told by the steward, Mr. Morton, that you had received considerable mail and some cables upon our arrival here. Does the receipt of these in any way alter your plans, which you were so good as to intimate to me the other evening? Pardon the question, but it is necessary that I should know in view of what I wish to say.”

“It does, Your Excellency. My letters from home are of little moment, but a cable, sent some two days ago, I think, tells me that my father’s health is not satisfactory and asks my quick return.”

“Ah, that makes it more difficult, then, for me to speak of what lies close to my heart, my dear sir. But necessity knows no law and I am in the position of a man who has no choice. Mr. Morton, I beg you to let me say a few words to you, in the hope that you will grant me your attention and—if possible, sympathy.”

Morton nodded and, reaching for the cigars, selected one at random and carefully lit it. “Very fine aroma indeed, Count; I haven’t had as good a smoke as this in many a day. Please begin; I am all attention.”

The Count nodded and began: “More than twenty-five years ago my king, then a young and little known prince of the Coburg family, was called to the throne of Roumelia by the vote of its people. Among the younger men whom he asked to join him in this new country to aid him in establishing a good government, I was one. I was a young Army officer at the time, with little ambition and with scarcely any diplomatic experience. I settled down in the new country. I was very enthusiastic, a prerogative of youth the world over, and became very much enamored with my work. Since then I have been very closely bound up with the fortunes of Roumelia and those of my king. I was one of the few of my Prince’s Court who succeeded in gaining the confidence of the Roumelians. I acquired their language and customs thoroughly. I succeeded in gaining the friendship of some of the leading men of all parties. I won the respect and I think even the love and perhaps the admiration of the Court by my loyalty to the cause of the country, my devotion to my duties, my work and my fidelity to the interests of the principality and later the kingdom, the creation and growth of which, I may be permitted to say, may be due, in a small measure, to my efforts.

“My king, God bless him, one of the noblest men who ever lived, was kind to me and trusted me implicitly. The work to which I had devoted my life was successfully done; the dynasty of my king firmly established: a clean, fine constitution, safe-guarding the interests of the people and assuring the welfare and development of my country, strongly founded. The one cloud in the blue sky of destiny was the lack of a son and heir.

“Many years ago, his majesty assenting, we secured an amendment to our laws of succession, by which the King’s brother was to be his heir, thus securing the succession to a younger brother and through him to his son, then a youth of health and promise. Thus far our work in perpetuating a dynasty had been wisely and well done. Do I weary you with these particulars, Mr. Morton?”

“Not at all; I am more than interested; I am learning. Please continue!” The Count smiled and went on:

“This structure, which, as I explained before, was of the utmost importance to a still broader plan, was, in this manner, erected as we felt on a firm foundation. Our land had developed wonderfully; from an almost unknown Turkish province in 1866 we had created a principality of several millions of frugal, thrifty and moral inhabitants, engaged in fostering trade and agriculture. We built railroads and highways, opening the country to foreign intercourse and markets; we laid telegraph lines connecting all corners of the land; we also introduced and firmly established an efficient school system. In brief, we transformed into a community of order and civilization a previously chaotic Turkish dependency. A dozen years after the beginning of our, I might almost say, my work, we fought a glorious and victorious war against our old oppressors and, although the jealousy and greed of the great Powers robbed us of the full reward of our victory; although the very nation whom we enabled to win what, without our aid and valor, they would have lost, deprived us of some of our territory, yet we grew in wealth, education and well being. When my prince was acclaimed constitutional king of the realm he had created, I, his servant, was rewarded by being chosen his faithful adviser and friend. Honored and trusted for many years, I believe I helped to form and execute those policies that I feel went far toward the establishment of peace and happiness in our beloved kingdom.”

Count Rondell rose to his feet and strode the floor of his cabin agitatedly. Resuming his seat after a while, he smiled pathetically at the younger man, and said: “Pray pardon me, Mr. Morton; my feelings get the better of me, I am afraid. My disease seems to have made sad inroads on me. Shall I go on?”

“Pray do, Count Rondell. Don’t disturb yourself about me. I am all ears.”

The Count crossed his legs and closing his eyes turned his face upward. His cheeks, lately flushed and feverish, now looked drawn and gray. Reaching for a portfolio he began automatically fingering its lock. Then with eyes wide and in a voice husky with emotion, he said:

“I now come to a dark chapter, my young friend. Men work day and night, plan and scheme, bribe and lie—all for fame and their country. The plans seem perfect, their execution faultless, the road to certain success assured—and then a little thing happens, a bolt becomes loosened, some man or woman fails you or steps unexpectedly on the scene—et voilâ!—the perfect structure is but a house of cards—and tumbles.

“And this usually comes when the architect has passed his prime; when the resisting power of the body has been sapped by the wearisome labor. When this crisis comes, instead of a strong man, it finds the statesman at a terrible disadvantage, perhaps with mind still active and resourceful—but oh, feeble and powerless against fate.”

Count Rondell spoke the last words as if in a trance. He had evidently forgotten the existence of his companion. He seemed to be lost in visions and dreams.

Morton’s cigar had gone out; he stared as if fascinated at the noble face before him, looking so sad and forlorn. He, too, had often wandered into the spheres of empire building. He, too, had had his dreams of being a leader of peoples, of opening up those vast desert spaces of his own country to the influences of civilization. Without knowing what tragedy was to be unfolded to him, he looked at the worn old aristocrat across the desk and felt that failure and disappointment, rather than success, were oftener the reward of great ambitions. He essayed a mental guess at what might be further revealed to him and awaited the rest of the tale with bated breath.

After a slight pause the Count relaxed his tightly compressed, bloodless lips and went on:

“My king was getting old; his brother had never been capable or active; he was just a gentleman of leisure—and the promising boy?—I wish it were not necessary for me to go into this chapter of our history. The boy, a lovable, fine young man, the pride of his parents and of his uncle the king, the idol of the country and my hope—the boy fell in love with a heartless and scheming adventuress. She broke his heart, brought our finely wrought plans to naught, and the youth to his end. Four weeks ago I closed the tired eyes of my Prince—closed them in a squalid hut in Madras, where, after an unceasing hunt of months, I found him. I was too late to save him for this world—I hope I preserved his soul for the next—for heaven!”

Count Rondell raised his hand to his brow as if making the sign of the cross. Absent-mindedly he stroked his hair, while a melancholy smile came to his lips. “May God be merciful to him!” he breathed, a tear in his eye.

With deeper feeling and a vibrant voice, he went on:

“Our house of cards had fallen. My labors were all in vain, my mission a failure and, perhaps, my life also. You are still patient, my friend, are you not?”

Morton leaned across the desk, lightly touching the other man’s arm with an encouraging pressure. “You did the best your wisdom dictated, Your Excellency. Regrets are useless now. It may be there is a silver lining to your dark cloud. Please, go on with your tale.”

“Well—thus far I have been relating to you the history of Roumelia, the rise and fall of my chosen fatherland. Now we reach the last chapter—the day we are living now. Will you not light a fresh cigar, my dear Mr. Morton? Permit me to retire for a moment.”

Going to his sleeping room, Count Rondell filled a goblet of water and drank feverishly. Morton lit a cigar the while he watched the Count sinking back into his seat.

The stateroom had become very close and oppressive. No sound but the rhythmical beat of the auxiliary engine, rather felt than heard, fell upon the ear. The steady yellowish light on the wall threw into relief the ghastly features of the old diplomat; the smoke from Morton’s cigar hung heavily against the ceiling, taking odd and fantastic shapes. The younger man was strangely moved. What a terrible drama had been laid bare! He could not take his eyes away from the pitiful figure before him—the old nobleman looking the very picture of despair.

“I am coming now to the last chapter, Mr. Morton. A few hours ago I received two cables informing me of events which have happened during my absence. The earlier cable says, in substance, in code of course, that within the last ten days a revolt had occurred in the capital. Rumors of the heir’s disappearance had emboldened the disaffected factions of the kingdom, who struck—and struck fearfully! The king had always lived simply—and trusted his people and his army. The few palace guards were easily overpowered; the king was taken prisoner and with him his consort. The ministers of state were forced to resign, a de facto republican government was proclaimed, and Demeter Sturdza, the leader of the Radicals, an old schemer and a villain masquerading as a patriot, has been appointed acting President. Everything is in chaos. The later cable is still more distressing. A trusty friend of mine, the late minister of Finance, sends it to me from Constantinople, to which place he has flown. He is one of the few of the old administration who escaped.”

The Count opened the portfolio nervously, took some papers lying on top, and with trembling hands adjusted his glasses. After a futile attempt to read he resignedly put both papers and glasses down and with a pitiful gesture resumed his narrative.

“My dear Mr. Morton—I cannot read it—I shall have to give you the contents from memory. The fearful facts are engraven on my mind only too deeply! The king has been assassinated—the queen is dead from shock. Prince Fernand was shot down in cold blood by a drunken Colonel of the Territorials, the ministers and counsellors are either dead, imprisoned or fugitives. The army, at first indifferent, is now obeying the newly formed government. The country has been isolated from the rest of the world, as the wires were cut. Martial law prevails and a reign of terror instituted. The property of the old régime has been confiscated.”

The old diplomat had risen before he finished his recital, staggered nervously and weakly to and fro, and, leaning on the back of his chair, he spoke the last words in jerky sentences.

“There remains the only member of the Royal family—a lovely young girl—a mere child—the sister of the unfortunate boy I had seen die. This innocent princess is without friend or protector. She has found a precarious refuge in the summer castle of the late prince in the hills of the North. When this cable was sent she was alive and, although deprived of her freedom, still unharmed.

“The poor girl has no knowledge of life, and is utterly helpless. Reared in the seclusion of the court under the care of the late queen—a most noble and saintly lady—she is still but a child in experience. She was my beloved king’s favorite—a beautiful, pure girl, a noble princess. She must not perish!”

Morton felt dizzy and sick. His cigar had gone out long since. He had almost ceased to think or feel. With a great effort he pulled himself together, and staring fixedly at his narrator, murmured thickly: “Why—why do you tell me of all these fearful things? What do you want from me?”

Count Rondell came to a stop at his desk and, laying his hands upon the back of the chair, said quietly:

“Mr. Morton, I am a doomed man. The doctor tells me I have, at best, but a very little while to live—and I feel he is right. I would not hesitate an instant to do what is my duty—but I know I cannot. My weak body will not obey my will. You are young, strong and resourceful. God has led you to this boat, led you to me in my hour of great need. Mr. Morton, I ask you, in the name of humanity, to rescue the girl from the fury of an insane populace—from the nameless horror that might be her fate—I ask you, my friend, to take my place and bring this girl safely out of Roumelia!”

He waved aside Morton’s protesting gesture and continued with deep emotion but with impressive dignity:

“Pray—my dear sir—do not answer me now. Take it under consideration. In an hour, two hours if you wish, let me know your decision. Do not act on the spur of the moment.”

Morton could hardly restrain himself. He felt he could not wait. Rising nervously, he exclaimed, his voice filled with indignation:

“Count Rondell, this is not fair! Why do you come to me, a stranger, with so impossible, so absurd a proposition? What right have you to unload your burden upon a chance acquaintance and put the blame of a possible fearful fate of a young girl at my door—my door of all men? What do I know of kings and princes? What do I care? Why do you come to me with this? Much as I esteem you—much as I feel for you in your sorrow——”

The Count drew himself up proudly and placed his hand firmly upon Morton’s shoulder.

“I have asked myself those same questions many times during the last two hours, when I was seeking for a solution, looking for a ray of hope in my despair. I came to you, sir, because I must do all that I can do—and there is not a soul to whom I can appeal or who can do what I ask, but you! I can hold out no inducements to you. I know not if glory or money means anything to you. Honors I cannot offer, for I have fallen from my proud position by the very events that have brought me pleading to you. Riches I have none—my property has been confiscated. I am a ruined man. I have some forty thousand francs with me—the money is at your disposal to cover your expenditures for the labors I am praying you to undertake. Why do I come to you? Because you are the last resource and the only hope left me; because I would do anything and everything to save this girl and——”

Morton was about to interrupt, but the old man, trembling violently, collapsed in his seat. Recovering himself slowly he reached for the large portfolio and opening it, slowly and almost mechanically fingered and folded the papers within it.

Morton watched him, stern and wide-eyed, resolved to remain calm and patient.

In a low voice, made the more impressive by its gentleness, the Count spoke:

“Forgive my vehemence—my insistence. I must employ every means at hand. I have not told you all; I have not told you the full depth of my despair. With the Princess Marie Louise is my little daughter—my only child. The child of my love—my pride, my only reward in this world—the child of my beloved wife! Here is a letter of hers, written but a few weeks before the awful events. A letter full of love and happiness—she did not then dream of the fearful days that were to come! When I left Holstein to follow my prince to a new and promising life, I had the plighted word of a beautiful girl to join me whenever I called her. In time my beloved came to me. We lived in a strange country, among strange people and stranger gods; but we lived in joy and love, making a heaven for us in this new land! When, after some years, our child came, our lovely little girl, my dear wife had heart and love for us both. She brought up this child of our affection, the only child God gave us, as only love can! Her own goodness is reproduced in the child—her beauty of heart and mind, her loving ways—all live again in her daughter! Five years ago she—died, leaving our child to my care. And now, here I am, a man with one foot in the grave—feeble and useless—thousands of miles away from my child—her child. My God! what——”

The old diplomat’s head fell upon his arms, amongst his papers, his shoulders heaving with his inarticulate sobbings. His hand had grasped a photograph from among the scattered documents and he was convulsively caressing it. Raising his head he looked at it with an agonized look and murmured brokenly, “Mein Kindchen—Mein Kindchen.”

It was more than Morton could bear. His lethargy dropped from him; the spell was broken, his energy returned. A second time he had been shown the hideousness of life. He knew not what to say. Then through his thoughts came the words of his own father’s cable: “Am not very well, better hurry, boy!” It was impossible for him to engage in what, after all, was but a romantic adventure.

What right had this old scion of a decayed aristocracy to appeal to him—to him, who had duties of his own, just as urgent, to perform? What right had anybody to tell him these hideous things, that grip the mind and distress the heart? What was this young woman or this princess to him that he should wait a moment before deciding? A refusal, prompt and emphatic—surely that was the only proper answer to make! Was the old man acting in good faith or was he, perhaps, staging this whole business, in order to entangle him into a foolhardy enterprise! What would his father say? What would mother think? What would his little sister—ah! his little sister, a girl like this girl! His throat felt dry and contracted, as if a cord had been tightened about his neck.

Good God! And if he declined—would he ever get rid of the awful thought that these girls might have been helped—and he had failed them? Could he ever look any woman in the face without thinking of the fate of these two gently reared women? A cold perspiration beaded his forehead and face. With an effort he rose from his seat and strode toward the old man, who sat now staring before him with glassy eyes.

All this had taken but a few moments, a few heart beats of agony and resentment.

The proposition was absurd—unheard of! He had better leave this raving lunatic alone—tell him most emphatically that he refused. At that moment his eye caught sight of the photograph on the desk. In the benumbed state of his mind he unconsciously looked and made out some writing across the lower part of the card——

“Meinem lieben Papa als Gruss. Seine Helène.”

Immediately before his agitated mind there rose the vision of Bonn, and the old days of his “Burschenschaft.” The happy voices and songs of his student years came back to him and with them the poetry of the German sentimentalist—the lovely sunshine and the cheer of youth.