 CHAPTER XVIII. Riding years afterward of this invent, in the rather tedious volume of reminiscences which he has left us, major carithers ventures the opinion that the court should never have been deceived, and that it should have perceived at once that Miss Armitage was lying. He argues this opinion upon psychological grounds, contending that the ladies' deportment, in that moment of self-accusation, was the very least, that in the circumstances she alleged would have been natural to such a character as her own. Had she indeed, he writes, been Tremaine's mistress, as she represented herself, it was not in her nature to have announced it after the manner in which she did so. She bore herself before us with all the effrontery of a harlot, and it was well known to most of us that a more pure chaste and modest lady did not live. There was here a contradiction so flagrant, that it should have rendered her falsehood immediately apparent. Major carithers, of course, is riding in the light of later knowledge, and even setting that aside, I am very far from agreeing with his psychological deduction, just as a shy man will so overreach himself in his efforts to dissemble his shyness, as to assume an air of positive arrogance. So might a pure lady, who had succumbed as Miss Armitage pretended, upon finding herself forced to such self-accusation, bear herself with a boldness which was no more than a mask upon the shame and anguish of her mind. In this, I think, was the view that was taken by those present. The court, it was, being composed of honest gentlemen, that felt the shame which she dissembled. There were the eyes that fell away before the spurious effrontery of her own glance. They were disconcerted one and all by this turn of events, without precedent in the experience of any, and none more disconcerted, though not in the same sense, than serterance. To him this was checkmate, fool's mate, indeed. An unexpected yet ridiculously simple new, that utterly routed him at the very outset of the deadly game that he was playing. He had sat there determined to have either Tremaine's life or the truth publicly avowed. Of Tremaine's dastardly betrayal, he could not have told you which he preferred, but one or the other he was fiercely determined to have. And now the springs of the snare in which he had so cunningly taken Tremaine had been forced apart by utterly unexpected hands. It's a lie, he bellowed angrily, but he bellowed it seemed upon deaf ears. The court just sat and stared, utterly and hopelessly at a loss, how to proceed. And then the dry voice of Wellington followed serterance, cutting sharply upon the dismayed silence. How do you know that? he asked the adjutant. The matter is one upon which few would be qualified to contradict Miss Armitage. You will observe, Sir Harry, that even Captain Tremaine has not thought it worth his while to do so. Those words pulled the captain from the spell of sheer horrified amazement in which he had stood, stricken dumb ever since Miss Armitage had spoken. I am so overwhelmed by the amazing falsehood with which Miss Armitage has attempted to save me from the predicament in which I stand, for it is that gentleman on my oath as a soldier in a gentleman there is not a word of truth in what Miss Armitage has said. But if there were, said Lord Wellington, who seemed the only person present to retain a cool command of his wits, your honour is a soldier and a gentleman, and this lady's honour must still demand of you the perjury. But, my Lord, I protest. You are interrupting me, I think, Lord Wellington rebuked in coldly, and under the habit of obedience and the magnetic eye of his lordship, the captain lapsed into anguished silence. I am of the opinion, gentlemen, his lordship addressed the court, that this avair has gone quite far enough. Miss Armitage's testimony has saved a deal of trouble. It has shed light upon much that was obscure, and it has provided Captain Tremaine with an unanswerable alibi. In my view, and without wishing unduly to influence the court in its decision, it but remains to pronounce Captain Tremaine's acquittal, thereby enabling him to fulfil towards this lady a duty which the circumstances would seem to have rendered somewhat urgent. They were words that lifted an intolerable burden from Sir Harry's shoulders, in immense relief, eager now to make an end. He looked to right and left, everywhere he met nodding heads, and murmurs of, yes, yes, everywhere with one exception. Sir Terrence, white to the lips, gave no sign of a sin, and yet dared give none of dissent. The eye of Lord Wellington was upon him, compelling him by its eagle glance. We are clearly agreed, the president began, but Captain Tremaine interrupted him. But you are wrongly agreed. Sir, sir, you shall listen. It is infamous that I should owe my acquittal to the sacrifice of this lady's good name. Damn me, that is a matter that any person can put right, said his lordship. Your lordship is mistaken, Captain Tremaine insisted, greatly daring. The honour of this lady is more dear to me than my life. So we perceive, was the dry rejoinder. These outbursts do you a certain credit, Captain Tremaine, but they waste the time of the court. And then the president made his announcement. Captain Tremaine, you are acquitted of the charge of killing Count Samovall, and you are at liberty to depart and to resume your usual duties. The court congratulates you, and congratulates itself upon having reached this conclusion in the case of an officer so estimable as yourself. Ah, but gentlemen, hear me, yet a moment, you, my lord. The court has pronounced, the matter is at an end, said Wellington with a shrug, and immediately upon the words he rose, and the court rose with him, immediately with rattle of sabers and sabretaches. The officers who had composed the board, fell into groups, and broke into conversation, out of a spirit of consideration for Tremaine, indefinitely to mark the conclusion of the proceedings. Tremaine, white and trembling, turned in time to see Miss Armitage, leaving the hall, and assisting Colonel Grant to support Lady Omoy, who was in a half-swooning condition. He stood, irresolute, preyed to a torturing agony of mine, cursing himself now for his silence, for not having spoken the truth, and taken the consequences together with Dick Butler. What was Dick Butler to him? What was his own life to him? If they should demand it for the grave breach of duty he had committed by his readiness to assist, a prescribed offender to escape, compared with the honor of Sylvia Armitage. And she, why had she done this for him? Could it be possible that she cared, that she was concerned so much for his life as to emulate her honor to deliver him from peril? The event would seem to prove it, yet the overmastering joy that at any other time, and in any other circumstances such a revelation must have procured him, was stifled now by his agonized concern for the injustice to which he had submitted herself. And then, as he stood there, a suffering bewildered man came carethers to grasp his hand, and in terms of warm friendship to express satisfaction at his acquittal. Sooner to have such a price as that paid, he said bitterly, and with a shrug left his sentence unfinished. Omoy came stalking past him, pale-faced, with eyes that looked neither to right or left. Omoy, he cried. Sir Terence checked, and stood stiffly as if to attention, his handsome blue eyes blazing into the captain's own. Thus a moment then. We will talk of this again, you and I, he said grimly, and passed on and out with clanking step, leaving Tremaine to reflect, that the appearances certainly justified Sir Terence's resentment. My God, carethers, what must he think of me? he ejaculated. If you ask me, I think that he has suspected this from the very beginning. Only that could account for the hostility of his attitude towards you, for the persistence with which he has sought either to convict or bring the truth from you. Tremaine looked as scans at the major. In such a tangle as this it was impossible to keep the attention fixed upon any single thread. His mind must be disabused at once, he answered. I must go to him. Omoy had already vanished. There were one or two others who would have checked the adjutant's departure, but he adhered none. In the quadrangle he nodded curtly to Colonel Grant, who would have detained him, but he passed on and went to shut himself up in his study. With his mental anguish that was compounded of so many and so diverse emotions, he needed above all things to be alone and to think if thought were possible to a mind so distraught as his own. There were now so many things to be faced, considered, and dealt with. First and foremost, and this was perhaps the product of inevitable reaction, was the consideration of his own duplicity. His villainous betrayal of trust undertaken deliberately, but with an aim very different from that which would appear. He perceived how men must assume now, when the truth of Samoville's death became known, as become known it must, that he had deliberately fastened upon another his own crime. The fine edifice of vengeance he had been so skillfully erecting had toppled about his ears in obscene ruin, and he was a man not only broken but dishonored. Let him proclaim the truth now, and none would believe it. Sylvia Armitage's mad and inexplicable self-accusation was a final bar to that. Men of honour would scorn him, his friends would turn from him in disgust, and Wellington, that great soldier whom he worshipped, and whose esteem he valued above all possessions, would be the first to call him out. He would appear as a vulgar murderer, who having failed by falsehood to fasten the guilt upon an innocent man, sought now by falsehood still more damnable at the cost of his wife's honour, to offer some mitigation of his unspeakable offence. Conceived this terrible position, in which his justifiable jealousy, his naturally vindictive rage, had so irretrievably ensnared him, he had been so intent upon the administration of poetic justice, so intent upon condinely punishing the false friend who had dishonored him, upon finding a balm for his lacerated soul in the spectacle of Tremaine's own ignominy, that he had never paused to see whether all this might lead him. He had been a fool to have adopted these subtle, tortuous ways, a fool not to have obeyed the earlier and honest impulse which had led him to take that case of pistols from the drawer, and he was served as a fool deserves to be served. His folly had recoiled upon him to destroy him. Fool's mate had checked his perfidious vengeance at a blow. Why had Sylvia Armitage discarded her honour to make of it a cloak for the protection of Tremaine? Did she love Tremaine, and take that desperate way to save a life she accounted lost? Or was it that she knew the truth, and out of affection for Una had chosen to emulate herself? Sir Terence was no psychologist, but he found it difficult to believe in so much of self-sacrifice from a woman for a woman's sake. However, dear, therefore he held to the first alternative. To confirm it came the memory of Sylvia's words to him on the night of Tremaine's arrest, and it was to such a man that she gave the priceless treasure of her love. For such a man, and in such a sordid cause, that she sacrificed the inestimable jewel of her honour. He laughed through clenched teeth at a situation so bitterly ironical, presently he would talk to her. She should realize what she had done, and he would wish her joy of it. First, however, there was something else to do. He flung himself wearily into the chair at his writing-table, took up a pen, and began to write. End of Chapter 18 Read by Peter Strom on the Chilean coast On March 4, 2019 Chapter 19 of The Snare by Raphael Sabatini This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 19 The Truth To Captain Tremaine, fretted with impatience in the dining room, came, at the end of a long hour of waiting, Sylvia Armitage. She entered unannounced, at a moment when for the third time he was on the point of ringing for Mullins, and for a moment they stood considering each other, mutually ill at ease. Then Miss Armitage closed the door and came forward, moving with that grace peculiar to her, and carrying her head erect, facing Captain Tremaine now with some lingering signs of the defiance she had shown the members of the court-martial. Mullins tells me that you wish to see me, she said, the merest conventionality, to break the disconcerting, uneasy silence. After what has happened, that should not surprise you, said Tremaine. His agitation was clear to behold. His usual imperturbability all departed. Why, he burst out suddenly, why did you do it? She looked at him with the faintest ghost of a smile on her lips, as if she found the question amusing. But before she could frame any answer, he was speaking again, quickly and nervously. Could you suppose that I should wish to purchase my life at such a price? Could you suppose that your honor was not more precious to me than my life? It was infamous that you should have sacrificed yourself in this manner. Infamous of whom, she asked him coolly. The question gave him pause. I don't know, he cried desperately, infamous of the circumstances, I suppose. She shrugged. The circumstances were there, and they had to be met. I could think of no other way of beating them. Hastily he answered her out of his anger for her sake. It should not have been your affair to meet them at all. He saw the scarlet flesh sweep over her face, and leave it deathly white. And instantly he perceived how horribly he had blundered. I am sorry to have been interfering, she answered stiffly. But, after all, it is not a matter that need trouble you. And on the words, she turned to depart again. Good day, Captain Tremaine. Ah, wait! He flung himself between her and the door. We must understand each other, Miss Armitage. I think we do, Captain Tremaine. She answered, fired dancing in her eyes. And she added, You are detaining me. Intentionally. He was calm again, and he was masterful for the first time. In all his dealings with her. We are very far from any understanding. Indeed, we are overhead in a misunderstanding already. You misconstrue my words. I am very angry with you. I do not think that in all my life I have ever been so angry with anybody. But you are not to mistake the source of my anger. I am angry with you for the great wrong you have done yourself. That should not be your affair, she answered him. Thus flinging back the offending phrase. But it is, I make it mine, he insisted. Then I do not give you the right, please let me pass. She looked him steadily in the face, and her voice was calm to coldness. Only the heave of her bosom betrayed the agitation under which she was laboring. Whether you give me the right or not, I intend to take it, he insisted. You are very rude, she reproved him. He laughed, even at the risk of being rude then. I must make myself clear to you. I would suffer anything sooner than leave you under any misapprehension of the grounds upon which I should have preferred to face a firing party, rather than have been rescued at the sacrifice of your good name. I hope, she said, with faint but cutting irony. You do not intend to offer me the reparation of marriage. It took his breath away for a moment. It was a solution that in his confused, and irate state of mind, he had never even paused to consider. Yet now that it was put to him in this scornfully reproachful manner, he perceived not only that it was the only possible course, but also that on that very account it might be considered by her impossible. Her testiness was suddenly plain to him. She feared that he was come to her with an offer of marriage out of a sense of duty, as an amend to correct the false position into which, for his sake, she had placed herself. And he himself, by his blundering phrase, had given color to that hideous fear of hers. He considered a moment whilst he stood there meeting her defiant glance. Never had she been more desirable in his eyes, and hopeless as his love for her had always been, never had it been at such danger of hopelessness as at this present moment, unless he proceeded here with the utmost care. And so Ned Tremaine became subtle for the first time in his honest, straightforward, soldierly life. No, he answered boldly. I do not intend it. I am glad that you spare me that, she answered him. Yet her pallor seemed to deepen under his glance. And that, he replied, is the source of all my anger against you, against myself, and against circumstances. If I had deemed myself remotely worthy of you, he continued, I should have asked you weeks ago to be my wife. Oh wait and hear me out, I have more than once been upon the point of doing so. The last time was that night on the balcony at Count Redondo's. I would have spoken then, I would have taken my courage in my hands, confessed my unworthiness and my love. But I was restrained, because although I might confess there was nothing I could ask. I am a poor man, Sylvia. You are the daughter of a wealthy one. Men speak of you as an heiress. To ask you to marry me, he broke off. You realize that I could not, that I should have been deemed a fortune hunter, not only by the world, which matters nothing, but perhaps by yourself, who matter everything. I, I, he faltered, fumbling for words to express thoughts of an overwhelming intricacy. It was not perhaps that so much, as the thought that if my suit should come to prosper, men would say you had thrown yourself away on a fortune hunter. To myself I should have accounted the reproach well earned, but it seemed to me that it must contain something sliding to you, and to shield you from all slights must be the first concern of my deep worship for you. That, he ended fiercely, is why I am so angry, so desperate at this slight you have put upon yourself for my sake, for me, who would have sacrificed life and honor, and everything I hold of any account, to keep you up there, enthroned not only in my own eyes, but in the eyes of every man. He paused and looked at her, and she at him, she was still very white, and one of her long, slender hands was pressed to her bosom, as if to contain and repress tumult. But her eyes were smiling, and yet it was a smile he could not read. It was compassionate, wistful, and yet tanged it seemed to him, with mockery. I suppose, he said, it would be expected of me in the circumstances to seek words in which to thank you for what you have done, but I have no such words. I am not grateful. How could I be grateful? You have destroyed the thing that I most valued in this world. What have I destroyed? she asked him. Your own good name, the respect that was your due from all men. Yet if I retain your own, what is that worth? he asked, almost resentfully. Perhaps more than all the rest, she took a step forward and set her hand upon his arm. There was no mistaking now her smile. It was all tenderness, and her eyes were shining. Ned, there is only one thing to be done. He looked down at her, who was only a little less tall than himself, and the color faded from his own face now. You haven't understood me after all, he said. I was afraid you would not. I have no clear gift of words, and if I had, I am trying to say something that would overtax any gift. On the contrary, Ned, I understand you perfectly. I don't think I have ever understood you until now. Certainly never until now. Could I be sure of what I hoped? Of what you hoped? his voice sank as if in awe. What, he asked. She looked away, and her persisting, yet ever-changing smile grew slightly arch. You do not then intend to ask me to marry you, she said. How could I? It was an explosion almost of anger. You yourself suggested that it would be an insult, and so it would. It is to take advantage of the position in which your foolish generosity has betrayed you. Oh! he clenched his fists, and shook them a moment at his sides. Very well, she said. In that case I must ask you to marry me. You, he was thunderstruck. What alternative do you leave me? You say that I have destroyed my good name. You must provide me with a new one. At all costs I must become an honest woman. Isn't that the phrase? Don't, he cried, and paying quivered in his voice. Don't jest upon it. My dear, she said, and now she held out both hands to him. Why trouble yourself with things of no account, when the only thing that matters to us is within our grasp. We love each other, and her glance fell away, her lip trembled, and her smile at last took flight. He caught her hands, holding them in a grip that hurt her. He bent his head, and his eyes sought her own, but sought in vain. Have you considered, he was beginning, when she interrupted him, her face flushed upward, surrendering to that questing glance of his, and its expression was now between tears and laughter. You will be forever considering, Ned. You consider too much, where the issues are plain and simple. For the last time, will you bury me? The subtlety he had employed had been greater than he knew, and it had achieved something beyond his utmost hopes. He murmured incoherently, and took her to his arms. I really do not see that he could have done anything else. It was a plain and simple issue, and she herself had protested that the issue was plain and simple. And then the door opened abruptly, and certaince came in. Nor did he discreetly withdraw as a man of feeling should have done before the intimate and touching spectacle that met his eyes. On the contrary, he remained like the infernal marplot that he intended to be. Very proper, he sneered. Very fit and proper that he should put right in the eyes of the world, the reputation you have damaged for his sake, Sylvia. I suppose you're to be married. They moved apart, and each stared at Homoie, Sylvia in cold anger, Tremaine in chagrin. You see, Sylvia? The captain cried. At this voicing of the world's opinion, he feared so much on her behalf. Does she? said certaince, misunderstanding. I wonder, unless you've made all plain. The captain frowned. Made what plain? he asked. There is something here I don't understand, Homoie. Your attitude towards me ever since you ordered me under arrest has been entirely extraordinary. It has troubled me more than anything else in all this deplorable affair. I believe you, snorted Homoie, as with his hands behind his back, he strode forward into the room. He was pale, and there was a set malignant sneer upon his lip, a malignant look in the blue eye that was habitually so clear and honest. There have been moments, said Tremaine, when I have almost felt you to be vindictive. Do you wonder, growled Homoie, has no suspicion crossed your mind that I may know the whole truth? Tremaine was taken aback. That startled you, eh? cried Homoie, and pointed a mocking finger at the captain's face, whose whole expression had changed to one of apprehension. What is it? cried Sylvia. Instinctively she felt that under this troubled surface, some evil thing was stirring, that the issues perhaps were not quite as simple as she had deemed them. There was a pause. Oh, boy, with his back to the window now, his hands still clasped behind him, looked mockingly at Tremaine, and waited. Why don't you answer her? he said at last. You are confidential enough when I came in. Can it be that you are keeping something back, that you have secrets from the lady who has no doubt promised by now to become your wife, as the shortest way to mend her recent folly? Tremaine was bewildered. His answer, apparently, in irrelevance was the mere enunciation of the thoughts Homoie's announcement had provoked. Do you mean to say that you have known throughout that I did not kill Samavel? he asked. Of course. How could I have supposed you killed him when I killed him myself? You, you killed him, cried Tremaine, more and more intrigued, and you killed Count Samavel, exclaimed Miss Armitage. To be sure I did, was the answer cynically delivered, accompanied by a short, sharp laugh. When I have settled other accounts, and put all my affairs in order, I shall save the provost Marshall the trouble of seeking the slayer. And you didn't know then, Sylvia, when you lied so glibly to the court, that your future husband was innocent of that. I was always sure of it, she answered, and looked at Tremaine for explanation. Homoie laughed again. But he had not told you so. He preferred that you should thank him guilty of bloodshed, of murder even, rather than tell you the real truth. Oh, I can understand. He is the very soul of honor as you remarked himself. I think the other night. He knows how much to tell and how much to withhold. He is master of the art of discreet suppression. He will carry it to any lengths. You had an instance of that before the court this morning. You may come to regret, my dear, that you did not allow him to have his own obstinate way, that you should have dragged your own spotless purity in the mud to provide him with an alibi. But he had an alibi all the time, my child. An unanswerable alibi, which he preferred to withhold. I wonder, would you have been so ready to make a shield of your honor? Could you have known what you were really shielding? Ned, she cried, why don't you speak? Is he to go on in this fashion? Of what is he accusing you? If you were not with Sam of all that night, where were you? In a lady's room, as you correctly informed the court, came O' Moy's bitter mockery. Your only mistake was in the identity of the lady. You imagined that lady was yourself, a delusion purely. But you and I may comfort each other, for we are fellow sufferers at the hands of this man of honor. My wife was the lady who entertained this gallant in her room that night. My God, O' Moy! It was a strangled cry from Tremaine. At last he saw light. He understood, and understanding there entered his heart a great compassion for O' Moy. A conception that he must have suffered all the agnies of the damned in these last few days. My God, you don't believe it, I? Do you deny it? The imputation utterly. And if I tell you that myself, with these eyes, I saw you at the window of her room with her. If I tell you that I saw the rope ladder dangling from her balcony. If I tell you that crouching there, after I had killed Sam of all, killed him mark me, for saying that you and my wife betrayed me, killed him for telling me the filthy truth. If I tell you that I hurt her attempting to restrain you from going down to see what had happened. If I tell you all this, will you still deny it? Will you still lie? I will still say that all that you imply is false as hell, and your own senseless jealousy can make it. All that I imply, but what I state, the facts themselves, are they true? They are true, but... True, cried Miss Armitage in horror. Aw, wait. Oh, boy, bait her with his heavy sneer. You interrupt him. He is about to construe those facts so that they shall appear in innocent appearance. He is about to prove himself worthy of the great sacrifice you made to save his life. Well? And he looked expectantly at Remain. Miss Armitage looked at him too, with eyes from which the dread passed almost at once. The Captain was smiling, wistfully, tolerantly, confidentially, almost scornfully. Had he been guilty of the thing imputed, he could not have stood so in her presence. Oh, boy, he said slowly, I should tell you that you have played the knave in this. Were it not clear to me that you have played the fool? He spoke entirely without passion. He saw his way quite clearly. Things had reached a pass in which for the sake of all concerned. And perhaps for the sake of Miss Armitage more than anyone. The whole truth must be spoken, without regard to its consequences to Richard Butler. You dare to take that tone? Begin, oh boy, in a voice of thunder. Your self shall be the first to justify it presently. I should be angry with you, oh boy, for what you have done, but I find my anger vanishing in regret. I should scorn you for the lie you have acted, for your scant regard to your oath in the court marshal, for your attempt to combat an imagined villainy by a real villainy. But I realize what you have suffered, and in that suffering lies the punishment you fully deserve, for not having taken the straight course, for not having taxed me there and then with the thing that you suspected. The gentleman is about to lecture me upon morals, Sylvia. But Tremaine let pass the interruption. It is quite true that I was in Una's room while you were killing Samovall, but I was not alone with her as you have so rashly assumed. Her brother Richard was there, and it was on his behalf that I was present. She had been hiding him for a fortnight. She begged me as Dick's friend in her own to save him, and I undertook to do so. I climbed to her room to assist him to descend by the rope-letter you saw, because he was wounded, and could not climb without assistance. At the gates I had a curicle waiting in which I had driven up. In this I was to take him on board a ship that was leaving that night for England, having made arrangements with her captain. You should have seen, had you reflected that. As I told the court, had I been coming to a clandestine meeting, I should hardly have driven up and so open a fashion, and left the curicle to wait for me at the gates. The death of Samovall and my own arrest thwarted our plans and prevented Dick's escape. That is the truth. Now that you have it, I hope you like it, and I hope that you thoroughly relish your own behavior in the matter. There was a fluttering sigh of relief from misarmitage. Then silence followed, in which Omoye stared at Tremaine, emotion after emotion, sweeping across his mobile face. Dick Butler, he said at last, and cried out, I don't believe a word of it, you're lying, Tremaine. You have cause enough to hope so. The captain was faintly scornful. If it were true, Una would not have kept it from me. It was to me she would have come. The trouble with you, Omoye, is that jealousy seems to have robbed you of the power of coherent thought, or else you would remember that you were the last man to do that Luna could confide Dick's presence here. I warned her against doing so. I told her the promise you had been compelled to give the secretary for Jass, and I was even at pains to justify you to her when she was indignant with you for that. It would perhaps be better, he concluded, if you were to send for Una. It's what I intend, said Sir Terence, in a voice that made a threat of this statement. He strode stiffly across the room, and pulled open the door. There was no need to go farther. Lady Omoye, white and tearful, was discovered on the threshold. Sir Terence stood aside, holding the door for her. His face very grim. She came in slowly, looking from one to another with her troubled glance, and finally accepting the chair that Captain Tremaine made haste to offer her. She had so much to say to each person present, that it was impossible to know where to begin. It remained for Sir Terence to give her the lead she needed, and this he did so soon as he had closed the door again. Planted before it like a sentry, he looked at her between anger and suspicion. How much did you over here? he asked her. All that you said about Dick, she answered without hesitation. Then you stood listening. Of course I wanted to know what you were saying. There are other ways of ascertaining that, without stooping to keyholes, said her husband. I didn't stoop, she said, taking him literally. I could hear what was said without that. Especially what you said, Terence. You will raise your voice so on the slightest provocation. And the provocation in this instance was, of course, of the slightest. Since you have heard Captain Tremaine's story, of course you'll have no difficulty in confirming it. If you still can doubt, oh my, said Tremaine, it must be because you wish to doubt, because you are afraid to face the truth now, that it has been placed before you. I thank you, Anna. It will spare a great deal of trouble and save your husband from a great many expressions that he may afterwards regret. If you go and fetch Dick, God knows Terence has enough to overwhelm him already. At the suggestion of producing Dick, Ohmoy's anger, which had begun to simmer again, was stilled. He looked at his wife almost in alarm, and she met his look with one of utter blankness. I can't, she said plaintively. Dick's gone. Gone, cried Tremaine. Gone, said Ohmoy, and then he began to laugh. Are you quite sure that he was ever here? But, she was a little bewildered, and a frown puckered her perfect brow. Hasn't Ned told you then? Oh, Ned has told me. Ned has told. His face was terrible. And don't you believe him? Don't you believe me? She was more plaintive than ever. It was almost as if she called heaven to witness, what manner of husband she was forced to endure. Then you had better call Mullins and ask him. He saw Dick leave. And no doubt, said Miss Armitage mercilessly, Sir Terence will believe his butler, where he can believe neither his wife nor his friend. He looked at her in a sort of amazement. Do you believe them, Sylvia? He cried. I hope I am not a fool, she said impatiently. Meaning? He began, but broke off. How long do you say it is since Dick left the house? Ten minutes at most, replied her ladyship. He turned and pulled the door open again. Mullins? He called. Mullins? What a man to live with! sighed her ladyship, appealing to Miss Armitage. What a man! And she applied a vinaigrette, deliquely, to her nostrils. Tremaine smiled and sauntered to the window. And then at last came Mullins. Has anyone left the house within the last ten minutes, Mullins? Asked Sir Terence. Mullins looked ill at ease. Sure, sir, you'll not be after. Will you answer my question, man? roared Sir Terence. Sure, then, there's nobody left the house at all, but, uh, Mr. Butler, sir. How long has he been here? Asked Des Mois after a brief pause. Tis what I can't tell you, sir. I never set eyes on him until I saw him coming downstairs from her ladyship's room, as it might be. You can go, Mullins. I hope, sir. You can go! And Sir Terence slammed the door upon the amazed servant. He realized that some unhappy mystery was perturbing the adjutant's household. Sir Terence stood facing them again. He was a changed man. The fire had all gone out of him. His head was bowed. And his face looked haggard and suddenly old. His lip curled into a sneer. Pantaloon in the comedy, he said, remembering in that moment the bitter jive that had cost Sam of all his life. What did you say? Her ladyship asked him. I pronounced my own name. He answered lugubriously. It didn't sound like Terence. It's the name I ought to bear, he said. And I killed that liar for it. The only truth he spoke. He came forward to the table. The full sense of his position suddenly overwhelmed him, as Tremaine had said it would. A groan broke from him, and he collapsed into a chair, a stricken, broken man. End of Chapter 19 Read by Peter Strom in the Aconagua Valley, Argentina On March 6, 2019 Chapter 20 of The Snare by Raphael Sabatini This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 20 The Resignation At once, as he sat there, his elbows on the table, his head in his hands, he found himself surrounded by those three, against each of whom he had sinned under the spell of the jealousy that had blinded him and led him by the nose. His wife put an arm around his neck in mute comfort of a grief, of which she only understood the half, for of the heavier and more desperate part of his grief she was still in ignorance. Sylvia spoke to him kindly words of encouragement, where no encouragement could avail, but what moved him most was the touch of Tremaine's hand upon his shoulder, and Tremaine's voice bidding him brace himself to face the situation and count upon them to stand by him to the end. He looked up at his friend and secretary in an amazement that overcame his shame. You can forgive me, Ned? Ned looked across at Sylvia Armitage. You have been the means of bringing me to such happiness as I should never have reached without these happenings, he said. What resentment can I bear you, oh my? Besides, I understand. And who understands can never do anything but forgive. I realize how sorely you must have been tried, no evidence more conclusive that you were being wronged could have been placed before you. But the court-martial, said Oh-Moy in horror, he covered his face with his hand. Oh, my God, I am dishonored. Aye, aye. He rose, shaking off the arm of his wife. In the hand of the friend he had wronged so terribly, he broke away from them, and strode to the window, his face set in white. I think I was mad, he said. I know I was mad, but do I have done what I did? He shuddered in very horror of himself now that he was bereft of the support of that evil jealousy that had fortified him against conscience itself. Lady Oh-Moy turned to them, pleading for explanation. What does he mean? What has he done? Himself he answered her. I killed Sam of all. It was I who fought that duel, and then believing what I did, I fastened the guilt upon dead, and went the lengths of perjury in my blind effort to avenge myself. That is what I have done. Tell me, one of you, of your charity, what is there left for me to do? Oh, it was an outcry of horror, an indignation from Una, instantly repressed by the tightening grip of Sylvia's hand upon her arm. This armitage saw and understood, and sorrowed for soterence. She must restrain his wife from adding to his present anguish. Yet how could you, Terence? Oh, how could you? cried her ladyship, and so gave way to tears, easier than words to express such natures. Because I loved you, I suppose. He answered on a note of bitter self-mockery. That was the justification I should have given had I been asked. That was the justification I accounted sufficient. But then, she cried a new horror breaking on her mind. If this is discovered, Terence, what will become of you? He turned and came slowly back until he stood beside her. Facing now the inevitable, he recovered some of his calm. It must be discovered. He said quietly, for the sake of everybody concerned in it. No, no, no. She sprang up and clutched his arm in terror. They may fail to discover the truth. They must not, my dear. He answered, stroking the fair head that lay against his breast. They must not fail. I must see to that. You. Her eyes dilated as she looked at him. She caught her breath on a gasping sob. Ah, no, Terence. She cried wildly. You must not. You must not. You must say nothing for my sake, Terence. If you love me, oh, for my sake, Terence. For honor's sake, I must. He answered her. And for the sake of Sylvia and of Tremaine, whom I have wronged. And. Not for my sake, Terence. Sylvia interrupted him. He looked at her and then at Tremaine. And you, Ned, what do you say? he asked. Ned could not wish, began her ladyship. Please let him speak for himself, my dear. Her husband interrupted her. What can I say? cried Tremaine with a gesture that was almost of anger. How can I advise? I scarcely know. You realize what you must face if you confess. Fully. And the only part of it I shrink from is the shame and scorn I have deserved. Yet it is inevitable, you agree, Ned. I am not sure. None who understands as I understand can feel anything but regret. The evidence of what you suspected was overwhelming. And it betrayed you into this mistake. The punishment you would have to face is surely too heavy. And you have suffered far more already than you can ever be called upon to suffer again. No matter what is done to you. Oh, I don't know. The problem is too deep for me. There is Una to be considered, too. You owe a duty to her. And if you keep silent, it may be best for all. You can depend upon us to stand by you in this. Indeed, indeed, said Sylvia. He looked at them and smiled very tenderly. Never was a man blessed with nobler friends who deserved so little of them. He said slowly, You heat coals of fire upon my head. You shame me through and through. Which have you considered, Ned, that all may not depend upon my silence. What of the provost-martial investigating now were to come upon the real facts? It is impossible that sufficient should be discovered to convict you. How can you be sure of that? And if it were possible, if it came to pass, what then would be my position? You see, Ned, I must accept the punishment. I have incurred lest a worse overtake me. To put it at its lowest, I must voluntarily go forward and denounce myself. Before another denounces me. It is the only way to save some rag of honor. There was a tap at the door, and Mullins came to announce that Lord Wellington was asking to see Sir Terence. He is waiting in the study, Sir Terence. Tell his lordship I will be with him at once. Mullins departed, and Sir Terence prepared to follow. Gently he disengaged himself. From the arms her ladyship now flung about him. Courage, my dear, he said. Wellington may show me more mercy than I deserve. You are going to tell him? She questioned, brokenly. Of course, sweetheart. What else can I do? And since you intermain, find it in your hearts to forgive me. Nothing else matters very much. He kissed her tenderly, and put her from him. He looked at Sylvia standing beside her, and at Tremaine beyond the table. Comfort her! He implored them, and turning went out quickly. Awaiting him in this study he found not only Lord Wellington, but Colonel Grant. And by the cold gravity of both their faces. He had an inspiration that in some mysterious way, the whole hideous truth was already known to them. The slight figure of his lordship in his gray frock was stiff and erect, his booted leg firmly planted, his hands behind him clutching his riding-crop and cock-hat. His face was set, and his voice as he greeted Omoy, sharp and staccato. Ah, Omoy, there are one or two matters to be discussed before I leave Lisbon. I had written to you, sir, replied Omoy. Perhaps you will first read my letter. And he went to fetch it from the riding-table, where he had left it when completed an hour earlier. His lordship took the letter in silence, and after one piercing glance at Omoy, broke the seal. In the background near the window the tall figure of Kalkyohung Grant stood stiffly, his hawk face inscrutable. Ah, your resignation, Omoy, but you give no reasons. Again his keen glance stabbed into the abjutant's face. Why this, he asked sharply. Because, said Sir Terence, I prefer to tender it before it is asked of me. He was very white, yet by an effort those deep blue eyes of his met the terrible gaze of his chief, without flinching. Perhaps you'll explain, said his lordship coldly. In the first place, said Omoy. It was myself killed, Sam of all, and since your lordship was a witness of what followed, you will realize that that was the least part of my offense. The great soldier jerked his head sharply backward, tilting forward his chin. So, he said, Ah, I beg your pardon, Grant, for having disbelieved you. Then turning to Omoy again. Well, he demanded, his voice hard. Have you nothing to add? Nothing that can matter, said Omoy with a shrug, and they stood facing each other in silence for a long moment. At last, when Wellington spoke, his voice had assumed a gentler note. Omoy, he said, I have known you, these fifteen years, and we have been friends. Once you carried your friendship, appreciation, and understanding of me so far as nearly to ruin yourself on my behalf, you'll not have forgotten the affair of Sir Harry Burrard. In all these years I have known you for a man of shining honour, an honest, upright gentleman, whom I would have trusted when I should have distrusted every other living man, yet you stand there and confess to me the basest, the most dishonest villainy that I have ever known a British officer, to commit, and you tell me that you have no explanation to offer for your conduct. Either I have never known you, Omoy, or I do not know you now. Which is it? Omoy raised his arms, only to let them fall heavily to his sides again. What explanation can there be? he asked. How can a man, who has been, as I hope I have, a man of honour in the past, explain such an act of madness? It arose out of your order against dueling, he went on. Sam of all offended me mortally. He said such things to me and my wife's honour that no man could suffer, and I least of any man. My temper betrayed me, I consented to a clandestine meeting without seconds. It took place here, and I killed him. And then I had as I imagined, quite wrongly as I know now, overwhelming evidence that what he had told me was true. And I went mad. Briefly he told the story of Tremaine's descent from Lady Omoy's balcony and the rest. I scarcely know, he resumed, what it was I hoped to accomplish in the end. I do not know, for I never stop to consider whether I should have allowed Captain Tremaine to have been shot, if it had come to that. All that I was concerned to do was to submit him to the ordeal, which I conceived he must undergo, when he saw himself confronted with the choice of keeping silence and submitting to his fate, or saving himself by an avowal that could scarcely be less bitter than death itself. You fool, Omoy, you damned infernal fool, his lordship swore at him. Grant overheard more than you imagined that night outside the gates. His conclusions ran the truth very close indeed, but I could not believe him, could not believe this of you. Of course not, said Omoy gloomily, I can't believe it of myself. When Miss Armitage intervened to afford Tremaine an alibi, I believed her. In view of what Grant had told me, I concluded that hers was the window from which Tremaine had climbed down. Because of what I knew, I was there to see that the case did not go to extremes against Tremaine. If necessary, Grant must have given full evidence of all he knew, and there and then left you to your fate. Miss Armitage saved us from that, and left me convinced, but still not understanding your own attitude. And now, Richard Butler, to surrender to me and cast himself upon my mercy, with another tale which completely gives the lie to Miss Armitage's, but confirms your own. Richard Butler, cried Omoy, he has surrendered to you. Half an hour ago, Sir Terence turned aside with a weary shrug, a little laugh that was more a sob broke from him. Poor Una, he muttered. The tangle is a shocking one, lies, lies everywhere, and in the places where they were least to be expected, Wellington's anger flashed out. Do you realize what awaits you as a result of all this damned insanity? I do, Sir, that is why I place my resignation in your hands. The disregard of a general order, punishable and any officer, is beyond pardon in your adjutant general. But that is the least of it, you fool. Sure, don't I know? I assure you that I realize it all. And you are prepared to face it. Wellington was almost savage in an anger proceeding from the conflict that went on within him. There was his duty as commander-in-chief, and there was his friendship for Omoy, in his memory of the past, in which Omoy's loyalty had almost been the ruin of him. What choice have I? His lordship turned away, and strode the length of the room, his head bent, his lips twitching, suddenly he stopped and faced the silent intelligence officer. What is to be done, Grant? That is a matter for your lordship, but if I might venture. Venture and be damned, snapped Wellington. The signal service rendered the cause of the allies by the death of Sammaball might perhaps be permitted to weigh against the offense committed by Omoy. How could it, snapped the lordship? You don't know, Omoy, that upon Sammaball's body were found, certain documents intended for Messena, had they reached him, or had Sammaball carried out the full intentions that dictated his quarrel with you, and no doubt sent him here, depending upon a swordmanship to kill you. All my plans for the undoing of the fringe would have been ruined. Aye, you may stare. That is another matter in which you have lacked discretion. You may be a fine engineer, Omoy, but I don't think I could have found a less judicious adjutant general if I had raked the ranks of the army on purpose to find an idiot. Sammaball is a spy, the cleverest spy that we have ever had to deal with. Only his death revealed how dangerous he was. For killing him, when you did, you deserve the thanks of his majesty's government, as Grant suggests. But before you can receive those, you will have to stand a court-martial for the manner in which you killed him, and you will probably be shot. I can't help you. I hope you don't expect it of me. The thought had not so much as occurred to me. Yet what you tell me, sir, lifts something of the load from my mind. Does it? Well, it lifts no load from mine. Was the angry retort? He stood considering. Then, with an impatient gesture, he seemed to dismiss his thoughts. I can do nothing, he said. Nothing without being false to my duty, in becoming as bad as you have been, Omoy. And without any of the sentimental justification that existed in your case, I can't allow the matter to be dropped, stifled. I have never been guilty of such a thing, and I refuse to become guilty of it now. I refuse, do you understand, Omoy? You have acted, and you must take the consequences, and be damned to you. Faith, I've never asked you to help me, sir, Sir Terence protested. And you don't intend to, I suppose. I do not. I'm glad of that. He was in one of those rages, which were as terrible as they were rare with him. I wouldn't have you suppose that I make laws for the sake of rescuing people from the consequences of disobeying them. Here is this brother-in-law of yours, this fellow butler, who has made enough mischief in the country to imperil our relations with our allies, and I am half-plagued to condone his adventure at Tavora. There's nothing for it, Omoy. As your friend, I am infernally angry with you for placing yourself in this position. As your commanding officer, I can only order you under arrest, and convene a court-martial to deal with you. Sir Terence bowed his head. He was a little surprised by all this heat. I never expected anything else, he said, and it's altogether at a loss I am to understand why your lordship should be vexing yourself in this manner. Because I have a friendship for you, Omoy. Because I remember you've been a loyal friend to me, and because I must forget all this and remember only that my duty is absolutely rigid and inflexible. If I condone your offence, if I suppress inquiry, I should be in duty and honor bound to offer my own resignation to his majesty's government, and I have to think of other things besides my personal feelings. When at any moment now the French may be over the Aguda and into Portugal, Sir Terence's face flushed and his glance brightened. From my heart I thank you that you can even think of such things at such a time, and after what I have done. Oh, and as to what you have done, I understand that you are a fool, Omoy. There's no more to be said. You are to consider yourself under arrest. I must do it if you were my own brother, which, thank God, you're not. Come, Grant, goodbye, Omoy. And he held out his hand to him. Sir Terence hesitated, staring. It's the hand of your friend, Arthur Wellesley. I'm offering you, not the hand of your commanding officer, said his lordship savagely. Sir Terence took it, and wrung it in silence, perhaps more deeply moved than he had yet been by anything that had happened to him that morning. There was a knock at the door, and Mullins opened it to admit the adjutants orderly, who came stiffly to attention. Major Carather's compliment, sir, he said to Omoy, and his excellency, the secretary of the council of regency, wishes to see you very urgently. There was a pause. Omoy shrugged and spread his hands. This message was for the adjutant general, and he no longer filled the office. Pray tell Major Carather's that I—he was beginning when Lord Wellington intervened. Desire his excellency to step across here. I will see him myself. End of Chapter 20 Read by Peter Strom in the Aconagua Valley, Argentina, on March 6, 2019 Chapter 21 Of the Snare by Raphael Sabatini This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 21 Sanctuary I will withdraw, sir, said Terence, but Wellington detained him. Since dawn, Mike Welle asked for you, you had better remain, perhaps. It is the adjutant general, Dom Mike Welle desires to see, and I am adjutant general no longer. Still, the matter may concern you. I have a notion that it may be concerned with the death of Count Sammel, since I have acquainted the council of regency with the treason practiced by the Count. You had better remain. Gloomy and downcast, sir Terence remained as he was bitten. The sleek and supple secretary of state was ushered in. He came forward quickly, clicked his heels together, and bowed to the three men present. Sirs, your obedient servant. He announced himself, with a courtliness almost out of fashion, speaking in his extraordinary fluent English. His sallow countenance was extremely grave. He seemed even a little ill at ease. I am fortunate to find you here, my lord. The matter, upon which I seek your adjutant general, is of considerable gravity. So much that, of himself, he might be unable to resolve it. I feared you might already have departed for the north. Since you suggest that my presence may be of service to you, I am happy that circumstances should have delayed my departure, was his lordship's courteous answer. A chair, Dom Maiguel. Dom Maiguel Forges accepted the proffered chair, whilst Wellington seated himself at Sir Terence's desk. Sir Terence himself remained standing, with his shoulders to the overmental, whence he faced them both as well as Grant, who, according to his self-effacing habit, remained in the background by the window. I have sought you, began Dom Maiguel, stroking his square chin, on a matter concerned with the late Count Samoval. Immediately upon hearing that the court marshal pronounced the acquittal of Captain Tremaine, his lordship frowned, and his eagle-glance fastened upon the secretary's face. I trust, sir, you have not come to question the finding of the court marshal. Oh, on the contrary. On the contrary. Dom Maiguel was emphatic. I represent not only the council, but the Samoval family as well. Both realize that it is perhaps fortunate, for all concerned, that in arresting Captain Tremaine, the military authorities arrested the wrong man, and both have reason to dread the arrest of the right one. He paused and the frown deepened between Wellington's brows. I am afraid, he said slowly, that I do not quite perceive their concern in this matter. But is it not clear, cried Dom Maiguel? If it were, I should perceive it, said his lordship dryly. Ah, but let me explain, then. A further investigation of the manner in which Count Samoval met his death can hardly fail to bring to light the deplorable practices in which he was engaged. For no doubt Colonel Grant here would consider it his duty in the interests of justice to place before the court. The documents found upon the Count's dead body. If I may permit myself an observation, he continued, looking round at Colonel Grant. It is that I do not quite understand how this has not already happened. There was a pause in which Grant looked at Wellington, as if for direction. But his lordship himself assumed the burden of the answer. It was not considered expedient in the public interest to do so at present, he said. And the circumstances did not place us under the necessity of divulging the matter. There, my lord, if you will allow me to say so, you acted with a delicacy and wisdom which the circumstances may not again permit. Indeed, any further investigation must almost inevitably bring these matters to light. In the effect of such revelation would be deplorable. Deplorable to whom? asked his lordship. To the Count's family and to the Council of Regency. I can sympathize with the Count's family, but not with the Council. Surely, my lord, the Council as a body deserves your sympathy in that it is in danger of being utterly discredited by the treason of one or two of its members. Wellington manifested impatience. The Council has been warned time and again. I am weary of warning, and even of threatening the Council with the consequences of resisting my policy. I think that exposure is not only what it deserves, but the surest means of providing a healthier government in the future. I am weary of picking my way through the web of intrigue with which the Council entangles my movements and my dispositions. Public sympathy has enabled it to hamper me in this fashion. That sympathy will be lost to it by the disclosures which you fear. My lord, I must confess that there is much reason in what you say. He was smoothly conciliatory. I understand your exasperation, but may I be permitted to assure you that it is not the Council as a body that has withstood you, but certain self-seeking members, one or two friends of Principal Sousa, in whose interest the unfortunate and misguided Count Samavel was acting. Your lordship will perceive that the moment is not one in which to stir up public indignation against the Portuguese government. Once the passions of the mob are inflamed, who can say to what links they may not go? Who can say what disastrous consequences may not follow? It is desirable to apply the cottery, but not to burn up the whole body. Lord Wellington considered a moment, fingering an ivory paper knife. He was partly convinced. When I last suggested the cottery, to use your own very apt term, the Council did not keep faith with me. My lord! It did not, sir! It removed Antonio de Sousa, but it did not take the trouble to go further and remove his friends at the same time. They remained to carry on his subversive treacherous intrigues. What guarantees have I that the Council will behave better on this occasion? You have our solemn assurances, my lord, that all those members suspected of complicity in this business or of attachment to the Sousa faction shall be compelled to resign, and you may depend upon the reconstituted Council, loyally, to support your measures. You give me assurances, sir, and I ask for guarantees. Your lordship is in possession of the documents found upon Count Samaval. The Council knows this, and this knowledge will compel it to guard against future intrigues on the part of any of its members, which might naturally exasperate you into publishing those documents. Is not that some guarantee? His lordship considered, and nodded slowly, I admit that it is, yet I do not see how this publicity is to be avoided in the course of the further investigations into the manner in which Count Samaval came by his death. My lord, that is the pivot of the whole matter. All further investigation must be suspended. Sir Terence trembled, and his eyes turned in eager anxiety upon the inscrutable stern face of Lord Wellington. Must, cried his lordship sharply, What else, my lord, in all our interests, exclaimed the secretary, and he rose in his agitation, and what of British justice, sir, demanded his lordship in a forbidding tone. British justice has reason to consider itself satisfied. British justice may assume that Count Samaval met his death in the pursuit of his treachery. He was a spy caught in the act, and there and then destroyed. A very proper fate. Had he been taken, British justice would have demanded no less. It has been anticipated. Cannot British justice, for the sake of British interests, as well as Portuguese interests, be content to leave the matter there. An argument of expediency, eh? said Wellington. Why not, my lord? Does not expediency govern politicians? I am not a politician. But a wise soldier, my lord, does not lose sight of the political consequences of his acts. And he sat down again. Your Excellency may be right, said his lordship. Let us be quite clear, then. You suggest, speaking in the name of the Council of Regency, that I should suppress all further investigations into the manner in which Count Samaval met his death, so as to save his family the shame, and the Council of Regency the discredit which must overtake one and the other if the facts are disclosed, as disclosed they would be that Samaval was a traitor, and a spy in the pay of the French. That is what you ask me to do, in return your Council undertakes, that there shall be no further opposition to my plans for the military defense of Portugal, and that all my measures, however harsh and however heavily they may weigh upon the landowners, shall be punctually and faithfully carried out. That is your Excellency's proposal, is it not? Not so much my proposal, my lord, as my most earnest intercession. We desire to spare the innocent the consequences of the sins of a man who is dead, and well dead. He turned to Omoi, standing there tense and anxious. It was not for Dom Miguel to know that it was the adjutant's fate, that it was being decided. You have been here for a year, and all matters connected with the Council have been treated through you. You cannot fail to see the wisdom of my recommendation. His lordship's eyes flashed round upon Omoi. Ah, yes, he said. What is your feeling in this matter, Omoi? He inquired. His tone and manner void of all expression. Sir Terence faltered and then stiffened. Ah, the matter is one that only your lordship can decide. I have no wish to influence your decision. I see. Ha. And you, Grant, no doubt you agree with Dom Miguel. Most emphatically, upon every Council, replied the Intelligence Officer, without hesitation. I think Dom Miguel offers an excellent bargain, and as he says, we hold a guarantee of its fulfillment. The bargain might be improved, said Wellington slowly. If your lordship will tell me how, the Council I am sure will be ready to do all that lies in its power to satisfy you. Wellington shifted his chair round a little and crossed his legs. He brought his fingertips together, and over the top of them his eyes considered the Secretary of State. Your Excellency has spoken of expediency, political expediency. Sometimes political expediency can overreach itself and perpetrate the most grave injustices. Individuals at times are unnecessarily called upon to suffer, in the interests of a cause. Your Excellency will remember a certain affair at Tovora, some two months ago, the invasion of a convent by a British officer, with rather disastrous consequences, and the loss of some lives. I remember it perfectly, my lord. I have the honor of entertaining sorterrence upon that subject, on the occasion of my last visit here. Quite so, said his lordship, and on the grounds of political expediency. You made a bargain, then, with sorterrence. I understand a bargain which entailed the perpetration of an injustice. I am not aware of it, my lord. Then let me refresh your Excellency's memory upon the facts, to appease the Council of Regency, or rather to enable me to have my way with the Council, and remove the principal Susa. You stipulated for the assurance, so that you might lay it before your Council, that the offending officer should be shot when taken. I could not help myself in the matter, and a moment, sir, that is not the way of British justice, and Sir Terence was wrong to have permitted himself to consent. Though I profoundly appreciate the loyalty to me, the earnest desire to assist me, which led him into enact the cost of which to himself your Excellency can hardly appreciate. But the wrong lay in that, by virtue of this bargain, a British officer was prejudged. He was to be made a scapegoat. He was to be sent to his death when taken, as a peace offering to the people demanded by the Council of Regency. Since all this happened, I have had the facts of the case placed before me. I will go so far as to tell you, sir, that the officer in question has been in my hands for the past hour, that I have closely questioned him, and that I am satisfied, that whilst he has been guilty of conduct, which might compel me to deprive him of his Majesty's commission, and dismiss him from the army, yet that conduct is not such as to merit death. He has chiefly sinned in folly, and want of judgment. I reprove it in the sternest terms, and I deplore the consequences it had. But for those consequences, the nuns of Tavor are almost as much to blame as he is himself. His invasion of their convent was a pure error, committed in the belief that it was a monastery, and as a result of the porter's foolish conduct. Now, Sir Terence's word, given in response to your absolute demands, has committed us to an unjust course, which I have no intention of following. I will stipulate, sir, that your counsel, in addition to the matters undertaken, shall relieve us of all obligation in this matter, leaving it to our discretion to punish Mr. Butler in such manner, as we may consider, condine. In return, your Excellency, I will undertake that there shall be no further investigation into the manner in which Count Samovol came by his death, and consequently no disclosures of the shameful trade in which he was engaged. If your Excellency will give yourself the trouble of taking the sense of your counsel upon this, we may then reach a settlement. The grave anxiety of Dom Miguel's countenance was instantly dispelled. In his relief he permitted himself a smile. My Lord, there is not the need to take the sense of the counsel. The counsel has given me carte blanche to obtain your consent to a suppression of the Samovol affair, and without hesitation I accept the further condition that you make. Sir Terence may consider himself relieved of his parole in the manner of Lieutenant Butler. Then we may look upon the matter as concluded. As happily concluded, my Lord, Dom Miguel rose to make his valedictory oration. It remains to me only to thank your Lordship in the name of the counsel, for the courtesy and consideration with which you have received my proposal, and have granted our petition. Acquainted as I am with the crystalline course of British justice, knowing as I do how it seeks ever to act in the full light of day, I am profoundly sensible of the cost to your Lordship, of the concession you make to the feelings of the Samovol family and the Portuguese government, and I can assure you that they will be accordingly grateful. That is very gracefully said, Dom Miguel, replied his Lordship rising also. The Secretary placed a hand upon his heart, bowing. It is but the poor expression of what I think and feel. And so he took his leave of them, escorted by Colonel Grant, who discreetly volunteered for the office. Left alone with Wellington, Sir Terence heaved a great sigh of supreme relief. In my wife's name, sir, I should like to thank you, but she shall thank you herself for what you have done for me. What have I done for you, oh boy? Wellington's slight figure stiffened perceptibly. His facing glance were cold and haughty. You mistake, I think, or else you did not hear. What I have done, I have done solely upon grounds of political expediency. I had no choice in the matter, and it was not to favour you or out of disregard for my duty, as you seem to imagine, that I acted as I did. Oh, boy, bowed his head, crushed under that rebuff. He clasped and unclasped his hand a moment in his desperate anguish. I understand, he muttered in a broken voice. I beg your pardon, sir. And then Wellington's slender firm fingers took him by the firm. But I am glad, oh, boy, that I had no choice, he added more gently. As a man, I suppose I may be glad that my duty as commander-in-chief placed me under the necessity of acting as I have done. Sir Terence clutched the hand in both his own and wrung it fiercely, obeying an overmastering impulse. Thank you, he cried. Thank you for that. Tush, said Wellington, and then abruptly. What are you going to do, oh, boy? he asked. Do, said oh, boy, and his blue eyes looked pleadingly down into the sternly handsome face of his chief. I am in your hands, sir. Your resignation is, and there it must remain, oh, boy. You understand. Of course, sir. Naturally you could not after this. He shrugged and broke off. But must I go home? he pleaded. What else, and by God, sir, you should be thankful, I think. Very well, was the dull answer, and then he flared out. Faith, it's your own fault for giving me a job of this kind. You knew me. You know that I am just a blunt, simple soldier, that my place is at the head of a regiment, not at the head of an administration. You should have known that by putting me out of my proper element I was bound to get into trouble sooner or later. Perhaps I do, said Wellington. But what am I to do with you now? he shrugged and strode towards the window. You had better go home, oh, boy. Your health has suffered out here, and you are not equal to the heat of summer that is now increasing. That is the reason of this resignation, you understand. I shall be shamed for ever, said oh, boy, do go home when the army is about to take the field. But Wellington did not hear him. Or did not seem to hear him. He had reached the window, and his eye was caught by something that he saw in the courtyard. What the devil's this now, he rapped out. That is one of Sir Robert Crawford's aides. He turned and went quickly to the door. He opened it as rapid steps approached along the passage, accompanied by the jingle of spurs and the clatter of sabretache and trailing sabre. Colonel Grant appeared, followed by a young officer of the light dragoons, who was powdered from head to foot with dust. The youth, he was little more, lurched forward wearily, yet at sight of Wellington he braced himself to attention, and saluted. You appear to have ridden hard, sir. The commander greeted him. From Al Mida in forty-seven hours, my lord, was the answer, with these from Sir Robert, and he proffered a sealed letter. What is your name? Wellington inquired as he took the package. Hamilton, my lord, was the answer. Hamilton of the sixteenth, aid to camp to Sir Robert Crawford, Wellington nodded. That was great horsemanship, Mr. Hamilton, he commended him, and a faint tinge in the lads' haggard cheeks responded to the rare praise. The urgency was great, my lord, replied Mr. Hamilton. The French columns are in movement, Nay and Junot advance to the investment of Ciudad Rodrigo on the first of the month. Already exclaimed Wellington, and his countenance set. The commander, General Hurresti, has sent an urgent appeal to Sir Robert for assistance. And, sir Robert, the question came on a sharp note of apprehension, for his lordship was fully aware that Valor was the better part of Sir Robert Crawford's discretion. Sir Robert asks for orders in his dispatch, and refuses to stir from Almyda without instructions from your lordship. Ah! it was a sigh of relief. He broke the seal and spread the dispatch. He read swiftly. Very well, was all he said. He had reached the end of Sir Robert's letter. I shall reply to this in person and at once. You will be in need of rest, Mr. Hamilton. You had best take a day to recuperate, then follow me to Almyda. Sir Terence, no doubt, will see to your immediate needs. With pleasure, Mr. Hamilton, replied Sir Terence mechanically, for his own concerns weighed upon him at this moment more heavily than the French advance. He pulled the bell-rope, and into the fatherly hands of Mullens, who came in response to the summons, the young officer was delivered. Lord Wellington took up his hat and riding-crop from Sir Terence's desk. I shall leave for the frontier at once, he announced. Sir Robert will need the encouragement of my presence, to keep him within the prudent bounds I have imposed. But I do not know how long, see you, Dad Rodrigo, may be able to hold out. At any moment we may have the French upon the Aguda, and the invasion may begin. As for you, Omoy, this has changed everything. The French and the needs of the case have decided. For the present no change is possible in the administration here in Lisbon. You hold the threads of your office, and the moment is not one in which to appoint another adjutant to take them over. Such a thing might be fatal to the success of the British arms. You must withdraw this resignation." And he proffered the document. Sir Terence recoiled. He went deathly white. I cannot, he stammered. After what happened, I? Sir Wellington's face became set and stern, his eyes blazed upon the adjutant. Oh, boy! he said, and the concentrated anger of his voice was terrifying. If you suggest that any considerations, but those of this campaign, have the least weight with me, in what I now do, you insult me. I yield to no man in my sense of duty, and I allow no private considerations to override it. You are saved from going home in disgrace by the urgency of the circumstances, as I have told you. By that and by nothing else, be thankful then, and in loyally remaining at your post, a face what is past. You know what is doing at Torres Vendres. The works have been under your direction from the commencement. See that they are vigorously pushed forward, and that the lines are ready to receive the enemy in a month's time from now if necessary. I depend upon you, the army and England's honour depend upon you. I bow to the inevitable, and so shall you. Then his sternness relaxed. So much as your commanding officer, now as your friend, and he held out his hand. I congratulate you upon your luck. After this morning's manifestations of it, it should pass into a proverb. Goodbye, Omoi. I trust you, remember. And I shall not fail you, gulped Omoi, whose strong man that he was, found himself almost on the verge of tears. He clutched the extended hand. I shall fix my headquarters for the present at Kellorico. Communicate with me there, and now one other matter. The Council of Regency will no doubt pester you with representations that I should, if time still remains, advance to the relief of Ciudad Rodrigo. Understand that is no part of my plan of campaign. I do not stir across the frontier of Portugal. Here let the French come and find me. I shall be ready to receive them. Let the Portuguese government have no illusions on that point, and stimulate the Council into doing all possible to carry out the destruction of mills and laying waste of the country in the Valley of Montego, and wherever else I have required. Oh, and by the way, you will find your brother-in-law, Mr. Butler, in the guardroom yonder, awaiting my orders. Provide him with a uniform, and bid him rejoin his regiment at once. Recommend him to be more prudent in future, if he wishes me to forget his escapade at Tavora. And in future, Omoi, trust your wife. Again, good-bye. Come, Grant. I have instructions for you, too. But you must take them as we ride. And thus Sir Terence Omoi found sanctuary at the altar of his country's need. They let him incredulously to marvel at the luck, which had so enlisted circumstances to save him, where all had seemed so surely lost an hour ago. He sent a servant to fetch Mr. Butler, the prime cause of all this pother. For all of it can be traced to Mr. Butler's invasion of the Tavora nunnery, and with him went to bear the incredible tidings of their joint absolution, to the three who waited so anxiously in the dining-room. Read by Peter Strom in Marleke, Argentina, on March 8, 2019 Postcriptum of the Snare by Raphael Sabatini Postcriptum. The particular story which I have set myself to relate, of which Terence Omoi was taken in the snare of his own jealousy, may very properly be concluded here. But the greater story, in which it is enshrined, and with which it is interwoven, the story of that other snare, in which my lord Biscount Wellington took the French, goes on. This story is the history of the war in the peninsula. There you may pursue it to its very end, and realize the iron will, and inflexibility of purpose which caused men ultimately to bestow upon him who guided that campaign, the singularly felicitous and fitting sobriquette of the Iron Duke. See you, Dad, Rodrigo's Spanish garrison, capitulated on the 10th of July of that year, 1810, in a wave of indignation, such as must have overwhelmed any but a man of almost superhuman metal, swept up against Lord Wellington, for having stood inactive within the frontiers of Portugal, and never stirred a hand to aid the Spaniards. It was not only from Spain that bitter invective was hurled upon him. British journalism poured scorn and rage upon his incompetence. French journalism held his pousso en amity up to the ridicule of the world. His own officers took shame in their general, and expressed it. And demanded to know how long British honour was to be imperiled by such a man. And finally, the Emperor's great Marshal Messena, gathering his hosts to overwhelm the kingdom of Portugal, availed himself of all his appeal to the Portuguese nation, in terms which the facts would seem to corroborate. He issued his proclamation denouncing the British for the disturbers and mischief makers of Europe, warning the Portuguese that they were the cat's paw of a perfidious nation that was concerned solely with the serving of its own interests and the gratification of its predatory ambitions, and finally summoning them to receive the French as their true friends and saviours. The nation stirred uneasily, so far no good had come to them of their alliance with the British. Indeed, Wellington's policy of devastation had seemed to those upon whom it fell more horrible than any French invasion could have been. But Wellington held the reins, and his grip never relaxed or slackened, and here let it be recorded that he was nobly and stately served in Lisbon by Sir Terence Omoy. Sure upon the council resulted in the measures demanded, being carried out. But much time had been lost through the intrigues of the sous-affection. With the result that those measures, although prosecuted now more vigorously, never reached the full extent which Wellington had desired. Treachery too stepped in to shorten the time still further. Almeida, garrisoned by Portuguese and commanded by Colonel Cox and a British staff, should have held a month. But no sooner had the French appeared before it, on the 26th of August, than a powder magazine, traitorously fired, exploded and breached the wall, rendering the place untenable. To Wellington this was perhaps the most vexatious of all things in that vexatious time. He had hoped to detain Messena before Almeida, until the reins should have set in, when the French would have found themselves struggling through a sodden, waterlogged country, through bridgeless floods and a land bereft of all that could sustain the troops. Still what could be done Wellington did, and did it nobly. Fighting a rearguard action, he fell back upon the grim and naked ridges to Boussaco, where at the end of September he delivered a battle and a murderous detaining wound upon the advancing hosts of France. That done he continued the retreat through Coimbra, and now as he went he saw to it that the devastation was completed along the line of march. What corn and provisions could not be carried off were burnt or buried, and the people forced to quit their dwellings and march with the army. A pathetic southward exodus of men and women, old and young, flocks of sheep and herds of cattle, creaking bullet carts laden with provinder and household goods, leaving behind them a country bare as the Sahara, where hunger before long should grip the French army too far committed. Now to pause. In advancing and overtaking must lie Messena's hope. Surely in Lisbon he must bring the British to bay, and breaking them, open out at last his way into a land of plenty. Thus thought Messena, knowing nothing of the lines of Taurus Vedrus, and thus too thought the British government at home, itself declaring that Wellington was ruining the country to no purpose. Since in the end the British must be driven out with terrible loss and infamy that must make their name an opprobrium in the world. But Wellington went his relentless way, and at the end of the first week of October brought his army and the multitude of refugees safely within the amazing lines. The French, pressing hard upon their heels, and confident that the end was near, were brought up sharply before these stupendous, unsuspected, impregnable fortifications. After spending the best part of a month in vain, reconnoitering, Messena took up his quarters at Santerreum, and thence the country was scoured for what scraps of victuals had been left to relieve the dire straits of the famished host of France. How the great marshal contrived to hold out so long in Santerreum against the onslaught of famine and concomitant disease remains something of a mystery, an appeal to the emperor for succour, eventually brought droid with provisions. But these were no more than would keep his men alive on a retreat into Spain. In that retreat he commenced early in the following march. By when no less than ten thousand of his army had fallen sick. Instantly Wellington was up and after him. The French retreat became a flight. They threw away baggage and ammunition that they might travel to lighter. Thus they fled towards Spain, harassed by the British cavalry, and scarcely less by the resentful peasantry of Portugal, their line of march defined by an unbroken trail of carcasses, until the tattered remnants of that once splendid army found shelter across the co-era. Beyond this Wellington could not continue the pursuit, for lack of means to cross the swollen river, and also because provisions were running short. But there for the moment he might rest content. His immediate object achieved, and his stern strategy supremely vindicated. On the heights above the yellow turgid flood rode Wellington with a glittering staff that included Omoye and Marais the quartermaster general. Through his telescope he surveyed with silent satisfaction the straggling columns of the French that were being absorbed by the evening mist from the sodden ground. Omoye at his side looked on without satisfaction. To him the clothes of this phase of the campaign which had justified his remaining in office meant the reopening of that painful matter that had been left in suspense by circumstances since that June day of last year at Monsanto. The resignation then refused from motives of expediency must again be tendered and must now be accepted. Abruptly upon the general stillness came a sharp humming sound. Within a yard of the spot where Wellington sat his horse a handful of soil heaved itself up and fell in a tiny scattered shower. Immediately elsewhere in a dozen places was the phenomenon repeated. There was too much glitter about the staff uniforms, the vindictive French sharpshooters were finding them an attractive mark. They are firing on us, sir! cried Omoye on a note of sharp alarm. So I perceive, Lord Wellington answered calmly, and leisurely he closed his glass, so leisurely that Omoye, in impatient fear of his chief, spurred forward and placed himself as a screen between him and the line of fire. Lord Wellington looked at him with a faint smile. He was about to speak when Omoye pitched forward and rolled headlong from the saddle. They picked him up unconscious, but alive, and for once Lord Wellington was seen to blench as he flung down from his horse to inquire the nature of Omoye's hurt. His was not fatal, but as it afterwards proved, it was grave enough. He had been shot through the body, the right lung had been grazed and one of his ribs broken. Two days later, after the bullet had been extracted, Lord Wellington went to visit him in the house where he was quartered. Bending over him and speaking quietly, his lordship said that which brought a moisture to the eyes of Sir Terence, and a smile to his pale lips. What actually were his lordship's words, may be gathered from the answers he received. You're entirely wrong then, and it's mighty glad I am. For now I need no longer hand you my resignation. I can be invalid at home. So he was, and thus it happens, that not until now, when this chronicle makes the latter public, does the knowledge of Sir Terence's single, but grievous departure from the path of honour go beyond the few who were immediately concerned with it. They kept faith with him because they loved him, and because they understood all that went to the making of his sin they condoned it. If I have done my duty as a faithful chronicler, you who read, understanding too, won't take satisfaction in that it was so. End of Post-Cryptom End of The Snare by Raphael Sabatini Read by Peter Strom and Malarque Argentina On March 9, 2019