 CHAPTER 51 THE LAST INSPIRATION OF LUCINDA LUCINDA sat in the twilight. There was not a nerve of her at rest. Her bosom beat a broken melody. Her hands were at work with her rings and her chain. She changed her cushions and her posture each moment. Royced and tearing too long. She had no fear for him. Though he had failed her, she had never doubted of the final victory of his brutal strength and adroitness. She feared him too much. But she was hungry for certain tidings of the other's fate. To be sure of his death that was the best thing life could give. So she might quench her hopeless yearning when freedom again be again the mistress of her own body and mind and use their old delights. She hated him as a prisoner of his bonds. He dared impose himself upon her passion and chain her with regrets. His death must be no mere revenge, though that was sweet. But release! Full freedom of all herself. She could not dream of love reaching beyond the grave. While she fretted there, sudden, silent, a man stood before her. Colonel Strotsy saluted with a grin. She lay back on her cushion still and quite calm. You are bold, she said. I think you did not know Colonel Royston. And she laughed. Good sir, he will get you hanged as lightly as I breathe. Colonel Strotsy continued to smile. There was some little matter of a contract, madame, he suggested. And for hanging? Why not he, as well as I? Lucinda shrugged daintily. Faith, I know not, nor care. Strotsy came a step nearer. Be sure, madame, that you will not laugh at me. You are more amusing than you suppose, my poor friend. Yes, you have cheated me neatly, it is admitted. And now the last act begins. Last night your Bellamy, George Royston, sustained the attack of the Palatine. I hear his dispositions were most soldierly. In fine, he shone resplendent. But there was a contract, madame, Lomaruse. And this is not what he was paid for. Blame yourself for your own folly, cry, Lucinda. You were given your chance at the generals and you blundered it. That is another hair, my dear, said Strotsy pleasantly. I choose to run down the first. There were certain monies paid, I am not used to pay for nothing, and I do not like it. The position, sweetheart, is this. George Royston has played double with me, and it is a liberty I do not permit. He will convey back the money he had, or I will convey the whole story to the generals. And so get yourself hanged, Lucinda laughed. Yes, sir, I believe that. Strotsy smiled at her. You did not understand me, my dear. I resent being cheated. It is true that I may get myself in some danger. I shall not care if I cry quits with that dear Royston. Believe me, my love, I shall. If he will surrender the better for him. If not, Strotsy's amiable smile broadened, the more pleasure for me. Shall we hang together, dear? Zip! La-la-la-la! He made the sound of the jerking rope and danced a grotesque parody of the writhing body. Vida watched very still. Why are you so bitter against him, she said? It was not he. It was Colonel Stowe that spoiled your plan. Strotsy's smile was swiftly gone. His eyes gleamed hate. Another of your damned lovers, he said. Your desires are too general, mistress. Then he laughed again. Well. He is paid. Fat Tom broke his skull in before the lobsters came. You fool, said Lucinda quietly. They have him here alive. Strotsy spat a hissing Italian oath. But you lie, he cried. He gripped her neck and turned her face roughly to what light there was. Do you not lie, strumpet? While their eyes fought there was the sound of footsteps in the flagged passage below, and a voice. Mr. Sreistin! Mr. Sreistin! Is she within? Lucinda started up. It is Ierton! She said in a swift whisper and flung open the door of her bedroom. Go in! Go in! Into the holy of holies! Strotsy sneered as he went. Then she threw herself upon the cushions again and composed herself with much grace. But her bosom was wild, and the heavy foot on the stair maddened her with its delay. It was Ierton. He bowed to her with a grave respect. I come on a sad errand, madame. Pray, believe my regret. Why? You talk riddles, sir. The answer is short enough, madame. Your husband has lately confessed to our horrible treason. Ierton looked at her curiously. I, madame, finding a friend of his, a Colonel Stowe of the King's Army in danger by his offence, he confessed all to the generals in council. There was a silence a moment. Lucinda drew a long breath. Sure, that is mighty noble in him, she said in a low voice. But pray! What had he to confess? Madame, you have heard that a wicked attack was made upon the generals last night. At noon a court was held to try a prisoner, this Colonel Stowe, for his sharing it. He told an honest tale, but because he would not say what he knew of the guilty was much in danger, was likely to suffer. Then moved by his peril, Colonel Royston did confess all, that himself was a leader in this devilish design, having sold himself to one strutsy an Italian to procure the general's murder. Oh, sir! What mighty villainy is this? Ierton did not understand her tone. Yay! And in the very camp of the godly! I, I feel for your shame, said Ierton. You are most gracious. It is at least some pleasure to add that the court found room for mercy. It was held that Colonel Royston's honourable confession did absolve him from the common doom of traitors. Only his command is taken from him. He is to fight in the ranks. This is mercy indeed, said Lucinda in a low voice. Ierton, peering at her through the gloom, could see that she sat at her ease still and unshaken by any sorrow. I would only say this beside. If I can serve you in your present need, Madame, I would desire it. He waited a while. She answered nothing. He made his bow and left her. She was much of a puzzle to him. But since his own taste was for a daughter of Cromwell, she occupied him little. In what torment he left her, you may guess. If the pain in another be the dew of pain, Colonel Stowe's griefs were well avenged. This last blow smote most bitterly. It was enough that he should bring to nothing her scheme of grandeur. To win back the friends she had stolen from him he could have dealt no cruel or wound. She knew shame. Each hour that she had made herself the plaything of Royston's desires came back to sting her pride. He cared no more than she. She had given her all, and at the first chance he turned back from her to his friend. They made of her a wanton of the camp. The sweat was on her brow and she trembled. Truly he had his revenge. He kept his own honour. He kept his friend's love. Aye, she had won that friend to her husband. But he made the very victory pain. She was left to a common soldier that loathed her. She moaned under the lash. It was not of her nature to try the past again, to seek how she had been in fault or hold herself to blame. She was a creature of passion and unconquerable will. Now the pain lashed her into sharper hate. She gathered herself together and crouched upon the cushions like a wild beast waiting to spring. So Strotsy found her. He tapped her shoulder before she saw him. You heard, she said hoarsely. It seems the bell on me has cheated me again. He, what does he matter? He is but a fool. Tis the other has beaten you, this cursed Colonel Stowe. Do you not see? I see, said Strotsy. Well, tis he is our ruin. He spoils all and gains by it. They acquit him. They honour him, these fools. Are you a man? Do you dare? Do not be afraid, said Strotsy. She started up. Do you need anything? Are you equipped? Strotsy laughed. CHAPTER 52 Lucinda goes out to the night. Lucinda stole out. Night lay heavy and dark, and the broad street was still. The new model army suffered no roisterers nor loungers, but it was early yet, and many a window shone with homely light. She had her plan. Ayrton had been amiable. A pathetic tale to Ayrton would doubt let's find out where Colonel Stowe might be. But she had no need of it. In an upper room, his face sharp outlined between her and the light, she saw the face that haunted her. She shrank back into the shadow, gazing with greedy eyes. Eye. It was he. The clear peel of his laughter came through the open casement, and she shuddered. That was his brother at the foot of the table, and by his right hand smiling, they mure. You may fancy the words Lucinda found for her. Joan Normandy. Hate spurred her shamed heart anew. She heard the pleasant happy nothings of intimate talk, and sped away like a ghost frightened of human things. He dared. He dared be happy. To that dark chamber where Strotsy waited she came breathless. Only a plump gentleman strolling with a contemplative evening pipe had marked her flitting. I have found him. He is with his brother, close by the grammar school. I saw him through the lighted window. So Strotsy gathered his cloak. That suffices. What will you do? Kian Sabay. I shall not lose him. Goodbye, my dear. He took her by the shoulders. You ought to have been mine, you know. I'll try a taste of you. He caught her to him and kissed her at his will, laughing at the struggle of instinct. Yes, you have all the tricks. So now, sweetheart, you had best know no more of me. My love to the next man. And he was gone. But Lucinda followed. He had hardly found the shadow of a dark entry when she was beside him. He muttered a foul Italian proverb in her ear and translated with a chuckle. But she hardly heard. Her mind was set on those happy people in the light. All that had gone before was easy to bear against that. Envy and covetousness of sex and fierce mad hate made hell of her heart. At last the happy folk were moving. They passed from the lighted room. Colonel Strotsy lounged across the road, wholly at ease, and Lucinda sped after him. The door opened and David Stowe stood on the threshold looking out. He drew back and Joan Normandy came, little gray cloaked. Then Colonel Stowe. Strotsy saw and darted forward with swift silent strides, his sword bare, hidden behind him. The door was shut. Joan put her hand in Colonel Stowe's arm and they walked on into the dark. Strotsy sped on and Lucinda followed him close. Even as they passed the door, it opened again and Alcibiades came out with a cry, On guard! and bounded after Strotsy. Colonel Stowe flung Joan Normandy on and sprang round plucking at his sword. But Lucinda cast herself on him, pinioning his arm and Strotsy thrust at his heart. The blade sped through Lucinda's side and breast, and as Strotsy went down with his spine stabbed asunder and alcibiades upon him, Lucinda swayed heavily and her blood ran down upon Colonel Stowe. He held her away from him, peering where the steel was set in her, but she hung lifeless in his arms. Joan came to him crying wildly, Are you hurt? Are you hurt? Nay, not I, said Colonel Stowe. She saw Lucinda's face and gave a strange, passionate cry. She! She saved you! David Stowe was beside him now and Alcibiades was up and many a man hurrying. Colonel Stowe laid Lucinda down and drew off his cloak and covered her. Yes, she saved me, he said. It was over. End of chapter 52 Chapter 53 of Colonel Greatheart This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Mary Herndon Bell Colonel Greatheart by H. C. Bailey Chapter 53 Colonel Stowe Knows Himself Waking late after a great payment of overdue sleep, Colonel Stowe went to the window in his brother's bed-gown. The morning mists were gone. Red roof and mellowing tree stood sharp in the sunlight and the grass was a carpet of jewels. Much had passed with the night. He rested in a strange peace, yet hardly dared permit himself rest. It was Matthew Mark beside him with a tray. Zooms the evangelist. Matthew Mark beamed. How came you here? Matthew Mark groaned. Sir, says he recovering himself, I could not believe you would have the heart to eat anything unless I cooked it. Faith, Matthew, Quoth Colonel Stowe taking him by the shoulder, you serve me mightily better than I serve you. Now that is what I complain of, said Matthew Mark peevishly, you always forget your place. And the truth is I came here because of a comely maiden, a demoiselle of honor, who surpasses her sex and wants to marry me. Alas, her one fault, sir, the fly in the ointment. And Matthew Mark told his tale and Colonel Stowe ate his breakfast. In the shadow of the church where she was wed, they made Lucinda's grave and she lay at rest with roses on her brow. Royston came, but the grave was between him and Colonel Stowe. There was no word spoken, for no help lay in words. Royston guessed the truth. But to all others Lucinda died in honor. The thing was plain, Strozzi was the villain, in a rage of revenge for his failure he had broken into Lucinda's lodging, seeking Royston's blood. Balked in that, he bethought himself of Colonel Stowe. But Lucinda had divined his intent and followed and paid her husband's treason with her life. Strozzi was flung to a nameless hole in the fields and over her they set a white stone. True Noble Heart You may fancy Strozzi in that world beyond the grave with his natural smile. Before the army marched Fairfax desired Colonel Stowe to wait on him and Colonel Stowe, obedient, found him with Irton, a pair not often coupled. The truth is, doubtless, that each in his own way, Fairfax, a frank, soldierly Christian with no taste for exuberant religion and a strain of reckless chivalry. Irton, who loved the extremes of his own faith, not much better than the High Cavaliers, and was feeling already for a band of moderate, practical men, they felt in Colonel Stowe a kinship. Fairfax welcomed him heartily like a proved friend. Irton put on a reasonable deity and Colonel Stowe found himself comparing their ease with the swashbuckler manners of Rupert and the dreary haughtiness of the King. There was something, yet not too much of thanks. Then Irton, since we're frank, sir, I have wondered more than at little what took you to the side of the King. Sir, I must allow you to wonder. Well, I have never been one of those who see no reason of his party, but I think it has been plain for long with no hope of fair dealing in him. You are fighting for that opinion, sir. Fairfax broke out. We have nothing to hide, sir. Why should you? Can you fight for the King again?" Colonel Stowe hesitated, but he knew there was no reason. He was forever done with that cause. I shall not, sir, he said deliberately. Thank God for that, cried Fairfax. You are in the right, said Irton. Sir, it's not you desert the cause, but the cause deserts you. There's no place in it now for honest men. The past is past. The only hope for England now is in us. We can bring back the law and peace and strength. Is it worth fighting for? Older friends of the King than you have thought so. In fine, sir, will you join us? cried Fairfax. Colonel Stowe did not answer. Something in this kind he had foreseen, but he was not ready for it. We owe you no less than a place of some honour, said Irton softly. Fairfax made a sound of disdain. Sir, you've shown us that no cause can bind you to dishonour. There's a matter above the King's cause or ours, the common wheel of England. Only our victory can serve that. If the King were another, I do not say, and it's no matter. Now who fights for England fights for us. Still, Colonel Stowe did not answer. Why, do you doubt it? cried Fairfax impatient. Colonel Stowe looked up. No, sir, not that. What is it then? Fairfax beat on the table. Speak out, man! There is a majority and the first regiment, said Irton, if all goes well. Fairfax stood up. Well, take your time. Let us hear from you tonight. I thank you heartily, said Colonel Stowe, and went out. He was tempted. A regiment in the best army of the world was a splendid prize for his heart. He loved his trade, and here was the finest chance to work at it a man could hope. He saw a new fortune given him. In his life he might yet redeem his hopes. Old dreams rose again, imperious and splendid. How could he dare deny them? It was to play the coward, to fail himself. If he had faith in his own manhood he must challenge fate again. What occasion so fair? Surely he could find no way of life so happy. The chance and strain of war was very heaven to his eager temper and swift mind. I, on all counts, the prize was good. But he longed for it too much to grasp it hastily. Out beyond the town on the level road, through the smiling golden corn he went, gazing at the sky in thought. Indeed, this fell the very matter of his own desire. He was hungry to prove himself greater than the chain of defeat and plot, to charge again in victory. The old boyish love of flashing deeds rose in him. If he did so much with that rabble of a regiment in that welter of folly with the king, what might he achieve now? He was the better soldier by two campaigns, by a new skill in hedgerow and highway fighting. He permitted himself joyful vistas of triumph. Fairfax should have a good bargain. Why not? What hindered? He was his own man. He owed nothing to the king. His loyalty was freed when he was cast into the gloom of bocado. No man could condemn him. He had no faintest censure for himself. Yet he faltered. There was a doubt, a doubt that rose stronger and stronger the more he desired. Once before he had chosen a cause for which he had no faith. He told himself that this was mightily different. It was certain, to any soldier it was certain as day and night that the Puritans would conquer. Was that enough? Against his will he knew that he had no more faith in Puritan than king. He could not hold their creed. He could not believe that Englishmen would bend to their over saintly rule. He saw no peace in their victory. Half angry with himself for excrupulous fool that must needs be wiser than the men of his day. Half sad. He drove himself to confess that he was made for neither cause. He could not believe in the king. He could not believe in the Puritan. Was it so much matter? He was a plain soldier. Nay, but fighting for a cause he could not hold, he had gone too near shame or again. What then remained? Go back to the corn in the cattle? Live for the plow? He gave a doleful sigh. Surely a man had a right to risk something rather than face that vegetable life. If he ventured on her why there was something not base in the venture. And while he let the vision of triumph come again he found himself looking into the maiden honesty of Jones eyes. Well, and what of her? She had some right to command him and she would desire him take her cause. If he dared hope for her beneath his heart sure he must consent to fight for her. That was bare manhood. Nay, what welcome would she have for him else? If he denied her, if he refused her he knew she would bid him go. She too went with the prize. He was tempted. He had come near the place where he had seen her first. The low-thatched houses of Chinner were close and above them the beech woods golden and gray rose in one close army to the white edge of the sky. He remembered it all. His own gay blood and her passion of righteousness. Aye, he needed her. All the eager strengthened him longed for her purity. Sure there was nothing else in the world made a man so glad of himself as such maidenhood. He might take her if he would swear her faith. Take her and all else that he wanted still. End of Chapter 53 Chapter 54 of Colonel Great Heart This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Mary Herndon Bell Colonel Great Heart by H. C. Bailey Chapter 54 Colonel Stowe explains himself His brother was waiting for him in plain impatience. Colonel Stowe had nothing to say. The general was to have made you an offer I have heard. I have answered it, said Colonel Stowe. Well, in the morning I go home. He looked up and saw his brother's face. I am sorry, lad. David Stowe sighed. You were still against us then. Nay, not that either. I think I was born out of time. I can find no faith that fits my soul nor no cause that I dare fight for. And so he gave a whimsical smile. And so I will ingo into my corner and cry like a child because the world has no room for me. I would to God that you were one of us, said David Stowe, passionately. And I would thank God for your heart that I might be. Lad, lad, do I not yearn to be all of your cause? There's a thousand desires bid me join you, and one above all. Well, each has his own soul to work out. Unto the glory of God. I, unto the glory of God, Colonel Stowe repeated. Forgive me, lad, I cannot find my work in your faith. I can see no fruit in your hopes. The England you would make is no place for common men. You put your trust in a people of saints. The kingdom of God upon earth, cried David Stowe. And do you not pray, thy kingdom come. He pleaded his creed with a passionate strength they would be prelate and king, and each man would be free and use his freedom to do the will of God. England should be a land of stern labour and passionate worship with no thought of other matter. The army, and not England only, the hour had come for a new crusade. The army of saints must go forth into all the earth and conquer all for God. Colonel Stowe listened, and his face grew sad. God help you, he said slowly. Oh, lad, we are not all Cromwells. Who else could work such dreams as these? We have to work for human men. Again the brother pleaded with him in the zeal of his religion, quickened by honest love. Plainly their cause was conquering. God made ready his kingdom. The saints should triumph and multiply and subdue all things unto them. In flashes of strange power he showed a quaint picture of a Puritan England, a Puritan world behold the will of God incarnate. Colonel Stowe shook his head. How much would I give to believe it, he said with a bitter smile? I tell you I have tried all my strength today to persuade myself unto it. I came near to cheat my own soul. His brother was silent. They changed a glance of understanding and lingered together a long while. Well, I have a good bye to say, said Colonel Stowe. I am sorry, his brother said. I am sorry. At the gate of the hospital Colonel Stowe asked for Mistress Normandy and being admitted crossing the pleasant turf of the clothes he found her. She awaited him still and very pale. She seemed to have lost something of her charm. He had never seen her afraid before. I come to bid you farewell, madame, said Colonel Stowe. I—I have heard the army marches. I go home. He would not look at her. He heard the murmur of bees among the honeysuckle. The wind stirred lightly in the treetops and a faded leaf fluttered slowly by. Oh, I was told the general would give you a command. He honoured me so. I find that I cannot fight for him. She drew in her breath. You are still for the king? Not that, either. Faith, madame, I am a weakling that can take no side heartily and so slink off. You are done with fighting? She said quickly. Colonel Stowe gave a grim laugh. Oh, I—the sword is a plowshare now and I walk in the furrow. I have done. Why—why then you will be quite safe always? She said in a low voice. Colonel Stowe laughed. Oh, yes, I preserve myself. That's vastly pleasant. There may be work for you. I—with the cattle. I did not mean to hurt you, she said, and her lip quivered. Forgive me, child. I know your heart cannot live with sneers. You have been the sweetest thing in my life. Believe me, I have longed to fight for you. But I cannot dare. Your faith is not for me. So here's an end. God keep you. He held out his hand. Her eyes sought his bravely. Blood stole back to her cheeks. You are in haste, she said. There's no more use in words. So they must all be yours? Colonel Stowe allowed himself a melancholy smile. She too would be pleading then. Well, he had conquered his own longing. I am your servant, he said, with plain regret. Had you thought I might want to make an end too? She said with something of a shy laugh in her eyes. Not this one? Madam, I would to God that it might be, said Colonel Stowe miserably. I have used all my strength to be like you. Oh! she was plainly surprised. I would not desire that. I cannot be of your army, of your cause, of your faith. She considered him with eyes grave as his own. Perhaps you did not desire. We'll not talk of that, said Colonel Stowe, and avoided her eyes. Her sigh was something weary. I do not think God would have every man alike, she said. And truly all cannot come to him by the same way. But surely it needs not that they should hate each other. I shall honour you all my life, child, said Colonel Stowe. She frowned a little, and the wide eyes were troubled. One does not seek that, that another should be just as one's self. And on a sudden she was all trembling. If—if one were let serve, and he cared to help— Colonel Stowe woke at last. He snatched at her hands and drew her close. As her breast touched his, she was still again. He looked down into her shining eyes. She did not deny him, but her cheeks were crimson. It's for me, child, he said hoarsely. But she cried out and started away. Ah, no, no! Not unless you need me utterly, unless I bring you life. He smiled a little. You are not sure, and we must not, she cried in a piteous voice. Unless you are bidden, unless you can no other, I had rather die. I have been fighting my heart all day, child, said Colonel Stowe. It's the want of you bad me take the General's commission. I have almost fancied myself puritan by heaven. I have all but played my own soul false for fear of losing you. You—she said in a low voice of a mother scorn, and looked at him most lovely, smiling through tears, worshiping. It was you gave me desire of life again. It's no worth, child, if you will not give me life too, yourself, yourself. She let him draw her close, and he held her, and she bowed her head on his breast. She was still and silent a long time, then looked up with a little quaint smile. You want me so? I want life and the work of life. I can not find it without you. So. It is so, she murmured, and her arms stow about him. End of Chapter 54 Chapter 55 of Colonel Great Heart This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Mary Herndon Bell Colonel Great Heart by H. C. Bailey Chapter 55 The Master of All The homestead at Broadfields welcomed them again. It was an afternoon of sunshine, when Alcibiady found Molly behind a cow with melancholy. He accused her of it. You are jealous, said Molly, because I am going to be a bride. I can certainly never be that, said Alcibiady with a sigh. Would that I could, for your sake. And I was thinking, Molly continued, of my duty to him. Poor Wretch, said Alcibiady, and left her to it. He found Matthew Mark with melancholy in the rickyard. He praised domestic bliss. Matthew Mark exploded. I adore it. Do you understand? I adore it. What more do you want? It is very gentlemanly of you, my dear, said Alcibiady. Matthew Mark snorted for some time and then became pensive. Any man that is a man would sell his boots to be her husband. That is true. The cook told me so. She told me so many times. She is no artist, either, as a cook or otherwise. But I do not even have to sell my boots. Why do you think she wants to be my wife? My poor friend, Alcibiady remonstrated with such modesty. Every woman who sees you must want. But that will be very embarrassing afterwards, said Matthew Mark. Marriage, said Alcibiady, is a proof of faith, a test of love, and an opportunity for charity. But the greatest of these is charity. Charity, said Matthew Mark, suffereth much, and is blind. I have such good eyes. Believe me, said Alcibiady, they are nothing to hers. The more I think of it, said Matthew Mark, with decision, the less I understand it. It is the right mark of a husband, Alcibiady assured him. At which point Molly, who had been observing them for some time, arrived. My dear, she cried, holding out her arms to Matthew Mark. Precisely, said Alcibiady, and accepted her. Matthew Mark swore in joyful French. But Molly was trembling and crying a little. Fie, said Alcibiady, remember that you are a bride. It is more than you deserve, indeed, said Molly to his shoulder. You may say the same of every man alive. We are all born innocent, some escape punishment. Molly laughed down at Matthew Mark. It is his folly, you know, that makes me feel safe with him. Matthew Mark began to sing a love song with fervor. Thereby attracted, Mr. Stowe came across the rickyard and found Alcibiady with Molly in an ambiguous position. Why, my lass, quote he with a chuckle, I thought you had made a mistake. If you please, sir, I never did, said Molly. It was a day of harvest. The sky lay cloudless and lucid, but pale, and on the near horizon pearly gray. All the air was still and heavy with ripe fragrance, and the cornfield laughed through a golden haze. On the orchard bank, in among the marjoram, Colonel Stowe lay and contemplated the world. He was little used to the occupation, and it irked. But the contemplative life was plainly his portion, and he set himself to it without pity. Truly his lines were fallen in pleasant places. The great homestead, all crimson and orange, the rich lands of the Vale, golden brown to harvest, they were good to see and sure warrant of comfortable days. Ease, it was doubtless something to give thanks for, but hardly the best a man could desire. He looked away to the hills. Vast in the haze and far they stood, like power incarnate, towering with bluff shoulders, stern and dark and bare, above the suites of harvest. I, to them, his soul was akin. He wanted the hard life of power to breathe the roaring wind of fight and break the crash of the storm. The delight of straining strength was heaven to him. He was granted the life of the Vale. Well, one could take it with a smile. One would not employ lamentations, for one was already sufficiently ridiculous. A gentleman who could find nothing to fight for was plainly too good for this world, like the white pigs one killed before they were winged. But it was curious. He had not been want to think himself so superfine. He protested to his conscience he was even as other men and wholly a man of his day. Yet plainly there was no cause in it to content him. More thought brought no change of purpose. He was ever the more assured he had done well to draw back. I, every hour he was less cavalier and less puritan. He would whistle king and bishop down the wind for a free man's right to his own mind, and for that same right laugh at all the savoury vessels of Puritan sainthood. He was confirmed in a zeal of moderation. But that was no standard to rally battalions, no cause for his England. Doubtless a day might come when the land might be weary of either faith. But there was no herald of it yet, and the daisies would be a flower on his grave before it dawned. He who had prided himself that he was not a man of tomorrow, it was certainly painful to be at odds with his own day. And still one might take it with a smile. He owed her that. Such as she quelled all the regret of broken hopes and deeds unachieved. Upon her heart he knew the pure gladness of living, the joy of life because it is life, the most wonderful of all a man knows or feels. She, with her dour of purity and quick womanhood, what more dare a man ask of God? I, truly, in the days of dreams there had been wild hours of throbbing delight. They could not fade. God save her. God who gave her into a troublous world with little help. God forgive a man who failed. Well, it was done. But there was no reckoning between those hours in the new life. Peace had come, not of weariness or sleep, but that perfect peace of the freedom of strength. She needed all and gave all in utter faith. And that became the very life of life. Surely with her there must be joy and the quiet mind to the end. The end? Nay, there could be no end to this. The life he lived with her could not die when their bodies were wearied out. That was the greatest in all her gifts. Of old death had been but death to him, no matter to fear indeed, rather the bitter herb that gave life keen savor, but still at the last life's poison. Now it was something kindly and welcome in its hour. When death's task was done, the life she had made must rise at last in the perfect union which the world's way would not suffer. He turned to see Joan standing with the sunlight on her bosom and her face laughing from the shadow. Truly the world's way was good. Colonel Stowe resigned the contemplative life. She was in his arms beyond hope, all fragrant delicately panting, with dark roses in her cheeks, when, behold, one the noise of whose roaring went before him. It was a small, sturdy child, who cantered upon fat legs, wielding a lance of holly-hawk. Sir, said Colonel Stowe, who are you? I am St. George, said the child, and you are the dragon. On which beast he then held havoc with saintly zeal. Colonel Stowe exhibited a decent terror. But in the very moment of tidy slaughter St. George detected an impropriety. What is that lady? He said in Coalry-proof. Sir, said Colonel Stowe, she is the dragon's wife. You did not ought to have one at all, said St. George. I shall take her white away, at which the dragon wept. That is silly, said St. George. You ought to war! In straight way the dragon ran at him, roaring, and St. George fled with joyful screams. But returning smoked the dragon a mortal thrust in the region of the lower shin, so that he sat upon the orchard bank and gave up the ghost in very delectable groans. Antony Jewamiah Higgs said he, you have been the death of me, which I think unkind. But I have booked my lance, said Antony Jewamiah Higgs, make me another. Sir, you are unreasonable, said the dead dragon. But I want it, said Antony Jewamiah Higgs, preserving the absolute calm of monarchial minds. That is certainly a reason, said the dead dragon, and came to life. I, said Antony Jewamiah Higgs, plaintively, I am not allowed to cut things out of the hedge. And he looked with intent at Colonel Stowe. But I am, said Colonel Stowe, so you see the use of keeping dragons about you. I will not kill you again today, said Antony generously. It is a consideration. Lead on, said Colonel Stowe. And Antony Jewamiah bounded away. But Colonel Stowe lingered to draw Joan to his side. Slowly they went, smiling at the child, silent. Joan blushed, and yielding all herself to Colonel Stowe's insistent arm was held very close. She let her fair head lie upon his breast. She trembled. End of Colonel Great Heart by H. C. Bailey.