 1 The Affair at Tavora It is established beyond doubt that Mr. Butler was drunk at the time. This rests upon the evidence of Sergeant Flanigan and the troopers who accompanied him, and it rests upon Mr. Butler's own word, as we shall see. And let me add here and now that however wild and irresponsible a rascal he may have been, yet by his own lights he was a man of honour, incapable of falsehood, even though it were calculated to save his skin. I do not deny that Sir Thomas Picton has described him as a thieving blackguard, but I am sure that this was merely the downright rather extravagant manner of censure peculiar to that distinguished general, and that those who have taken the expression at its purely literal value have been lacking at once in charity, and in knowledge of the caustic uncompromising terms of speech of General Picton, whom Lord Wellington, you will remember, called a rough, foul-mouthed devil. In further extinuation it may truthfully be urged that the whole hideous and odious affair was the result of a mishaprehension, although I cannot go so far as one of Lieutenant Butler's apologists and accept the view that he was the victim of a deliberate plot on the part of his two-genial host at Ragoa. That is a misconception easily explained. This host's name happened to be Sousa, and the apologist in question has very rashly leapt at the conclusion that he was a member of the notoriously intriguing family of which the chief members were the principal Sousa of the Council of Regency at Lisbon, and the chevalier Sousa, Portuguese minister to the court of St. James. Created with Portugal, our apologist was evidently in ignorance of the fact that the name of Sousa is almost as common in that country as the name of Smith in this. He may also have been misled by the fact that principal Sousa did not neglect to make the utmost capital out of the affair, thereby increasing the difficulties with which Lord Wellington was already contending as a result of incompetence and deliberate malice on the part both of the ministry at home and of the administration in Lisbon. Indeed, but for these factors it is unlikely that the affair could ever have taken place at all, if there had been more energy on the part of Mr. Percival and the members of the cabinet, if there had been less bad faith in self-seeking on the part of the opposition, Lord Wellington's campaign would not have been starved as it was, and if there had been less bad faith in self-seeking of an even more stupid and flagrant kind on the part of the Portuguese Council of Regency, the British expeditionary force would not have been left without the stipulated supplies and otherwise hindered at every step. Lord Wellington might have experienced the mental agony of Sir John Moore under similar circumstances fifteen months earlier, that he did suffer and was to suffer yet more, his correspondence shows, but his iron will prevented that suffering from disturbing the equanimity of his mind. The Council of Regency, in its concern to court popularity with the aristocracy of Portugal, might balk his measures by its deliberate supineness. Echoes might reach him of the voices at St. Stephen's that loudly dubbed his dispositions rage, presumptuous and silly, catch half-penny journalists at home and men of the stamp of Lord Grey might exploit their abysmal military ignorance in reckless criticism and censure of his operations. He knew what a passionate storm of anger and denunciations had arisen from the opposition when he had been raised to the peerage some months earlier, after the glorious victory of Talavera, and how that victory notwithstanding it had been proclaimed that his conduct of the campaign was so incompetent as to deserve, not reward, but punishment, and he was aware of the growing unpopularity of the war in England, knew that the government, ignorant of what he was so laboriously preparing, was chafing at his inactivity of the past few months, so that a member of the cabinet wrote to him exasperatedly, incredibly infatuously, for God's sake do something anything so that blood be spilt. A heart less stout might have been broken, a genius less mighty stifled in this evil tangle of stupidity, incompetence and malignity that sprang up and flourished about him on every hand. A man less single-minded must have succumbed to exasperation, thrown up his command and taken ship for home, inviting some of his innumerable critics to take his place at the head of the troops, and give free reign to the military genius that inspired their critical dissertations. Wellington, however, had been rightly termed of iron, and never did he show himself more of iron than in those trying days of 1810. Stern, but with a passionless sternness, he pursued his way towards the goal he had set himself, allowing no criticism, no censure, no invective so much as to give him pause in his majestic progress. Unfortunately, the lofty calm of the Commander-in-Chief was not shared by his lieutenants. The Light Division was quartered along the River Aguda, watching the Spanish frontier, beyond which Marshall Ney was demonstrating against Ciudad Rodrigo. And for lack of funds, its fiery tempered commander, Sir Robert Crawford, found himself at last unable to feed his troops. Exasperated by these circumstances, Sir Robert was betrayed into an act of rashness. He seized some church plate at Pinhell that he might convert it into rations. It was an act which, considering the general state of public feeling in the country at the time, might have had the gravest consequences, and Sir Robert was subsequently forced to do penance and afford redress. That, however, is another story. I but mention the incident here because the affair of Tavora, with which I am concerned, might be taken to have arisen directly out of it. And Sir Robert's behavior might be construed as setting an example, and thus as affording yet another extinuation of Lieutenant Butler's offense. Our Lieutenant was sent upon a foraging expedition into the Valley of the Upper Duaro, at the head of half a troop of the Eighth Dragoons, two squadrons of which were attached at the time to the Light Division, to be more precise, he was to purchase and bring into Pinhell a hundred head of cattle, intended some for slaughter and some for draught. His instructions were to proceed as far as Ragoa and their report himself to one Bartholomew Beersley, a prosperous and influential English wine grower, whose father had acquired considerable vineyards in the Duaro. He was reminded of the almost hostile dispositions of the peasantry in certain districts, warned to handle them with tact and to suffer no straggling on the part of his troopers, and advised to place himself in the hands of Mr. Beersley for all that related to the purchase of the cattle. Let it be admitted at once, that had Sir Robert Crawford been acquainted with Mr. Butler's featherbrained, irresponsible nature, he would have selected any officer rather than our Lieutenant to command that expedition. But the Irish Dragoons had only lately come to Pinhell, and the general himself was not immediately concerned. Lieutenant Butler set out on a blustering day of March at the head of his troopers, accompanied by Cornet O'Rourke and two sergeants, and at Pescuera he was further reinforced by a Portuguese guide. They found quarters that night at Ovedosa, and early in the morning they were in the saddle again, riding along the heights above the Cachoe de Valeria, through which the yellow swollen river swirled and foamed along its rocky way. The prospect, formidable even in the full bloom of fruitful and luxuriant summer, was forbidding and menacing, now as some imagined gorge of the nether regions. The towering granite heights along the turgid stream were shrouded in mist and sweeping rain, and from the leaden heavens overhead the downpour was of a sullen and merciless steadiness, starting at every step a miniature torrent to go swell the roaring waters in the gorge, and drenching the troop alike in body and spirit. Ahead, swathed to the chin in his blue cavalry cloak, the water streaming from his leather helmet rode Lieutenant Butler, cursing the weather, the country, the light division, and everything else that occurred to him as contributing to his present discomfort. Beside him, a stride of a mule rode the Portuguese guide in a caped cloak of that straw, which made him look for all the world like a bottle of his native wine in its straw sheath. Conversation between the two was out of the question, for the guide spoke no English, and the Lieutenant's knowledge of Portuguese was very far from conversational. Presently the ground sloped and the troop descended from the heights by a road flanked with dripping pine woods, black and melancholy, that for a while screened them off from the remainder of the sodden world. Hence they emerged near the head of the bridge that spanned the swollen river, and led them directly into the town of Ragoa. Through the mud and clay of the deserted narrow unpaved streets, the dragoons squelched their way, under a super deluge, for the rain was now reinforced by steady and overwhelming sheets of water, descending on either side from the gutter-shaped tiles that roofed the houses. Inquisitive faces showed here and there behind the blurred windows. Aw, doors were open that a peasant family might stare in questioning wonder, and perhaps in some concern at the sodden pageant that was passing. But in the streets themselves the troopers met no living thing, all the world having scurried to shelter from the pitiless downpour. On the town they were brought by their guide to a walled garden, and halted at a gateway. Beyond this could be seen a fair white house set in the foreground of the vineyards, that rose in terraces up the hillside, until they were lost from sight in the lowering veils of mist, carved on the granite lintel of that gateway. The lieutenant beheld the inscription, Bartholomew Beersley, 1744, and knew himself at his destination. At the gates of the son or grandson he knew not which, nor cared, of the original tenet of that wine-farm. Mr. Beersley, however, was from home. The lieutenant was informed of this by Mr. Beersley's steward, a portly, genial, rather priestly gentleman, in smooth black broad cloth, whose name was Susa, a name which, as I have said, has given rise to some misconceptions. Mr. Beersley himself had lately left for England, there to wait until the disturbed state of Portugal should be happily repaired. He had been a considerable sufferer from the French invasion under sult, and none may blame him for wishing to avoid a repetition of what already he had undergone, especially now that it was rumored that the emperor in person would lead the army gathering for conquest on the frontiers. But had Mr. Beersley been at home, the dragoons could have received no warmer welcome than that which was extended to them by Fernando Susa. Greeting the lieutenant in intelligible English, he implored him, in the floored manner of the peninsula, to count the house and all within it his own property, and to command whatever he might desire. The troopers found accommodation in the kitchen and in the spacious hall, where great fires of pine logs were piled up for their comfort, and for the remainder of the day they abode there in various states of nakedness, relieved by blankets and straw capotes. What time the house was filled with the steam and stench of their drying garments. Rations had been short of late on the aguda, and in addition their weary ride through the rain had made the men sharp set. Abundance of food was placed before them by the solitude of Fernando Susa, and they feasted, as they had not feasted for many months, upon roast kid, boiled rice and golden maizebread, washed down by a copious supply of a rough and not too heady wine, that the discreet and discriminating steward judged appropriate for their palates, and capable of supporting some abuse. Akin to the treatment of the troopers in hall and kitchen, but on a nobler scale, was the treatment of Lieutenant Butler and Cornet O'Rourke in the dining room. For them a well-roasted turkey took the place of kid, and Susa went down himself to explore the cellars for a well-sund and thyme ripened Duaro table wine which he vowed, and our dragoons agreed with him, would put the noblest burgundy to shame. And then with the dessert there was a port the like of which Mr. Butler, who was always of a nice taste in wine, and who was coming into some knowledge of port from his residence in the country, had never dreamed existed. For four and twenty hours the dragoons abode at Mr. Beersley's Quinta, thanking God for the discomforts that had brought them to such comfort, feasting in this land of plenty, as only those can feast to have kept a rigid lint. Nor was this all. The benign Susa was determined that the sojourn there of these representatives of his country's deliverers should be a complete rest in holiday, not for Mr. Butler to journey to the uplands in this matter of a herd of bullocks. Fernando Susa had at command a regiment of laborers, who were idle at this time of year, and whom his good nature would engage on behalf of his English guests. Let the Lieutenant do no more than provide the necessary money for the cattle, and the rest should happen as by enchantment, and Susa himself would see to it that the price was fair and proper. The Lieutenant asked no better. He had no great opinion of himself as cattle dealer or cattle drover, nor did his ambitions beget in him any desire to excel, as one or the other. So he was well content that his host should have the bullocks fetched to Ragoa for him. The herd was driven in on the following afternoon. By when the rain had ceased, and our Lieutenant had every reason to be pleased when he beheld the solid beast procured. Having dispersed the amount demanded, an amount more reasonable far than he had been prepared to pay, Mr. Butler would have set out forthwith to return to Pinhell, knowing how urgent was the need of the division, and with what impatience the caloric general Crawford would be waiting him. Why, so you shall, so you shall, said the priestly soothing Susa. But first you'll dine. There is good dinner. Ah, but what good dinner? That I have order, and there is wine. Ah, but you shall give me news of that wine. Mr. Butler hesitated. Cornette O'Rourke watched him anxiously, praying that he might succumb to the temptation, and attempted suasion in the form of a murmured blessing upon Susa's hospitality. Sir Robert will be impatient, demurred the Lieutenant. But half hour, protested Susa, what is half hour, and in half hour you will have dine. True, ventured the Cornette, and it's the Devil himself knows that we may dine again. And the dinner is ready, it can be served this instant, it shall, said Susa with finality, and pulled the bell-rope, Mr. Butler never dreaming, as indeed how could he, that fate was taking a hand in this business, gave way, and they sat down to dinner, henceforth you see him the sport of pitiless circumstance. They dined within the half hour, as Susa had promised, and they dined exceedingly well. If yesterday the steward had been able, without warning of their coming, to spread at short notice, so excellent a feast, conceive what had been accomplished now by preparation, emptying his fourth and final bumper of rich red duro. Mr. Butler paid his host the compliment of a sigh, and pushed back his chair, but Susa detained him, waving a hand that trembled with anxiety, and with anxiety stamped upon his benignly rotund and shaven countenance. An instant yet, he implored. Mr. Beersley would never pardon me, did I let you go without what he call a stirrup cup, to keep you from the ills that lurk in the wind of the Sierra, a glass but one of that porch you tasted yesterday. I say but a glass, yet I hope you will doom the honour to the bottle, but a glass at least, at least. He implored it almost with tears. Mr. Butler had reached that state of delicious torpor, in which to take the road is the last agony, but duty was duty, and Sir Robert Crawford had the fiend's own temper, torn thus between consciousness of duty and the weakness of the flesh he looked at O'Rourke. O'Rourke, a cherubic fellow, who had for his years a very pretty taste in wine, returned the glance with a moist eye, and licked his lips. In your place I should let myself be tempted, says he. It's an excellent wine, and ten minutes more or less is no great matter. The lieutenant discovering a middle way which permitted him to take a prompt decision, creditable to his military instincts, but revealing a disgraceful, though quite characteristic selfishness. Very well, he said, leave Sergeant Flanagan and ten men to wait for me, O'Rourke, and do you set out at once with the rest of the troop, and take the cattle with you, I shall overtake you before you have gone very far. O'Rourke's crestful and air stirred the sympathetic Susa's pity, but Captain, he besought, will you not allow the lieutenant Mr. Butler cut him short? Duty, said he sententiously, is duty, be off, O'Rourke. And O'Rourke, clicking his heels viciously, saluted and departed, came presently the bottles in a basket, not one as Susa had said, but three, and when the first was done Butler reflected that since O'Rourke and the cattle were already well upon the road, their need no longer be any hurry about his own departure. A herd of bullocks does not travel very quickly, and even with a few hours' start in a forty-mile journey is easily overtaken by a troop of horse traveling without encumbrance. You understand then how easily our lieutenant yielded himself to the luxurious circumstances, and disposed himself to savor the second bottle of that nectar distilled from the very sunshine of the Duaro. The phrase is his own. The steward produced a box of very choice cigars, and although the lieutenant was not an habitual smoker, he permitted himself on this exceptional occasion to be further tempted. Stretched in a deep chair, beside the roaring fire of pine logs, he sipped and smoked and drowsed away the greater part of that wintry afternoon. Soon the third bottle had gone the way of the second, and Mr. Beersley steward, being a man of extremely temperate habit, it follows that most of the wine had found its way down the lieutenant's thirsty gullet. It was perhaps a more potent vintage than he had at first suspected, and as the torpor produced by the dinner and the earlier fuller wine was wearing off, it was succeeded by an exhilaration that played havoc with the few wits that Mr. Butler could call his own. The steward was deeply learned in wines and wine growing, and in very little besides. Consequently the talk was almost confined to that subject in its many branches, and he could be interesting enough, like all enthusiasts, to a fresh burst of praise from Butler of the ruby vintage to which he had been introduced. The steward presently responded with a sigh, indeed, as you say, Captain, a great wine, but we had a greater . . . impossible by God, swore Butler, with a hiccup. You may say so, but it is the truth. We had a greater, a wonderful, clear vintage. It was of the year 1798, a famous year on the Duaro, the quite most famous year that we have ever known. Mr. Beersley sells some pipes to the monks at Tavorra, who have bottled it and keep it. I beg him at the time not to sell, knowing the value it must come to have one day. But he sell all the time. Ah, my deus! The steward clasped his hands and raised rather prominent eyes to the ceiling, protesting to his maker against his master's folly. He say we have plenty, and now. He spread fat hands and a jester of despair, and now we have none. Some sons of dogs of French, who came with martial sult, happened this way on a forage they discovered the wine, and they guzzled it like pigs. He swore, and his benignity was eclipsed by wrathful memory. He heaved himself up in a passion. Think of that so priceless vintage drink like hogwash, as Mr. Beersley say, by those goddamn French swine. Not a drop, not a spoonful remain. But the monks at Tavorra still have much of what they buy, I'm told. They treasure it for they know good wine. All priests know good wine. Ah, yes, goddamn. He fell into deep reflection. Lieutenant Butler stirred and became sympathetic. San infernal shame, said he indignantly. I'll know for good when I meet the French. Then he too fell into reflection. He was a good Catholic, and moreover a Catholic who did not take things for granted. The sloth and self-indulgence of the clergy in Portugal, being his first glimpse of conventions in Latin countries, had deeply shocked him. The vows of immonastic poverty that was kept carefully behind the walls of the monastery offended his sense of propriety. That men who had vowed themselves to paparism, who wore coarse garments and went barefoot, shed baton upon rich food, and store up wines that gold could not purchase, struck him as a hideous incongruity. The monks drink this nectar, he said aloud and laughed sneeringly. I know the breed, the fair-found belly with fat cup unlined. That's your poverty-stricken Capuchin. Susa looked at him in sudden alarm, be thanking himself that all Englishmen were heretics, and knowing nothing of subtle distinctions between English and Irish. In silence Butler finished the third and last bottle, and his thoughts fixed themselves with increasing insistence upon a wine reputed better than this, of which there was great store in the cellars of the convent of Tavora. Abruptly he asked, Where's Tavora? He was thinking, perhaps, of the comfort that such wine would bring to a company of war-worn soldiers in the valley of the Aguda. Some ten legs from here, answered Susa, and pointed to a map that hung upon the wall. The Lieutenant rose and rolled a thought unsteadily across the room. He was a tall, loose-limbed fellow, blue-eyed, fair-complexioned, with a thatch of fiery red hair, excellently suited to his temperament. He halted before the map, and with legs wide apart, to afford him the steadying support of a broad basis the course of the duaro, fumbling about the district of Rigoa, and finally hit upon the place he sought. Why? he said, Seems to me, sif we should have come that way, a shore road to besquare old than by the river. As the bird fly, said Susa, But the roads be bad, just mule tracks. While by the river the road is tolerably good. Yet, said the Lieutenant, I think I shall go back that way. The fumes of the wine were mounting steadily to addle his indifferent brains. Every moment he was seeing things in proportions more and more false. His resentment against priests, who, warned to self-abnegation, hoarded good wine. While soldiers sent to keep harm from priests' fat carcasses, were left to suffer cold and even hunger, was increasing with every moment, he would sample that wine at Tavora, and he would bear some of it away that his brother officers at Pinhill might sample it. He would buy it, oh yes, there should be no plundering, no irregularity, no disregard of general orders. He would buy the wine and pay for it. But himself he would fix the price, and see that the monks of Tavora made no profit out of their defenders. Thus he thought as he considered the map. Presently, when having taken leave of Fernando Sousa, that prince of hosts, Mr. Butler was riding down through the town with Sergeant Flanagan and ten troopers at his heels. His purpose deepened, and became more fierce. I think the change of temperature must have been to blame. It was a chill, bleak evening. Overhead across a background of faded blue, scutted ragged banks of clouds, the lingering flotsam of the shattered rainstorm of yesterday, and a cavalry cloak afforded but in different protection against the wind that blew hard and sharp from the Atlantic. Coming from the genial warmth of Mr. Sousa's parlor into this, the evaporation of the wine within him was quickened, its fumes mounted now overwhelmingly to his brain, and from comfortably intoxicated that he had been hitherto, the lieutenant now became furiously drunk, and the transition was a very rapid one. It was now that he looked upon the business he had in hand in the light of a crusade, a sort of religious fanaticism begin to actuate him. The souls of these wretched monks must be saved. The temptation to self-indulgence, which spelt perdition for them, must be removed from their midst. It was a Christian duty. He no longer thought of buying the wine and paying for it. His one aim now was to obtain possession of it, not merely a part of it, but all of it, and carry it off, thereby accomplishing two equally praiseworthy ends, to rescue a convent full of monks from damnation, and to regale the much enduring half-starved campaigners of the Agura. Thus reasoned Mr. Butler with admirable, if drunken logic, and reasoning thus he led the way over the bridge, and kept straight on when he had crossed it, much to the dismay of Sergeant Flanagan, who, perceiving the lieutenant's condition, conceived that he was missing his way. This the sergeant ventured to point out, reminding his officer that they had come by the road along the river. So we did, said Butler shortly, but we go back by way of Tavora. They had no guide, the one who had conducted them to Ragoa had returned with a roar, and although Susa had urged upon the lieutenant at parting that he should take one of the men from the Quinta, Butler, with wit enough to see that this was not desirable under the circumstances, had preferred to find his way alone. His confused mind strove now to re-visualize the map which he had consulted in Susa's parlor. He discovered naturally enough that the task was altogether beyond his powers. Meanwhile night was descending. They were, however, upon the mule track, which went up and round the shoulder of a hill, and by this they came at dark upon a hamlet. Sergeant Flanagan was a shrewd fellow, and perhaps the most sober man in the troop, for the wine had run very freely in Susa's kitchen, too, and the men, whilst awaiting their commander's pleasure, had taken the fullest advantage of an opportunity that was all too rare upon that campaign. Now Sergeant Flanagan began to grow anxious. He knew the peninsula from the days of Sir John Moore, and he knew as much of the ways of the peasantry of Portugal as any man. He knew of the brutal ferocity with which the peasantry was capable. He had seen evidence more than once of the unspeakable fate of French stragglers from the retreating army of Marshal Solt. He knew of crucifixions, mutilations, and hideous abominations practiced upon them in these remote hill districts by the merciless men into whose hands they happened to fall, and he knew that it was not upon French soldiers alone that these abominations had been practiced. Some of those fierce peasants had been unable to discriminate between invader and deliverer. To them a foreigner was a foreigner, and no more. Others, who were capable of discriminating, were in the position of having come to look upon French and English with almost equal execration. It is true that whilst the Emperor's troops made war on the maxim that an army must support itself upon the country it traverses, thereby achieving a greater mobility, since it was thus permitted to travel comparatively light. The British law was that all things requisitioned must be paid for. Wellington maintained this law in spite of all difficulties at all times with an unrelaxing rigidity, and punished with the utmost vigor those who offended against it. Nevertheless, breaches were continual. Men broke out here and there often, be it said, under stress of circumstances for which the Portuguese were themselves responsible. Plunder and outrage took place and provoked indiscriminating rancor with consequences at times as terrible to stragglers from the British army of deliverance as do those from the French army of oppressors. Then, too, there was the Portuguese Militia Act recently enforced by Wellington, acting through the Portuguese government, deeply resented by the peasantry upon whom it bore, and rendering them disposed to avenge it upon such stray British soldiers as might fall into their hands. Knowing all this, Sergeant Flanagan did not at all relish this night exertion into the hill fastnesses, where at any moment, as it seemed to him, they might miss their way. After all, they were but twelve men, all told, and he accounted in a stupid thing to attempt to take a shortcut across the hills, for the purpose of overtaking an encumbered troop that must of necessity be moving at a very much slower pace. This was the way not to overtake, but to out distance. Yet, since it was not for him to remonstrate with the Lieutenant, he kept his peace and hoped anxiously for the best. At the mean wine shop of that hamlet, Mr. Butler inquired his way by the simple expedient of shouting, Tavora, with a strong interrogative inflection. The vintner made it plain by gestures, accompanied by a rattling musketry of incomprehensible speech, that their way lay straight ahead, and straight ahead they went, following that mule track for some five or six miles, until it began to slope gently towards the plain again. Below them, they presently beheld a cluster of twinkling lights to advertise a township. They dropped swiftly down, and in the outskirts overtook a belated bullet cart, whose ungreased axle was arousing the hillside echoes with its plain gent whale. Of the vigorous young woman who marched barefoot beside it, shouldering her goad as if it were a pike staff, Mr. Butler inquired, by his usual method, if this were Tavora, to receive an answer which, though valuable, was unmistakably affirmative. Convento dominicano was his next inquiry, made after they had gone some little way. The woman pointed with her goad to a massive dark building, flanked by a little church, which stood just across the square they were entering. A moment later the sergeant, by Mr. Butler's orders, was knocking upon the iron-studded main door. They waited a while in vain, none came to answer the knock. No light showed anywhere upon the dark face of the convent. The sergeant knocked again, more vigorously than before. Presently came timid, shuffling steps, a shutter opened in the door, and the grill, thus disclosed, was pierced by a shaft of feeble yellow light. A quavering, aged voice demanded to know who knocked. English soldiers, answered the lieutenant in Portuguese, open. A faint exclamation, suggestive of dismay, was the answer. The shutter closed again with a snap. The shuffling steps retreated, and unbroken silence followed. Now, where the devil may this mean? growled Mr. Butler. Drugged wits, like stupid ones, are readily suspicious. Were they hatching in here? The they're afraid of luring British shoulders see. Knock again, Flanagan, louder man. The sergeant beat the door with the butt of his carabine. The blows gave out a hollow echo, but evoked no more answer than if they had fallen upon the door of a mausoleum. Mr. Butler completely lost his temper. Seems to me that we stumbled upon a hot bed of treason, hot bed of treason, he repeated, as if pleased with the phrase. That's what it is. And he added preemptorily, break down the door. But sir, began the sergeant in protest, greatly daring. Break down the door, repeated Mr. Butler, lures be after seeing why these monks are afraid of showing us. I've notions they're hiding more and more wine. Some of the troopers carried axes precisely against such an emergency as this. dismounting they fell upon the door with a will. But the oak was stout fortified by bands of iron and great iron studs. And it resisted long. The thought of the axes and the crash of rending timbers could be heard from one end of Tavora to the other. Yet from the convent, it evoked no slightest response. But presently as the door began to yield to the onslaught, there came another sound to arouse the town. From the belfry of the little church a bell suddenly gave tongue upon a frantic hurried note that spoke unmistakably of alarm. Ding ding ding ding it went, a toxin summoning the assistance of all true sons of mother church. Mr. Butler, however, paid little heed to it. The door was down at last. And followed by his troopers, he wrote under the massive gateway into the spacious clothes, dismounting there and leaving the woeful, anxious sergeant and a couple of men to guard the horses. The lieutenant led the way along the cloisters, faintly revealed by a new risen moon towards a gaping doorway. Once a feeble light was gleaming. He stumbled over the step into a hall dimly lighted by a lantern swinging from the ceiling. He found a chair, mounted it, and cut the lantern down. Then led the way again along an endless corridor, stone flagged and flanked on either side by rows of cells. Many of the doors stood open as if in silent token of the tenants hurried flight, showing what a panic had been spread by the sudden advent of this troop. Mr. Butler became more and more deeply intrigued, more and more deeply suspicious that here always not well. Why should a community of loyal monks take flight in this fashion from British soldiers? Bad luck to them, he growled as he stumbled on. They may hide as they will, but it's myself who'll run the shavlings to earth. They were brought up short at the end of that long chill gallery by closed double doors. Beyond these an organ was peeling, and overhead the clapper of the alarm bell was beating more furiously than ever. All realized that they stood upon the threshold of the chapel and that the conventions had taken refuge there. Mr. Butler checked upon a sudden suspicion. Maybe after all, they've taken us for French, said he. A trooper ventured to answer him. Best let them see we're not before we have the whole village about our ears. Damn that bell, said the Lieutenant, and added, put your shoulders to the door. Its fastenings were but crazy ones, and it yielded almost instantly to their pressure. Yielded so suddenly that Mr. Butler, who himself had been foremost in straining against it, shot forward half a dozen yards into the chapel and measured his length upon its cold flags. Simultaneously from the chancel came a great cry. The barra nos domines, followed by a shattering murmur of prayer. The Lieutenant picked himself up, recovered the lantern that had rolled from his grasp, and lurched forward around the angle that hid the chancel from his view. There huddled before the main altar like a flock of scared and stupid sheep. He beheld the conventions, some to score of them, perhaps, and in the dim light of the heavy, altar lamp above them, he could make out the black and white habit of the Order of Saint Dominic. He came to a halt, raised his lantern aloft, and called due them preemptorily. Ho, there! The organ ceased abruptly, but the bell overhead went clattering on. Mr. Butler dressed them in the best French he could command. What do you fear? Why do you flee? We are friends, English soldiers, seeking quarters for the night. A vague alarm was stirring in him. It began to penetrate his obfuscated mind that perhaps he had been rash, that this forcible rape of a convent was a serious matter. Therefore he attempted this peaceful explanation. From that huddled group a figure rose, and advanced with a solemn stately grace, there was a faint swish of robes, the faint rattle of rosary beads. Something about that figure caught the lieutenant's attention sharply. He craned forward, half sobered by the sudden fear that clutched him, his eyes bulging in his face. I had thought, said a gentle melancholy woman's voice, that the seals of a nunnery were sacred to British soldiers. For a moment Mr. Butler seemed to be laboring for breath, fully sobered now, understanding of his ghastly error reached him at the gallop. My God, he gassed and incontinently turned to flee. But as he fled in horror of his sacrilege, he still kept his head turned, staring over his shoulder at the stately figure of the abyss, either in fascination, or with some lingering doubt of what he had seen and heard. Running thus he crashed headlong into a pillar, and stunned by the blow he reeled and sank unconscious to the ground. This the troopers had not seen, for they had not lingered. Understanding on their own part the horrible blunder, they had turned even as their leader turned, and they had raced madly back the way they had come, conceiving that he followed. There was reason for their haste other than their anxiety to set a term to the sacrilege of their presence. From the cloistered garden of the convent, uproar reached them, and the metallic voice of Sergeant Flanagan called in loudly for help. The alarm bell of the convent had done its work. The villagers were up, enraged by the outrage, and armed with sticks in size and billhooks, an army of them was charging to avenge this infamy. The troopers reached the close no more than in time. Sergeant Flanagan, only half understanding the reason for so much anger, but understanding that this anger was very real and very dangerous, was desperately defending the horses with his two companions against the vanguard of the assailants. There was a swift rush of the dragoons, and in an instant they were in the saddle, all but the lieutenant, of whose absence they were suddenly made conscious. Flanagan would have gone back for him, and he had in fact begun to issue an order with that object when a sudden surge of the swelling, roaring crowd cut off the dragoons from the door through which they had emerged. Sitting their horses, the little troop came together, their sabers drawn, solid as a rock in that angry human sea that surged about them. The moon, riding now clear overhead, irradiated that scene of impending strife. Flanagan, standing in his strips, attempted to harangue the mob, but he was at a loss what to say that would appease them, nor able to speak a language that he could understand. An angry peasant made a slash at him with a billhook. He parried the blow on his sabre, and with the flat of it knocked his assailant senseless. Then the storm burst, and the mob flung itself upon the dragoons. Bad sess to you, cried Flanagan. Will he listen to me Ymerthering villains? Then in despair, charge, he roared, and headed for the gateway. The troopers attempted in vain to reach it. The mob hemmed them about too closely, and then a horrid hand-to-hand fight began. Under the cold light of the moon, in that garden consecrated to peace and piety. Two saddles had been emptied, and the exasperated troopers were slicing out their assailants with the edge, and tent upon cutting away out of that murderous press. It is doubtful if a man of them would have survived, for the odds were fully ten to one against them. To their aid came now the abyss. She stood on a balcony above and called upon the people to desist, and hear her. Thence she harangued them for some moments, commanding them to allow the soldiers to depart. They obeyed with obvious reluctance. In that last a lane was opened in that solid, seething mass of angry clods. But Flanagan hesitated to pass down this lane and so depart. Three of his troopers were down by now, and his lieutenant was missing. He was exorcised to resolve, where his duty lay, behind him the mob was solid, cutting off the dragoons from their fallen comrades. An attempt to go back might be misunderstood and resisted, leading to a renewal of the combat. And surely in vain, for he could not doubt that the fallen troopers had been finished outright. Similarly, the mob stood as solid between him and the door that led to the interior of the convent, where Mr. Butler was lingering, alive or dead. A number of peasants had already invaded the actual building. So that in that connection to the sergeant concluded, that there was little reason to hope that the lieutenant should have escaped the fate his own rashness had invoked. He had his remaining seven men to think of. And he concluded that it was his duty under all the circumstances to bring these off alive, and not procure their mass cure by attempting fruitless Kyoto trees. So forward roared the voice of Sergeant Flanagan and forward went the seven through the passage that had opened out before them in that hooting angry mob. Beyond the convent walls, they found fresh assailants elating them. Enemies these who had not been sued by the gentle reassuring voice of the abyss. But here there was more room to maneuver. Trot, the surgeon commanded. And soon that trot became a gallop. A shower of stones followed him as they thundered out of Torah. And the sergeant himself had a lump as large as a duck egg in the middle of his head. When next day he reported himself at Pesquiera to Cornette O'Rourke, whom he overtook there. When eventually Sir Robert Crawford heard the story of the affair, he was as angry as only Sir Robert could be to have lost four dragoons, and to have set a match to a train that might end in a conflagration was reason and to spare. How came such a mistake to be made? He inquired a scallop on his full red countenance. Mr. O'Rourke had been investigating and was primed with knowledge. It appears, sir, that at Torah there is a convent of Dominican nuns as well as a monastery of Dominican friars. Mr. Butler will have used the word convento, which more particularly applies to the nunnery. And so he was directed to the wrong house. And you say that the sergeant has reason to believe that Mr. Butler did not survive his folly? I am afraid there can be no hope, sir. It's perhaps just as well, said Sir Robert, for Lord Wellington would certainly have had him shot. And there you have the true account of the stupid affair of Torah, which was to produce, as we shall see, such far-reaching effects upon persons no wise concerned in it. End of chapter one read by Peter Strom in Ecuador on February 13, 2019. Chapter two of the snare by Raphael Sabatini. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter two. The ultimatum. News of the affair at Torah reached Sir Terence Omoy, the adjutant general at Lisbon, about a week later, in dispatches from headquarters. These informed him that in the course of the humble apology and explanation of the regrettable occurrence offered by the colonel of the eighth dragoons in person to the mother Abes. It had transpired that Lieutenant Butler had left the convent alive, but that nevertheless he continued absent from his regimen. Those dispatches contained other unpleasant matters of a totally different nature, with which Sir Terence must proceed to deal at once, but their gravity was completely outweighed in the adjutant's mind by this deplorable affair of Lieutenant Butler's. Without wishing to convey an impression that the blunt and downright Omoy was gifted with any undue measure of shrewdness, it must nevertheless be said that he was quick to perceive what fresh thorns the occurrence was likely to throw in the path of what was already thorny enough in all conscious, what a semblance of justification it must give to the hostility of the intrigers on the Council of Regency. What a formidable weapon it must place in the hands of Principal Souza and his partisans. In itself this was enough to trouble a man in Omoy's position, but there was more. Lieutenant Butler happened to be his brother-in-law, owned brother to Omoy's lovely frivolous wife. Irresponsibility ran strongly in that branch of the Butler family. For the sake of the young wife who he loved with a passionate and fearful jealousy, such as is not uncommon in a man of Omoy's temperament, when at his age he was approaching his 46th birthday, he marries a girl of half his years. The adjutant had pulled his brother-in-law out of many a difficulty, shielded him on many an occasion from the proper consequences of his uncurable rashness. This affair of the convent, however, transcended anything that had gone before and proved altogether too much for Omoy. It angered him as much as it afflicted him. Yet when he took his head in his hands and groaned, it was only his sorrow that he was expressing, and it was a sorrow entirely concerned with his life. The groan attracted the attention of his military secretary, Captain Tremaine, of Fletcher's engineers, who sat at work at a lured writing-table, placed in the window recess. He looked up sharply, sudden concern in the strong young face and the steady gray eyes he bent upon his chief. The sight of Omoy's hunched attitude brought him instantly to his feet. Whatever is the matter, sir? It's that damn fool, Richard, growled Omoy. He's broken out again. The captain looked relieved. And is that all? Omoy looked at him white-faced and in his blue eyes a blaze of that swift passion that had made his name a byword in the army. Oh, he roared. You'll say it's enough by God when you hear what the fool's been at this time. Violation of a nunnery, no less. And he brought his massive fist down with a crash upon the document that had conveyed the information. With a detachment of dragoons, he broke into the convent of the Dominican nuns at Tavora one night a week ago. The alarm bell was sounded, and the village turned out to avenge the outrage. Consequences, three troopers killed, five peasants sabred to death, and seven other casualties. Dick himself missing and reported to have escaped for the convict, but understood to remain in hiding, so that he adds desertion to the other crime, as if that in itself were not enough to hang him. That's all, as you say, and I hope you considered enough even for Dick Butler. Bad luck to him. My God, said Captain Tremaine. I'm glad that you agree with me. Captain Tremaine stared at his chief, the utmost dismay upon his fine young face. But surely, sir, I mean, sir, if this report is correct, some explanation, he broke down utterly at fault. To be sure there's an explanation, you may always depend upon a most elegant explanation for anything that Dick Butler does. His life is made up of mistakes and explanations. He spoke bitterly. He broke into the nunnery under a misapprehension, according to account of the sergeant who accompanied him. And Sir Terence read out that part of the report. But how is that to help him? And as such a time is this, with public feeling as it is, and Wellington in his present temper about it, the provost men are beating the country for the Black Guard. When they find him, it's a firing party he'll have to face. Tremaine turned slowly to the window and looked down the fair prospect of the hillside over a forest of cork oaks alive with fresh green shoots to the silver sheen of the river a mile away. The storms of the preceding week had spent their fury. The travail that had attended the birth of spring and the day was as fair as a day of June in England. Weaned forth by the general sunshine, the virginine of vine and fig of olive in cork went on a pace. And the skeletons of trees, which a fortnight since had stood gaunt and bare, were already fleshed in tender green. From the window of this fine conventional house on the heights of Monsanto, above the suburb of Alcantara, where the adjutant general had taken up his quarters, Captain Tremaine stood a moment considering the panorama spread to his gaze. From the red brown roofs of Lisbon on his left, that city which boasted with Rome that it was built upon a cluster of seven hills, to the lines of embarkation that were building about the Fort of Saint Julian to his left. Then he turned, facing again the spacious handsome room with its heavy ecclesiastical furniture and Sir Terence, who hunched in his chair at the ponderously car to Black Riding Table, scowling fiercely at nothing. What are you going to do, sir? he inquired. Sir Terence shrugged impatiently and heed himself up in his chair. Nothing, he growled. Nothing. The interrogation, which seemed almost to cover a reproach, irritated the adjutant. And what the devil can I do? he rapped. You've pulled dick out of scrapes before now. I have, that seems to have been my principal occupation, ever since I married his sister. But this time he's gone too far. What can I do? Lord Wellington, as fond of you, suggested Captain Tremaine. He was your imperturbable young man and he remained as calm now as Omoy was excited, although by some twenty years, the adjutant's junior, there was between Omoy and himself, as well as between Tremaine and the Butler family, with which he was remotely connected, a strong friendship, which was largely responsible for the captain's present appointment, as Sir Terence's military secretary. Omoy looked at him and looked away. Yes, he agreed. But he's still fond of law and order and military discipline, and I should only be imperiling our friendship by pleading with him for this young black guard. The young black guard is your brother-in-law. Tremaine reminded him. Bad luck to you, Tremaine. Don't I know it? Besides, what is there I can do? He asked again and ended testedly. Faith, man, I don't know what you're thinking of. I'm thinking of Yuna, said Captain Tremaine in that composed way of his, and the words fell like cold water upon the hot iron of Omoy's anger. The man who can receive with patience a reproach, implicit or explicit, of being wanting in consideration towards his wife is comparatively rare, and never a man of Omoy's temperament and circumstances. Tremaine's reminder stunk him sharply, and the more sharply because of the strong friendship that existed between Tremaine and Lady Omoy. That friendship had in the past been a thorn in Omoy's flesh. In the days of his courtship he had known a fierce jealousy of Tremaine, beholding in him Braytime a rival who, with a strong advantage of youth, must in the end prevail. But when Omoy, putting his fortunes to the test, had declared himself and then accepted by Yuna Butler, there had been an end to the jealousy, and the old relations of cordial friendship between the men had been resumed. Omoy had conceived that jealousy of his to have been slain, but there had been times when from its faint uneasy stirring he should have taken warning, that it did no more than slumber, like most warmhearted, generous, big-natured men, Omoy was of a singular humility where women were concerned, and this humility of his would often breathe a doubt less than choosing between himself and Tremaine, Yuna might have been guided by her head rather than her heart, by ambition rather than affection, and that in taking himself she had taken the man who could give her by far the more assured and affluent position. He had crushed down such thoughts as disloyal to his young wife, as ungrateful and unworthy, and at such times he would fall into self-contempt for having entertained them. Then Yuna herself had revived those doubts three months ago, when she had suggested that Ned Tremaine, who was then at Taurus Vedris with Colonel Fletcher, was the very man to fill the vacant place of military secretary to the adjutant, if he would accept it. In the reaction of self-contempt, and in a curious surge of pride almost as perverse as his humility, Omoy had adopted her suggestion, and thereafter, in the past three months, that is to say, the unreasonable devil of Omoy's jealousy had slept almost forgotten. Now, by a chance remark whose indiscretion Tremaine could not realize, since he did not so much as suspect the existence of that devil, he had suddenly prodded him into wakefulness. That Tremaine should show himself tender of Lady Omoy's feelings, in a matter in which Omoy himself must see neglectful of them, was gall and wormwood to the adjutant. He dissembled it, however, out of a natural disinclination to appear in the ridiculous role of the jealous husband. What, he said, is the matter with you. That, he said, is a matter that you may safely lead to me. And his lips closed tightly upon the words when they were uttered. Oh, quite so, said Tremaine, no wit abashed. He persisted, nevertheless. You know Yuna's feelings for Dick. When I married Yuna, the adjutant cut in sharply, I did not marry the entire Butler family. It hardened him unreasonably against Dick to have the family cause pleaded in this way. It's said to death I am of Master Richard, and his excapades. He can get himself out of this mess, or he can stay in it. You mean that you'll not lift a hand to help him? Devil of Finger, said Omoy, and Tremaine, looking straight into the adjutant's faintly smoldering blue eyes, beheld there a fierce and rankerous determination which he was at a loss to understand, but which he attributed to something outside his own knowledge that must lie between Omoy and his brother-in-law. I am sorry, he said gravely. Since that is how you feel, it is to be hoped that Dick Butler may not survive to be taken. The alternative would weigh so cruelly upon Yuna that I do not care to contemplate it. And who the devil asks you to contemplate it? snapped Omoy. I am not aware that it is any concern of yours at all. My dear Omoy, it was an exclamation of protest, something between pain and indignation, under the stress of which Tremaine stepped entirely outside of the official relations that prevailed between himself and the adjutant. And the exclamation was accompanied by such a look of dismay and wounded sensibilities that Omoy, meeting this, and noting the honest manliness of Tremaine's bearing and countenance, was there and then the victim of reaction. His warm-hearted and impulsive nature made him at once profoundly ashamed of himself. He stood up, a tall martial figure, and his ruggedly handsome, shaven countenance reddened under its tan. He held out a hand to Tremaine. My dear boy, I beg your pardon. It's so utterly annoyed I am that the savage in me will be breaking out. Sure, it isn't as if it were only this affair of dicks. That is almost the least part of the unpleasantness contained in this dispatch. Here, in God's name, read it for yourself. And judge for yourself, whether it's in human nature to be patient, under so much. With a shrug and a smile to show that he was entirely mollified, Captain Tremaine took the papers to his desk and sat down to condom. As he did so, his face grew more and more grave. Before he had reached the end, there was a tap at the door, and orderly entered with the announcement that Dom Miguel Forges had just driven up to Monsanto to wait upon the adjutant general. Ha! said Omoy shortly, and exchanged a glance with his secretary. Show the gentleman up. As the orderly withdrew, Tremaine came over and placed the dispatch on the adjutant's desk. He arrives very opportunely, he said. So opportunely does to be suspicious, bidad, said Omoy. He had brightened suddenly, his Irish blood quickening at the immediate prospect of strife which this visit voted. May the devil admire me, but there's a warm morning in store for Mr. Forges, Ned. Shall I leave you? By no means. The door opened, and the orderly admitted Miguel Forges, the Portuguese Secretary of State. He was a slight dapper gentleman, all in black, from his silk stockings and steel-buckled shoes to his satin stock. His keen aquilined face was swarthy, and the razor had left his chin and cheeks blue-black. His sleek hair was iron-gray, a portentous gravity invested him this morning as he bowed with profound deference, first to the adjutant, and then to the secretary. Your Excellencies. He said. He spoke an English that was smooth and fluent for all its foreign accent. Your Excellencies. This is a terrible affair. To what affair will your Excellency be alluding? Wondered Omoy. Have you not received news of what has happened at Tavora? Of the violation of a convent, by a party of British soldiers. Of the fight that took place between these soldiers and the peasants who went to succour the nuns. Oh, and is that all? said Omoy. For a moment I imagined your Excellency referred to other matters. I have news of more terrible affairs than the convent business, with which to entertain you this morning. That, if you will pardon me, sir Terence, is quite impossible. You may think so, but you shall judge, bedad. A chair, Dom Magwell. The Secretary of State sat down, crossed his knees, and placed his hat in his lap. The other two resumed their seats. Omoy leaning forward, his elbows on the writing table, immediately facing Senior Forgez. First, however, he said, To deal with this affair of Tavora, the Council of Regency will no doubt have been informed of all the circumstances. You will be aware, therefore, that this very deplorable business was the result of a misapprehension, and that the nuns of Tavora might very well have avoided all this trouble had they behaved in a sensible, reasonable manner. If instead of shutting themselves up in the chapel and ringing the alarm bell, the mother Abbas, or one of the sisters, had gone to the wicked, and answered the demand of admittance from the officer commanding the detachment, he would instantly have realized his mistake and withdrawn. What does your Excellency suggest was this mistake? Inquired the Secretary. You have had your report, sir, and surely it was complete. You must know that he conceived himself to be knocking at the gates of the monastery of the Dominican Fathers. Can your Excellency tell me what was this officer's business at the monastery of the Dominican Fathers? Quote the Secretary, his manner frostily hostile. I am without information on that point, Omoy admitted. No doubt, because the officer in question is missing, as you will also have been informed. But I have no reason to doubt that, whatever his business may have been, it was concerned with the interests which are common alike to the British and the Portuguese nation. That is a charitable assumption, Sir Terrence. Perhaps you will inform me, Dom Miguel, of the uncharitable assumption which the Principal Sousa prefers. Snapped, Omoy, whose temper began to simmer. A faint color kindled in the cheeks of the Portuguese minister, but his manner remained unrefilled. I speak, Sir, not with the voice of Principal Sousa, but with that of the entire Council of Regency. And the Council has formed the opinion, which your own words confirm, that his Excellency Lord Wellington is skilled in finding excuses for the misdemeanors of the troops under his command. That, said Omoy, who would never have kept his temper in control, but for the pleasant consciousness that he held a hand of trumps with which he would presently overwhelm this representative of the Portuguese government. That is an opinion for which the Council may presently like to apologize, admitting its entire falsehood. Senior Forge has started as if he had been stung. He uncrossed his black silk legs and made as if to rise. Falsehood, sir, he cried in a scandalized voice. It is as well that we should be plain, so as to be avoiding all misconceptions, said Omoy. You must know, sir, and your Council must know, that wherever armies move there must be reason for complaint. The British army does not claim in this respect to be superior to others, although I don't say, mark me, that it might not claim it with perfect justice. But we do claim for ourselves that our laws against plunder and outrage are as strict as they well can be, and that where these things take place, punishment inevitably follows. Out of your own knowledge, sir, you must admit that what I say is true. True, certainly, where the offenders are men from the ranks. But in this case, where the offender is an officer, it does not transpire that justice has been administered with the same impartial hand. That, sir, answered Omoy sharply, testily, is because he is missing. The Secretary's thin lips permitted themselves to curve into the faintest ghost of a smile. Precisely, he said, for answer Omoy read in the face, thrust forward the dispatch he had received relating to the affair. Read, sir, read for yourself that you may report exactly to the Council of Regency. The terms of the report that has just reached me from headquarters. You will be able to announce that diligent search is being made for the offender. Forges perused the document carefully and returned it. That is very good, he said, and the Council will be glad to hear of it. It will enable us to appease the popular resentment in some degree. But it does not say here that when taken, this officer will not be excused upon the grounds which yourself you have urged to me. It does not, but considering that he has since been guilty of desertion, there can be no doubt, all else apart, that the finding of a court-martial will result in his being shot. Very well, said Forges, I will accept your assurance, and the Council will be relieved to hear of it. He rose to take his leave. I am desired by the Council to express to Lord Wellington the hope that he will take measures to preserve better order among his troops, and to avoid the recurrence of such extremely painful incidents. A moment, said Omoy, and rising waved his guest back into his chair, then resumed his own seat. Under a more or less calm exterior, he was a seething cauldron of passion. The matter is not quite at an end as your Excellency supposes. From your last observation, and from a variety of other evidence, I infer that the Council is far from satisfied with Lord Wellington's conduct of the campaign. That is an inference which I cannot venture to contradict. You will understand, General, that I do not speak for myself, but for the Council. When I say that many of his measures seem to us not merely unnecessary, but detrimental, the power having been placed in the hands of Lord Wellington, the Council hardly feels itself able to interfere with his dispositions. But it nevertheless deplores the destruction of the mills, and the devastation of the country recommended and insisted upon by his Lordship. It feels that this is not warfare as the Council understands warfare, and the people share the feelings of the Council. It is felt that it would be worthier, and more commendable, if Lord Wellington were to measure himself in battle with the French, making a definite attempt to stem the tide of invasion on the Frontiers. His hand was clenching and unclenching, and Tremaine, who watched him, wondered how long it would be before the storm burst. Quite so, and because the Council disapproves of the very measures which at Lord Wellington's instigation it has publicly recommended, it does not trouble to see that those measures are carried out. As you say, it does not feel itself able to interfere with his dispositions, but it does not scruple to mark its disapproval by passively hindering him at every turn. Magistrates are left to neglect these enactments, and because, he added with bitter sarcasm. Portuguese valor is so red-hot, and so devilish set on battle, the militia acts calling all men to the colors are forgotten as soon as published. There is no one either to compel the recalcitrant to take up arms, or to punish the desertions of those who have been driven into taking them up, yet you want battles, you want your Frontiers defended. A moment, sir. There is no need for heat, no need for any words. The matter may be said to be an end. He smiled. A thought viciously beget confessed, and then played his trump card, hurled his bombshell, since the views of your Council are in such utter opposition to the views of the Commander-in-Chief. You will no doubt welcome Lord Wellington's proposal to withdraw from this country, and to advise His Majesty's Government to withdraw the assistance, which it is affording you. There followed a long spell of silence. Oh, my, sitting back in his chair, his chin in his hands, to observe the result of his words. Nor was he in the least disappointed. Dom Miguel's mouth fell open. The color slowly ebbed from his cheeks, leaving them an ivory yellow. His eyes dilated and protruded. He was consternation incarnate. My God! He contrived to gasp at last, and his shaking hands clutched at the carved arms of his chair. You don't seem as pleased as I expected, ventured, oh boy. But, General, surely, surely his Excellency cannot mean to take so terrible a step? Terrible to whom, sir? wondered, oh boy. Terrible to us all. For just rose in his agitation. He came to lean upon oh boy's writing table, facing the adjutant. Surely, sir, our interests, England's interests, and Portugal's, are one in this? To be sure, but England's interests can be defended elsewhere than in Portugal, and it is Lord Wellington's view that they shall be. He has already warned the Council of Regency, that since his Majesty and the Prince Regent have entrusted him with the command of the British and Portuguese armies, he will not suffer the Council, or any of its members to interfere with his conduct of the military operations, or suffer any criticism or suggestion of theirs to alter system formed upon mature consideration. But when finding their criticisms fail, the members of the Council and their wrong-headedness, in their anxiety to allow private interests to triumph over public duty, go the length of thwarting the measures of which they do not approve. The end of Lord Wellington's patience has been reached. I am giving your Excellency his own words. He feels that it is futile to remain any country whose government is determined to undermine his every endeavor to bring this campaign to a successful issue. Yourself, sir, you appear to be distressed, but the Council of Regency will no doubt take a different view. It will rejoice in the departure of a man whose military operations it finds so detestable. You will no doubt discover this when you come to lay Lord Wellington's decision before the Council, as I now invite you to do. Bewildered and undecided, Forge Ast stood there for a moment, vainly seeking words. Is this really Lord Wellington's last word? He asked in tones of profoundest consternation. There is one alternative, only one, said Omoy slowly, and that instantly Forge Ast was all eagerness. Omoy considered him. Faith, I hesitate to state it. No, no, please, please, I feel that it is idle. Let the Council judge, I implore you, General. Let the Council judge. Very well, Omoy shrugged, and took up a sheet of the dispatch which lay before him. You will admit, sir, I think that the beginning of these troubles coincided with the advent of the principal suzer upon the Council of Regency. He waited in vain for a reply. Forge Ast, the diplomat, preserved an uncompromising silence in which presently Omoy proceeded. From this and from other evidence of which indeed there is no lack, Lord Wellington has come to the conclusion that all the resistance, passive and active which he has encountered, results from the principal suzer's influence upon the Council. You will not, I think, trouble to deny it, sir. Forge Ast spread his hands. You will remember, General. He answered in tones of conciliatory regret. That the principal suzer represents a class upon whom Lord Wellington's measures peculiarly hard. You mean that he represents the Portuguese nobility and landed gentry, who putting their own interests above those of the state have determined to oppose and resist the devastation of the country which Lord Wellington recommends. You put it very bluntly. Forge Ast admitted. You will find Lord Wellington's own words even more blunt, said Omoy with a grim smile, and turned to the dispatch he said. Let me read you exactly what he writes. As for principal suzer I beg you to tell him for me that as I have had no satisfaction in transacting the business of this country since he has become a member of the government. No power on earth shall induce me to remain in the peninsula, if he is either to remain a member of the government or to continue in Lisbon. Either he must quit the country or I will do so, and this immediately after I have obtained his Majesty's permission to resign my charge. The adjutant put down the letter and looked expectantly at the Secretary of State, who returned the look with one of utter dismay. Never in all his career had the diplomat been so completely dumbfounded, as he was now by the simple directness of the man of action. In himself Dom Miguel Forges was both shrewd and honest. He was shrewd enough to apprehend to the full the military genius of the British Commander-in-Chief. Fruits of which he had already witnessed, he knew that the withdrawal of Junot's army from Lisbon, two years ago, resulted mainly from the operations of Sir Arthur Wellesley, as he was then before his supercession in the Supreme Command of the First Expedition, and he more than suspected that but for the supercession the defeat of the First French Army of its invasion might have been even more signal. He had witnessed the masterly campaign of 1809, the Battle of the Duaro, and the relentless operations which had culminated in hurling the shattered fragments of Sol's magnificent army over the Portuguese frontier, thus liberating that country for the second time from the thrall of the mighty French invader. And he knew that unless this man and the troops under his command remained in Portugal, and enjoyed complete liberty of action, that there could be no hope of stemming the third invasion, for which Messina, the ablest of all the Emperor's marshals, was now gathering his divisions in the north. If Wellington were to execute his threat and withdraw with his army, Forgesse beheld nothing but ruin for his country, the irresistible French would sweep forward in devastating conquests, and Portuguese independence would be ground to dust under the heel of the terrible Emperor. All this the clear-sided Dom Miguel Forgesse now perceived. To do him full justice, he had feared for some time that the unreasonable conduct of his government might ultimately bring about some such desperate situation. But it was not for him to voice those fears. He was the servant of the government, the mere instrument and mouthpiece of the Council of Regency. This, he said at length in a voice that was odd, is an ultimatum. It is that, Omoy admitted readily. Forgesse sighed, shook his dark head, and drew himself up like a man who has chosen his part. Being shrewd, he saw the immediate necessity of choosing, and being honest, he chose honestly. Perhaps it is well, he said. That Lord Wellington should go, cried Omoy. That Lord Wellington should announce intentions of going. Forgesse explained. And having admitted so much, he now stripped off the official mask completely. He spoke with his own voice and not with that of the Council whose mouthpiece he was. Of course it will never be permitted. Lord Wellington has been entrusted with the defense of the country by the Prince Regent. Consequently it is the duty of every Portuguese to ensure that at all costs he shall continue in that office. Omoy was mystified. Only a knowledge of the ministers in most thoughts could have explained this oddly sudden change of manner. But your Excellency understands the terms, the only terms upon which his Lordship will so continue. Perfectly I shall hasten to convey those terms to the Council. It is also quite clear, is it not, that I may convey to my government, and indeed publish your complete assurance that the officer responsible for the raid on the convent at Tavora will be shot when taken, looking intently into Omoy's face. Dom Miguel saw the clear blue eyes flicker under his gaze. He beheld a gray shadow slowly overspreading the adjutant's ruddy cheek, knowing nothing of the relation between Omoy and the offender, unable to guess the sources of the hesitation of which he now beheld such unmistakable signs. The minister naturally misunderstood it. There must be no flinching in this general. He cried, let me speak to you for a moment, quite frankly and in confidence, not as the Secretary of State of the Council of Regency, but as a Portuguese patriot who places his country and his country's welfare above every other consideration. You have issued your ultimatum. It may be harsh. It may be arbitrary. With that I have no concern. The interests, the feelings of Principal Souza, or of any other individual, however high placed, are without weight when the interests of the nation hang against them in the balance. Better than an injustice be done to one man than that the whole country should suffer. Therefore I do not argue with you upon the rights and wrongs of Lord Wellington's ultimatum. That is a matter of part. Lord Wellington demands the removal of Principal Souza from the government, or the alternative proposes himself to withdraw from Portugal. In the national interest the government can come to only one decision. I am frank with you, General. Myself, I shall stand ranged on the side of the national interest, and what my influence in the Council can do, it shall do. But if you know Principal Souza at all, you must know that he will not relinquish his position without a fight. He has friends and influence. The Patriarch of Lisbon and many of the nobility will be on his side. I warn you solemnly against leaving any weapon in his hands. He paused impressively, but, oh boy, Gray faced now and haggard, waited in silence for him to continue. From the message I brought you, for Jass resumed, you will have perceived how Principal Souza has fastened upon this business at Tavorra to support his general censure of Lord Wellington's conduct of the campaign. That is the weapon to which my warning refers. You must, if we who place the national interest supreme are to prevail, you must disarm him by the assurance that I ask for. You will perceive that I am disloyal to a member of my council, so that I may be loyal to my country. But I repeat, I speak to you in confidence. This officer has committed a gross outrage, which must bring the British army into odium with the people, unless we have your assurance that the British army is the first to censure and to punish the offender with the utmost rigor. Give me now that I may publish everywhere your official assurance that this man will be shot, and on my side I assure you that Principal Souza, thus deprived of his status weapon, must succumb in the struggle that awaits us. I hope, said Omoe slowly, his head bowed, his voice dull and even unsteady, I hope that I am not behind you in placing public duty above private consideration. You may publish my official assurance that the officer in question will be shot when taken. General, I thank you. My country thanks you. You may be confident of this issue. He bowed gravely to Omoe, and then to Tremaine. Your Excellencies, I have the honor to wish you good day. He was shown out by the orderly who had admitted him, and he departed well satisfied in his patriotic heart that the crisis which he had always known to be inevitable should have been reached at last. Yet as he went he wondered why the adjutant general had looked so downcast, why his voice had broken when he pledged his word that justice should be done upon the offending British officer. That, however, was no concern of Dom Miguel's, and there was more than enough to engage his thoughts when he came to consider the ultimatum to his government with which he was charged. End of Chapter 2 Read by Peter Strom in Ecuador February 26, 2019 Chapter 3 of The Snare by Raphael Sabatini This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 3 Lady Omoe Across the frontier in the northwest was gathering the Third Army of Invasion, some sixty thousand strong, commanded by Marshal Messina, Prince of Esslingen, the most skillful and fortunate of all Napoleon's generals, a leader who, because he had never known defeat, had come to be surnamed by his Emperor, the dear child of victory. Wellington at the head of a British force, of little more than one third of the French host, watched and waited, maturing his stupendous strategic plan which those in whose interests it had been conceived had done so much to thwart. That plan was inspired by and based upon the Emperor's maxim, that war should support itself, that an army on the march must not be hampered and immobilized by its commissariat, but that it must draw its supplies from the country it is invading, that it must, in short, live upon that country. Behind the British army and immediately to the north of Lisbon, in an arc some thirty miles long, following the inflection of the hills, from the sea at the mouth of the Zezandre, to the broad waters of the Tagus at Alhandra, the lines of Taurus Vedrus were being constructed under the direction of Colonel Fletcher, and this so secretly and with such careful measures as to remain unknown to British and Portuguese alike. Even those employed upon the works knew of nothing save the section upon which they happened to be engaged, and had no conception of the stupendous and impregnable whole that was preparing. To these lines it was the British commander's plan to effect a slow retreat before the French flood when it should sweep forward. Thus luring the enemy onward into a country which he had commanded should be laid relentlessly waste, that there that enemy might fast be starved and afterwards destroyed. To this end had his proclamations gone forth, commanding that all the land lying between the rivers Tagus and Montego, in short, the whole of the country between Biara and Taurus Vedrus, should be stripped naked, converted into a desert as stark and empty as the Sahara. Not a head of cattle, not a grain of corn, not a skin of wine, not a flask of oil, not a crumb of anything affording nourishment should be left behind. The very mills were to be rendered useless, bridges were to be broken down, the houses emptied of all property which the refugees were to carry away with them from the line of invasion. Such was his terrible demand upon the country for its own salvation, but such, as we have seen, was not war as principal Souza and some of his adherents understood it. They had not the foresight to perceive the inevitable result of this strategic plan, if effectively and thoroughly executed. They did not even realize that the devastation had better be affected by the British in this defensive, and in its results at the same time overwhelmingly offensive manner than by the French in the course of a conquering onslaught. They did not realize these things partly because they did not enjoy Wellington's full confidence, and in a greater measure because they were blinded by self-interest. Because, as Omoy told Forges, they placed private considerations above public duty. The northern nobles whose lands must suffer opposed the measure violently. They even opposed the withdrawal of labour from those lands which the Militia Act had rendered necessary. And Antonio de Souza made himself their champion, until he was broken by Wellington's ultimatum to the council, for broken he was, the nation had come to a parting of the ways. It had been brought to the necessity of choosing, and however much the principal, voicing the outcry of his party, might argue that the British plan was as detestable and ruinous as a French invasion. The nation preferred to place its confidence in the conqueror of Vimiero and the duro. Souza quitted the government and the capital as had been demanded, but if Wellington hoped that he would quit intriguing, he misjudged his man. He was a fellow of monstrous vanity, pride and self-sufficiency, of the sort in which there is none more dangerous to offend. His wounded pride demanded a salve to be procured at any cost. The wound had been administered by Wellington, and must be returned with interest. So that he ruined Wellington it mattered nothing to Antonio de Souza that he should ruin himself and his own country at the same time. He was like some blinded ferocious and unreasoning beast, ready, even eager to sacrifice its own life, so that in dying it can destroy its enemy and slay its bloodthirst. In that mood he passes out of the councils of the Portuguese government into a brooding and secretly active retirement, of which the fruits shall presently be shown. With his departure the council of Regency, rudely shaken by the ultimatum which had driven him forth, became more docile and active. For a season the measures enjoined by the commander-in-chief were pursued with some show of earnestness. As a result of all this life at Monsanto became easier, and Omoy was able to breathe more freely, and to devote more of his time to matters concerning the fortifications which Wellington had left largely in his charge. Then, too, as the weeks passed, the shadow overhanging him with regard to Richard Butler gradually lifted. No further word had there been of the missing lieutenant, and by the end of May both Omoy and Tremaine had fallen to the conclusion that he must have fallen into the hands of some of the ferocious mountaineers to whom a soldier, whether his uniform were British or French, was a thing to be done to death. For his wife's sake, Omoy came thankfully to that conclusion. Under the circumstances it was the best possible termination to the episode. She must be told of her brother's death presently, when evidence of it was forthcoming. She would mourn him passionately, no doubt, for her attachment to him was deep, extraordinarily deep for so shallow a woman. But at least she would be spared the pain and shame she must inevitably have felt, had he been taken and shot. Meanwhile, however, the lack of news from him, in another sense would have to be explained to Una sooner or later, for a fitful correspondence was maintained between brother and sister, and Omoy dreaded the moment when this explanation must be made. Lacking invention he applied to Tremaine for assistance, and Tremaine glumly supplied him with the necessary lie that should meet Lady Omoy's inquiries when they came. In the end, however, he was spared the necessity of falsehood, for the truth itself reached Lady Omoy in an unexpected manner. It came about a month after that day when Omoy had first received the news of the escapade at Tavora. It was a resplendent morning of early June, and the adjutant was detained a few moments from breakfast by the arrival of a mailbag from headquarters, now established at Vizu. Leaving Captain Tremaine to deal with it, Sir Terrence went down to breakfast, bearing with him only a few letters of a personal character which had reached him from friends on the frontier. The architecture of the house at Monsanto was of a semi-clostral character. Three sides of it enclosed a sheltered, luxuriant garden, whilst on the fourth side a connecting corridor completing the quadrangle spanned bridge-wise the spacious archway through which admittance was gained directly from the parklands that sloped gently to Alcantara. This archway closed at night by enormous wooden doors opened wide during the day upon a grassy terrace bounded by a baluster of white marble that gleamed now in the brilliant sunshine. It was a moist practice to breakfast out of doors in that genial climate, and during April before the sun had reached its present intensity the table had been spread out there upon the terrace. Now, however, it was wiser even in the early morning to seek the shade, and breakfast was served within the quadrangle under a trellis of vine supported in the Portuguese manner by rough-hewn granite columns. It was a delicious spot, cool and fragrant, secluded without being enclosed, since through the broad archway it commanded a view of the Tagus and the hills of Alam Tejo. Here Omoi found himself impatiently awaited that morning by his wife and her cousin Sylvia Armitage, more recently arrived from England. You are very late, Lady Omoi greeted him petulantly, since she spent her life in keeping other people waiting, it naturally fretted her to discover unpunctuality in others. Her portrait by Rayburn, which now adorns the National Gallery, had been painted in the previous year. You will have seen it, or at least you will have seen one of its numerous replicas, and you will have remarked its singular, delicate rose-petal loveliness, the gleaming golden head, the flawless outline of face and feature, the immaculate skin, the dark blue eyes with the look of innocence awakening. Thus was she now in her artfully simple gown of flowered muslin, with its white fitchew folded across her neck, that was but a shade less wider. Thus was she, just as Rayburn had painted her, saving, of course, that her expression, matching her words, was petulant. I was disdained by the arrival of a mailbag from Vizieu. Sir Terence excused himself as he took the chair which Mullins, the elderly, pontifical butler, drew out for him. Ned is attending to it, and will be kept for a few moments yet. Lady Omoi's expression quickened. Are there no letters for me? None, my dear, I believe. No word from Dick. Again there was that note of ever-ready petulance. It is too provoking he should know that he must make me anxious by his silence. Dick is so thoughtless, so careless of other people's feelings. I shall write to him severely. The adjutant paused in the act of unfolding his napkin. The prepared explanation trembled on his lips, but its falsehood, repellent to him, was not uttered. I should certainly do so, my dear, was all he said, and addressed himself to his breakfast. What news from headquarters? Miss Armitage asked him. Are things going well? Much better now that Principal Seuz's influence is at an end. Cotton reports that the destruction of the mills in the Mondego Valley is being carried out systematically. Miss Armitage's dark, thoughtful eyes became wistful. To you no, Terrence, she said, that I am not without some sympathy for the Portuguese resistance to Lord Wellington's decrees. They must bear so terribly hard upon the people, to be compelled with their own hands to destroy their homes, and they waste the lands upon which they have labored. What could be more cruel? War can never be anything but cruel, he answered gravely. God help the people over whose lands it sweeps. Devastation is often the least of the horrors marching in its train. Why must war be? she asked him. In intelligent rebellion against that, most monstrous and infamous of all human madnesses. Omoy proceeded to do his best to explain the unexplainable, and since, himself a professional soldier, he could not take the sane view of his sane young questioner. Hot argument ensued between them to the infinite weariness of Lady Omoy, who out of self-protection gave herself to the study of the latest fashion plates from London, and the consideration of a gown for the ball which the Count of Redondo was giving in the following week. It was thus in all things, for these cousins represented the two poles of womanhood. Miss Armitage, without any of Lady Omoy's insistent and excessive femininity, was nevertheless feminine to the core, but hers was the Diana type of womanliness. She was tall and of a clean-limbed supple grace, now emphasized by the riding habit which she was wearing, for she had been in the saddle during the hour which Lady Omoy had consecrated to the rites of toilet and devotions done before her mirror. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, vivacity and intelligence lent her countenance an attraction very different from the allurement of her cousin's delicate loveliness, and because her countenance was a true mirror of her mind, she argued shrewdly now, so shrewdly that she drove Omoy to entrench himself behind generalizations. My dear Sylvia, war is most merciful where it is most merciless. He assured her with the Irish gift for paradox. At home in the government itself there are plenty who argue as you argue, and who are wondering when we shall embark for England. That is because they are intellectuals, and war is a thing beyond the understanding of intellectuals. It is not intellect but brute instinct and brute force that will help humanity in such a crisis as the present. Therefore let me tell you, child, that a government of intellectual men is the worst possible government for a nation engaged in a war. This was far from satisfying Miss Armitage. Lord Wellington himself was an intellectual, she objected. Nobody could deny it. There was the work he had done as Irish Secretary, and there was the calculating genius he had displayed at Vimiero, at Oporto, at Talavera, and then observing her husband to be in distress, Lady Omoy put down her fashion plate, and brought up her heavy artillery to relieve him. Sylvia, dear, she interpolated, I wonder that you will forever be arguing about things you don't understand. Miss Armitage laughed good-humoredly. She was not easily put out of countenance. What woman doesn't, she asked. I don't, and I am a woman surely. Ah, but an exceptional woman! Her cousin rallied her affectionately, tapping the shapely white arm that protruded from a foam of lace. And Lady Omoy, to whom words never had any but a literal meaning, set herself to per precisely as one would have expected. Complacently she discoursed upon the perfection of her own endowments, appealing ever and anon to her husband for confirmation. And Omoy, who loved her with all the passionate reverence, which nature working inscrutably to her ends, so often inspires in such strong, essentially masculine men, for just such fragile and excessively feminine women, afforded this confirmation with all the enthusiasm of sincere conviction. Thus until Mullins broke in upon them with the announcement of a visit from Count Samovall, an announcement more welcome to Lady Omoy than to either of her companions. The Portuguese nobleman was introduced. He had attained to a degree of familiarity in the adjutant's household that permitted of his being recede without ceremony there at the breakfast-table spread in the open. He was a slender, handsome, swarthy man of thirty, scrupulously dressed as graceful and elegant in his movements as a fencing master, which indeed he might have been, for his skill with the foils was a matter of pride to himself and notoriety to all the world. Nor was it by any means the only skill he might have boasted, for Geronimo de Samovall was in many things a very subtle, supple gentleman, his friendship with the Omoys. Now some three months old had been considerably strengthened of late by the fact that he had unexpectedly become one of the most hostile critics of the Council of Regency, as lately constituted, and one of the most ardent supporters of the Wellingtonian policy. He bowed with supremous grace to the ladies, ventured to kiss the fair, smooth hand of his hostess, undeterred by the frosty stare of Omoy's blue eyes, whose approval of all men was in inverse proportion to their approval of his wife, and finally proffered the armful of early roses that he brought. These poor roses of Portugal, to their sister from England, said his softly caressing tenor voice. You're a poet, said Omoy Tarly. Having found Castilia here, said the Count, shall I not drink its limpid waters? Not, I hope, while there's an agreeable vintage of port on the table. A morning wet, Samovall, Omoy invited him, taking up the decanter. Two fingers, then, no more. It is not my custom in the morning, but here, to drink your lady's health, and yours, Miss Armitage. With a graceful flourish of his glass, he pledged them both, and sipped delicately, then took the chair that Omoy was proffering. Good news I hear, General, Antonio de Souza's removal from the Government is already bearing fruit. The mills in the valley of the Montego are being effectively destroyed at last. You're very well informed, granted, Omoy, who himself had but received the news. As well informed, indeed, as I am myself. There was a note almost of suspicion in the words, and he was vexed that matters, which it was desirable he kept screened as much as possible from General Knowledge, should so soon be put abroad. Naturally, and with reason, was the answer delivered with a rueful smile. Am I not interested? Is not some of my property in question? Samovall sighed. But I bow to the necessities of war. At least it cannot be said of me, as was said of those whose interests Souza represented, that I put private considerations above public duty. That is the phrase, I think, the individual must suffer that the nation may triumph. A Roman maxim, my dear General. And a British one, said Omoy, to whom Britain was a second Rome. Ho, admitted, replied the amiable Samovall. You proved it by your uncompromising firmness in the affair of Tavora. What was that? inquired Miss Armitage. Have you not heard? cried Samovall in astonishment. Of course not! snapped Omoy, who had broken into a cold perspiration. Hardly a subject for the ladies' account. Rebuked for his intention, Samovall submitted instantly. Perhaps not, perhaps not, he agreed, as if dismissing it. Whereupon Omoy recovered from his momentary breathlessness. But in your own interest, my dear General, I trust there will be no weakening when this Lieutenant Butler is caught, and— Who? Sharp and stridently came that single word from her ladyship. Desperately Omoy sought to defend the breach. Nothing to do with Dick, my dear, a fellow named Philip Butler, who? But the two well-informed Samovall corrected him. Not Philip General, Richard Butler, I have the name but yesterday from Forges. In the scared hush that followed the count perceived that he had stumbled headlong into a mystery, he saw Lady Omoy's face turn wider and wider, saw her sapphire eyes dilating as they regarded him. Richard Butler, she echoed. What of Richard Butler, tell me, tell me at once. Hesitating before such signs of distress, Samovall looked at Omoy, to meet a dejected scowl. Lady Omoy turned to her husband. What is it, she demanded? You know something about Dick and you are keeping it from me. Dick is in trouble. He is, Omoy admitted, in great trouble. What has he done? You speak of an affair at Evora or Tavora, which is not to be mentioned before ladies. I demand to know. Her affection and anxiety for her brother invested her for a moment with a certain dignity, lent her a force that was but rarely displayed by her. Seeing the men stricken speechless, Samovall, from bewildered astonishment, Omoy from distress, she jumped to the conclusion, after what had been said, that modus of modesty accounted for their silence. Leave us, Sylvia, dear, she said. Forgive me, dear, but you see they will not mention these things while you are present. She made a piteous little figure as she stood trembling there, her fingers tearing in agitation at one of Samovall's roses. She waited until the obedient and discreet Miss Armitage had passed from view into the wing that contained the adjutant's private quarters, then sinking limp and nervous to her chair. Now she bade them. Please tell me. And Omoy, with a sigh of regret for the lie so laboriously concocted, which would never now be uttered, delivered himself huskily, of the hideous truth.