Chapter IX: Part 9

"Children, children!" he cried gleefully. "Glory to Hermes! We've done them cleverly! That edict was annulled three years ago! Ah, the idiots, the idiots!"

At daybreak Julian fell into a deep sleep.

_II.--Julian the Emperor_

Gallus had fallen at the hands of the imperial executioner, and Julian had been banished to the army in Gaul. Constantius hoped to get news of the defeat and death of Julian, and was horribly disappointed when nothing was heard but tidings of victory.

Julian, successful in arms and worshipped by his soldiers, became more and more convinced that the old Olympian gods were protecting him and advancing his cause, and only for prudential reasons did he continue to attend Christian churches. In his heart he abhorred the crucified Galilean God of the Christians, and longed for the restoration of the old worship of Apollo and the gods of Greece and Rome.

More than two years after the victory of Argentoratum, when Julian had delivered all Gaul from the barbarians, he received an important letter from the Emperor Constantius.

Each new victory in Gaul had maddened the soul of Constantius, and smitten his vanity to the quick. He writhed with jealousy, and grew thin and sleepless and sick. At the same time he sustained defeat after defeat in his own campaign in Asia against the Persians. Musing, during nights of insomnia, the emperor blamed himself for having let Julian live.

Finally, Constantius decided to rob Julian of his best soldiers, and then, by gradually disarming him, to draw him into his toils and deal him the mortal blow.

With this intention he sent a letter to Julian by the tribune Decensius, commanding him to select the most trusted legions, namely, the Heruli, Batavians, and Celts, and to dispatch them into Asia for the emperor's own use. Each remaining legion was also to be deflowered of its three hundred bravest warriors, and Julian's transport crippled of the pick of the porters and baggage carriers.

Julian at once warned Decensius, and proved to him that rebellion was inevitable among the savage legions raised in Gaul, who would almost certainly prefer to die rather than quit their native soil. But Decensius took no account of these warnings.

On the departure of the first cohorts, the soldiers, hitherto only restrained by Julian's stern and wise discipline, became excited and tumultuous. Savage murmurs ran through the crowd. The cries came nearer; wild agitation seized the garrison.

"What has happened?" asked a veteran.

"Twenty soldiers have been beaten to death!"

"Twenty! No; a hundred!"

A legionary, with torn clothes and terrified appearance, rushed into the crowd, shouting, "Comrades, quick to the palace! Quick! Julian's just been beheaded!"

These words kindled the long-smouldering flame. Everyone began to shout, "Where is the envoy from the Emperor Constantius?"

"Down with the envoy!"

"Down with the emperor!"

Another mob swept by the barracks, calling out, "Glory to the Emperor Julian! Glory to Augustus Julian!"

Then the cohorts, who had marched out the night before, mutinied, and were soon seen returning. The crowd grew thicker and thicker, like a raging flood.

"To the palace! To the palace!" the cry was raised. "Let us make Julian emperor! Let us crown him with the diadem!"

Foreseeing the revolt, Julian had not left his quarters nor shown himself to the soldiers, but for two days and two nights had waited for a sign.

The indistinct cries of the mutineers came to him, borne faintly upon the wind.

A servant entered, and announced that an old man from Athens desired to see the Caesar on urgent business. Julian ran to meet the newcomer; it was the high-priest of the mysteries of Eleusis, whom he had impatiently expected.

"Caesar," said the old man, "be not hasty. Decide nothing to-night; wait for the morrow, the gods are silent."

Outside could be heard the noise of soldiers pouring into the courtyard, and thrilling the old palace with their cries. The die was cast, Julian put on his armour, warcloak, and helmet, buckled on his sword, and ran down the principal staircase to the main entrance. In a moment the crowd felt his supremacy; in action his will never vacillated; at his first gesture the mob was silenced.

Julian spoke to the soldiers, asked them to restore order, and declared that he would neither abandon them nor permit them to be taken from Gaul.

"Down with Constantius!" cried the legionaries. "Thou art our emperor! Glory to Augustus Julian the Invincible!"

Admirably did Julian affect surprise, lowering his eyes, and turning aside his head with a deprecating gesture of his lifted palms.

The shouts redoubled. "Silence!" exclaimed Julian, striding towards the crowd. "Do you think that I can betray my sovereign? Are we not sworn?"

The soldiers seized his hands, and many, falling at his feet, kissed them, weeping and crying, "We are willing to die for you! Have pity on us; be our emperor!"

With an effort that might well have been thought sincere, Julian answered, "My children, my dear comrades, I am yours in life and in death! I can refuse you nothing!"

A standard-bearer pulled from his neck the metal chain denoting his rank, and Julian wound it twice around his own neck. This chain made him Emperor of Rome.

"Hoist him on a shield," shouted the soldiery. A round buckler was tendered. Hundreds of arms heaved the emperor. He saw a sea of helmeted heads, and heard, like the rolling of thunder, the exultant cry, "Glory to Julian, the divine Augustus!"

It seemed the will of destiny.

_III.--The Worship of Apollo_

Constantius was dead, and Julian sole emperor of Rome.

Before all the army the golden cross had been wrenched from the imperial standard, and a little silver statue of the sun-god, Mithra-Helios, had been soldered to the staff of the Labarum.

One of the men in the front rank uttered a single word so distinctly that Julian heard it, "Anti-Christ!"

Toleration was promised to the Christians, but Julian organised processions in honour of the Olympian gods, and encouraged in every way the return of the old and dying worship.

* * * * *

Five miles from Antioch stood the celebrated wood of Daphne, consecrated to Apollo. A temple had been built there, where every year the praises of the sun-god were celebrated.

Julian, without telling anyone of his intention, quitted Antioch at daybreak. He wished to find out for himself whether the inhabitants remembered the ancient sacred feast. All along the road he mused on the solemnity, hoping to see lads and maidens going up the steps of the temple, the crowd of the faithful, the choirs, and the smoke of incense.

Presently the columns and pediments of the temple shone through the wood, but not a worshipper yet had Julian encountered. At last he saw a boy of twelve years old, on a path overgrown with wild hyacinth.

"Do you know, child, where are the sacrificers and the people?" Julian asked.

The child made no answer.

"Listen, little one. Can you not lead me to the priest of Apollo?"

The boy put a finger to his lips and then to both his ears, and shook his head gravely. Suddenly he pointed out to Julian an old man, clothed in a patched and tattered tunic, and Julian recognised a temple priest. The weak and broken old man stumbled along in drunken fashion, carrying a large basket and laughing and mumbling to himself as he went. He was red-nosed, and his watery and short-sighted eyes had an expression of childlike benevolence.

"The priest of Apollo?" asked Julian.

"I am he. I am called Gorgius. What do you want, good man?"

He smelt strongly of wine. Julian thought his behaviour indecent.

"You seem to be drunk, old man!"

Gorgius, in no wise dismayed, put down his basket and rubbed his bald head.

"Drunk? I don't think so. But I may have had four or five cups in honour of the celebration; and, as to that, I drink more through sorrow than mirth. May the Olympians have you in their keeping!"

"Where are the victims?" asked Julian. "Have many people been sent from Antioch? Are the choirs ready?"

"Victims! Small thanks for victims! Many's the long year, my brother, since we saw that kind of thing. Not since the time of Constantine. It is all over--done for! Men have forgotten the gods. We don't even get a handful of wheat to make a cake; not a grain of incense, not a drop of oil for the lamps. There's nothing for it but to go to bed and die.... The monks have taken everything.... Our tale is told.... And you say 'don't drink.' But it's hard not to drink when one suffers. If I didn't drink I should have hanged myself long ago."

"And no one has come from Antioch for this great feast day?" asked Julian.

"None but you, my son. I am the priest, you are the people! Together we will offer the victim to the god. It is my own offering. We've eaten little for three days, this lad and I, to save the necessary money. Look; it is a sacred bird!"

He raised the lid of the basket. A tethered goose slid out its head, cackling and trying to escape.

"Have you dwelt long in this temple; and is this lad your son?" questioned Julian.

"For forty years, and perhaps longer; but I have neither relatives nor friends. This child helps me at the hour of sacrifice. His mother was the great sibyl Diotima, who lived here, and it is said that he is the son of a god," said Gorgius.

"A deaf mute the son of a god?" murmured the emperor, surprised.

"In times like ours if the son of a god and a sibyl were not a deaf mute he would die of grief," said Gorgius.

"One thing more I want to ask you," said Julian. "Have you ever heard that the Emperor Julian desired to restore the worship of the old gods?"

"Yes, but ... what can he do, poor man? He will not succeed. I tell you--all's over. Once I sailed in a ship near Thessalonica, and saw Mount Olympus. I mused and was full of emotion at beholding the dwellings of the gods; and a scoffing old man told me that travellers had climbed Olympus, and seen that it was an ordinary mountain, with only snow and ice and stones on it. I have remembered those words all my life. My son, all is over; Olympus is deserted. The gods have grown weary and have departed. But the sun is up, the sacrifice must be performed. Come!"

They passed into the temple alone.

From behind the trees came the sound of voices, a procession of monks chanting psalms. In the very neighbourhood of Apollo's temple a tomb had been built in honour of a Christian martyr.

_IV.--"Thou Hast Conquered, Galilean!"_

At the beginning of spring Julian quitted Antioch for a Persian campaign with an army of sixty-five thousand men.

"Warriors, my bravest of the brave," said Julian, addressing his troops at the outset, "remember the destiny of the world is in our hands. We are going to restore the old greatness of Rome! Steel your hearts, be ready for any fate. There is to be no turning back, I shall be at your head, on horseback or on foot, taking all dangers and toils with the humblest among you; because, henceforth, you are no longer my servants, but my children and my friends. Courage then, my comrades; and remember that the strong are always conquerors!"

He stretched his sword, with a smile, toward the distant horizon. The soldiers, in unison, held up their bucklers, shouting in rapture, "Glory, glory to conquering Caesar!"

But the campaign so bravely begun ended in treachery and disaster.

At the end of July, when the Roman army was in steady retreat, came the last battle with the Persians. The emperor looked for a miracle in this battle, the victory which would give him such renown and power that the Galileans could no longer resist; but it was not till the close of the day that the ranks of the enemy were broken. Then a cry of triumph came from Julian's lips. He galloped ahead, pursuing the fugitives, not perceiving that he was far in advance of his main body. A few bodyguards surrounded the Caesar, among them old General Victor. This old man, though wounded, was unconscious of his hurt, not quitting the emperor's side, and shielding him time after time from mortal blows. He knew that it was as dangerous to approach a fleeing enemy as to enter a falling building.

"Take heed, Caesar!" he shouted. "Put on this mail of mine!" But Julian heard him not, and still rode on, as if he, unsupported, unarmed, and terrible, were hunting his countless enemies by glance and gesture only from the field.

Suddenly a lance, aimed by a flying Saracen who had wheeled round, hissed, and grazing the skin of the emperor's right hand, glanced over the ribs, and buried itself in his body. Julian thought the wound a slight one, and seizing the double-edged barb to withdraw it, cut his fingers. Blood gushed out, Julian uttered a cry, flung his head back, and slid from his horse into the arms of the guard.

They carried the emperor into his tent, and laid him on his camp-bed. Still in a swoon, he groaned from time to time. Oribazius, the physician, drew out the iron lance-head, and washed and bound up the deep wound. By a look Victor asked if any hope remained, and Oribazius sadly shook his head. After the dressing of the wound Julian sighed and opened his eyes.

Hearing the distant noise of battle, he remembered all, and with an effort, rose upon his bed. His soul was struggling against death. Slowly he tottered to his feet.

"I must be with them to the end.... You see, I am able-bodied still.... Quick, give me my sword, buckler, horse!"

Victor gave him the shield and sword. Julian took them, and made a few unsteady steps, like a child learning to walk. The wound re-opened; he let fall his sword and shield, sank into the arms of Oribazius and Victor, and looking up, cried contemptuously, "All is over! Thou hast conquered, Galilean!" And making no further resistance, he gave himself up to his friends, and was laid on the bed.

At night he was in delirium.

"One must conquer ... reason must.... Socrates died like a god.... I will not believe!... What do you want from me?... Thy love is more terrible than death.... I want sunlight, the golden sun!"

At dawn the sick man lay calm, and the delirium had left him.

"Call the generals--I must speak."

The generals came in, and the curtain of the tent was raised so that the fresh air of the morning might blow on the face of the dying. The entrance faced east, and the view to the horizon was unbroken.

"Listen, friends," Julian began, and his voice was low, but clear. "My hour is come, and like an honest debtor, I am not sorry to give back my life to nature, and in my soul is neither pain nor fear. I have tried to keep my soul stainless; I have aspired to ends not ignoble. Most of our earthly affairs are in the hands of destiny. We must not resist her. Let the Galileans triumph. We shall conquer later on!"

The morning clouds were growing red, and the first beam of the sun washed over the rim of the horizon. The dying man held his face towards the light, with closed eyes.

Then his head fell back, and the last murmur came from his half-open lips, "Helios! Receive me unto thyself!"

* * * * *

PROSPER MÉRIMÉE

Carmen

Novelist, archaeologist, essayist, and in all three
departments one of the greatest masters of French style of his
century, Prosper Mérimée was born in Paris on September 23,
1803. The son of a painter, Mérimée was intended for the law,
but at the age of twenty-two achieved fame as the author of a
number of plays purporting to be translations from the
Spanish. From that time until his death at Cannes on September
23, 1870, a brilliant series of plays, essays, novels, and
historical and archaeological works poured from his fertile
pen. Altogether he wrote about a score of tales, and it is on
these and on his "Letters to an Unknown" that Mérimée's fame
depends. His first story to win universal recognition was
"Colombo," in 1830. Seventeen years later appeared his
"Carmen, the Power of Love," of which Taine, in his celebrated
essay on the work, says, "Many dissertations on our primitive
savage methods, many knowing treatises like Schopenhauer's on
the metaphysics of love and death, cannot compare to the
hundred pages of 'Carmen.'"

_I.--I Meet Don José_

One day, wandering in the higher part of the plain of Cachena, near Cordova, harassed with fatigue, dying of thirst, burned by an overhead sun, I perceived, at some distance from the path I was following, a little green lawn dotted with rushes and reeds. It proclaimed to me the neighbourhood of a spring, and I saw that a brook issued from a narrow gorge between two lofty spurs of the Sierra de Cabra.

At the mouth of the gorge my horse neighed, and another horse that I did not see answered immediately. A hundred steps farther, and the gorge, suddenly widening, revealed a sort of natural circus, shaded by the cliffs which surrounded it. It was impossible to light upon a place which promised a pleasanter halt to the traveller.

But the honour of discovering this beautiful spot did not belong to me. A man was resting there already, and it my entrance, he had risen and approached his horse. He was a young fellow of medium height, but robust appearance, with a gloomy and haughty air. In one hand he held his horse's halter, in the other a brass blunderbuss. The fierce air of the man somewhat surprised me, but not having seen any robbers I no longer believed in them. My guide Antonio, however, who came up behind me, showed evident signs of terror, and drew near very much against his will.

I stretched myself on the grass, drew out my cigar-case, and asked the man with the blunderbuss if he had a tinder-box on him. The unknown, without speaking, produced his tinder-box, and hastened to strike a light for me. In return I gave him one of my best Havanas, for which he thanked me with an inclination of the head.

In Spain a cigar given and received establishes relations of hospitality, like the sharing of bread and salt in the East. My unknown now proved more talkative than I had expected. He seemed half famished, and devoured some slices of excellent ham, which I had put in my guide's knapsack, wolfishly. When I mentioned I was going to the Venta del Cuervo for the night he offered to accompany me, and I accepted willingly.

As we rode along Antonio endeavoured to attract my attention by mysterious signs, but I took no notice. Doubtless my companion was a smuggler, or a robber. What did it matter to me? I knew I had nothing to fear from a man who had eaten and smoked with me.

We arrived at the venta, which was one of the most wretched I had yet come across. An old woman opened the door, and on seeing my companion, exclaimed, "Ah, Señor Don José!"

Don José frowned and raised his hand, and the old woman was silent at once.

The supper was better than I expected, and after supper Don José played the mandoline and sang some melancholy songs. My guide decided to pass the night in the stable, but Don José and I stretched ourselves on mule cloths on the floor.

Very disagreeable itchings snatched me from my first nap, and drove me to a wooden bench outside the door. I was about to close my eyes for the second time, when, to my surprise, I saw Antonio leading a horse. He stopped on seeing me, and said anxiously, "Where is he?"

"In the venta; he is sleeping. He is not afraid of the fleas. Why are you taking away my horse?"

I then observed that, in order to prevent any noise, Antonio had carefully wrapped the animal's feet in the remains of an old sack.

"Hush!" said Antonio. "That man there is José Navarro, the most famous bandit of Andalusia. There are two hundred ducats for whoever gives him up. I know a post of lancers a league and a half from here, and before it is day I will bring some of them here."

"What harm has the poor man done you that you denounce him?" said I.

"I am a poor wretch, sir!" was all Antonio could say. "Two hundred ducats are not to be lost, especially when it is a matter of delivering the country from such vermin."

My threats and requests were alike unavailing. Antonio was in the saddle, he set spurs to his horse after freeing its feet from the rags, and was soon lost to sight in the darkness.

I was very much annoyed with my guide, and somewhat uneasy; but quickly making up my mind, returned to the inn, and shook Don José to awaken him.

"Would you be very pleased to see half a dozen lancers arrive here?" I said.

He leapt to his feet.

"Ah, your guide has betrayed me! Your guide! I had suspected him. Adieu, sir. God repay you the service I am in your debt for. I am not quite as bad as you think. Yes, there is still something in me deserving the pity of a gentleman. Adieu!"

He ran to the stable, and some minutes later I heard him galloping into the fields.

As for me, I asked myself if I had been right in saving a robber, perhaps a murderer, from the gallows only because I had eaten ham and rice and smoked with him.

I think Antonio cherished a grudge against me; but, nevertheless, we parted good friends at Cordova.

_II.--My Experience with Carmen_

I passed some days at Cordova searching for a certain manuscript in the Dominican's library.

One evening I was leaning on the parapet of the quay, smoking, when a woman came up the flight of stairs leading to the river and sat down beside me. She was simply dressed, all in black, and we fell into conversation.

On my taking out my repeater watch she was greatly astonished.

"What inventions they have among you foreigners!"

Then she told me she was a gipsy, and proposed to tell my fortune.

"Have you heard people speak of La Carmencita?" she added. "That is me!"

"Good!" I said to myself. "Last week I supped with a highway robber; now to-day I will eat ices with a gipsy. When travelling one must see everything."

With that I escorted the Señorita Carmen to a café, and we had ices.

My gipsy had a strange and wild beauty, a face which astonished at first, but which one could not forget. Her eyes, in particular, had an expression, at once loving and fierce, that I have found in no human face since.

It would have been ridiculous to have had my fortune told in a public café and I begged the fair sorceress to allow me to accompany her to her domicile. She at once consented, but insisted on seeing my watch again.

"Is it really of gold?" she said, examining it with great attention.

Night had set in, and most of the shops were closed and the streets almost deserted as we crossed the Guadalquiver bridge, and went on to the outskirts of the town.

The house we entered was by no means a palace. A child opened the door, and disappeared when the gipsy said some words to it in the Romany tongue.

Then the gipsy produced some cards, a magnet, a dried chameleon, and other things necessary for her art. She told me to cross my left hand with a piece of money, and the magic ceremonies began. It was evident to me that she was no half-sorceress.

Unfortunately, we were soon disturbed. Of a sudden the door opened violently, and a man entered, who denounced the gipsy in a manner far from polite.

I at once recognised my friend Don José, and greeted him cheerfully.

"The same as ever! This will have an end," he said turning fiercely to the gipsy, who now started talking to him in her own language. She grew animated as she spoke, and her eyes became terrible. It appeared to me she was urging him warmly to do something at which he hesitated. I think I understood what it was only too well from seeing her quickly pass and repass her little hand under her chin. There was some question of a throat to cut, and I had a suspicion that the throat was mine.

Don José only answered with two or three words in a sharp tone, and the gipsy, casting a look of deep contempt at him, retired to a corner of the room, and taking an orange, peeled it and began to eat it.

Don José took my arm, opened the door, and led me into the street. We walked some way together in the profoundest silence. Then, stretching out his hand, "Keep straight on," he Said, "and you will find the bridge."

With that he turned his back on me, and walked rapidly away. I returned to my inn a little crestfallen and depressed. Worst of all was that, as I was undressing, I discovered my watch was missing.

I departed for Seville next day, and after several months of rambling in Andalusia, was once more back in Cordova, on my way to Madrid.

The good fathers at the Dominican convent received me with open arms.

"Your watch has been found again, and will be returned to you," one of them told me. "The rascal is in gaol, and is to be executed the day after to-morrow. He is known in the country under the name of José Navarro, and he is a man to be seen."

I went to see the prisoner, and took him some cigars. At first he shrugged his shoulders and received me coldly, but I saw him again on the morrow, and passed a part of the day with him. It was from his mouth I learnt the sad adventures of his life.

_III.--Don José's Story_

"I was born," he said, "at Elizondo, and my name--Don José Lizzarrabengoa--will tell you that I am Basque, and an old Christian. If I take the _don_, it is because I have the right to do so. One day when I had been playing tennis with a lad from Alava I won, and he picked a quarrel with me. We took our iron-tipped sticks, and fought, and again I had the advantage; but it forced me to quit the country. I met some dragoons, and enlisted in the Almanza regiment of cavalry. Soon I became a corporal, and they were under promise to make me sergeant when, to my misfortune, I was put on guard at the tobacco factory at Seville.

"I was young then, and I was always thinking of my native country, and was afraid of the Andalusian young women and their jesting ways. But one Friday--I shall never forget it--when I was on duty, I heard people saying, 'Here's the gipsy.' And, looking up, I saw her for the first time. I saw that Carmen whom you know, in whose house I met you some months ago.

"She made some joke at me as she passed into the factory, and flipped a cassia flower just between my eyes. When she had gone, I picked it up and put it carefully in my pocket. First piece of folly!

"A few hours afterwards I was ordered to take two of my men into the factory. There had been a quarrel, and Carmen had slashed another woman with two terrible cuts of her knife across the face. The case was clear. I took Carmen by the arm, and bade her follow me. At the guard-house the sergeant said it was serious, and that she must be taken to prison. I placed her between two dragoons, and, walking behind, we set out for the town.

"At first the gipsy kept silence, but presently she turned to me, and said softly, 'You are taking me to prison! Alas! what will become of me? Have pity on me, Mr. Officer! You are so young, so good-looking! Let me escape, and I will give you a piece of the loadstone which will make all women love you.'

"I answered her as seriously as I could that the order was to take her to prison, and that there was no help for it.

"My accent told her I was from the Basque province, and she began to speak to me in my native tongue. Gipsies, you know, sir, speak all languages. She told me she had been carried off by gipsies from Navarro, and was working at the factory in order to earn enough to return home to her poor mother. Would I do nothing for a country-woman? The Spanish women at the factory had slandered her native place.

"It was all lies, sir. She always lied. But I believed her at the time.

"'If I pushed you and you fell,' she resumed, in Basque, 'it would not be these two conscripts who would hold me.'

"I forgot my order and everything, and said, "'Very well, my country- woman; and may our Lady of the Mountain be your aid!'

"Suddenly Carmen turned round and dealt me a blow on the chest with her fist. I let myself fall backwards on purpose, and, with one bound, she leapt over me, and started to run. There was no risk of overtaking her with our spurs, our sabres, and our lances. The prisoner disappeared in no time, and all the women-folk in the quarter favoured her escape, and made fun of us, pointing out the wrong road on purpose. We had to return at last to the guard-house without a receipt from the governor of the prison.

"The result of this was I was degraded and sent to prison for a month. Farewell to the sergeant's stripes, I thought.

"One day in prison the jailor entered, and gave me a special loaf of bread.

"'Here,' he said, 'see what your cousin has sent you.'

"I was astonished, for I had no cousin in Seville, and when I broke the loaf I found a small file and a gold piece inside it. No doubt then, it was a present from Carmen, for a gipsy would set fire to a town to escape a day's imprisonment, and I was touched by this mark of remembrance.

"But I served my sentence, and, on coming out, was put on sentry outside the colonel's door, like a common soldier. It was a terrible humiliation.

"While I was on duty I saw Carmen again. She was dressed out like a shrine, all gold and ribbons, and was going in one evening with a party of gipsies to amuse the colonel's guests. She recognised me, and named a place where I could meet her next day. When I gave her back the gold piece she burst into laughter, but kept it all the same. Do you know, my son,' she said to me when we parted, 'I believe I love you a little. But that cannot last. Dog and wolf do not keep house together long. Perhaps, if you adopted the gipsy law, I would like to become your wife. But it is nonsense; it is impossible. Think no more of Carmencita, or she will bring you to the gallows.'

"She spoke the truth. I would have been wise to think no more of her; but after that day I could think of nothing else, and walked about always hoping to meet her, but she had left the town.

"It was some weeks later, when I had been placed as a night sentinel at one of the town gates that I saw Carmen. I was put there to prevent smuggling; but Carmen persuaded me to let five of her friends pass in, and they were all well laden with English goods. She told me I might come and see her next day at the same house I had visited before.

"Carmen had moods, like the weather in our country. She would make appointments and not keep them, and at another time, would be full of affection.

"One evening when I had called on a friend of Carmen's the gipsy entered the room, followed by a young man, a lieutenant in our regiment.

"He told me to decamp, and I said something sharp to him. We soon drew our swords, and presently the point of mine entered his body. Then Carmen extinguished the lamp, and, wounded though I was, we started running down the street. 'Great fool,' she said. 'You can do nothing but foolish things. Besides, I told you I would bring you bad luck.' She made me take off my uniform and put on a striped cloak, and this with a handkerchief over my head, enabled me to pass fairly well for a peasant. Then she took me to a house at the end of a little lane, and she and another gipsy washed and dressed my wounds. Next day Carmen pointed out to me the new career she destined me for. I was to go to the coast and become a smuggler. In truth it was the only one left me, now that I had incurred the punishment of death. Besides, I believed I could make sure of her love. Carmen introduced me to her people, and at first the freedom of the smuggler's life pleased me better than the soldier's life. I saw Carmen often, and she showed more liking for me than ever; but, she would not admit that she was willing to be my wife."

_IV.--The End of Don José's Story_

"One becomes a rogue without thinking, sir. A pretty girl makes one lose one's head, one fights for her, a misfortune happens, one is driven to the mountains, from smuggler one becomes robber before reflecting.

"Carmen often made me jealous, especially after she accepted me as her husband, and she warned me not to interfere with her freedom. On my part I wanted to change my way of life, but when I spoke to her about quitting Spain and trying to live honestly in America, she laughed at me.

"'We are not made for planting cabbages,' she said; '_our_ destiny is to live at the expense of others.' Then she told me of a fresh piece of smuggling on hand, and I let myself be persuaded to resume the wretched traffic.

"While I was in hiding at Granada, there were bullfights to which Carmen went. When she returned, she spoke much of a very skilful picador, named Lucas. She knew the name of his horse, and how much his embroidered jacket cost him. I paid no heed to this, but began to grow alarmed when I heard that Carmen had been seen about with Lucas. I asked her how and why she had made his acquaintance.

"'He is a man,' she said, 'with whom business can be done. He has won twelve hundred pounds at the bullfights. One of two things: we must either have the money, or, as he is a good horseman, we can enroll him in our band.'

"'I wish,' I replied, 'neither his money nor his person, and I forbid you to speak to him.'

"'Take care,' she said; 'when anyone dares me to do a thing it is soon done.'

"Luckily the picador left for Malaga, and I set about my smuggling. I had a great deal to do in this expedition, and it was about that time I first met you. Carmen robbed you of your watch at our last interview, and she wanted your money as well. We had a violent dispute about that, and I struck her. She turned pale and wept. It was the first time I saw her weep, and it had a terrible effect on me. I begged her pardon, but it was not till three days later that she would kiss me.

"'There is a fête at Cordova,' she said, when we were friends again. 'I am going to see it, then I shall find out the people who carry money with them and tell you.'

"I let her go, but when a peasant told me there was a bull-fight at Cordova, I set off like a madman to the spot. Lucas was pointed out to me, and on the bench close to the barrier I recognised Carmen. It was enough for me to see her to be certain how things stood. Lucas, at the first bull, did the gallant, as I had foreseen. He tore the bunch of ribbons from the bull and carried it to Carmen, who put it in her hair on the spot. The bull took upon itself the task of avenging me. Lucas was thrown down with his horse on his chest, and the bull on the top of both. I looked at Carmen, she had already left her seat, but I was so wedged in I was obliged to wait for the end of the fights.

"I got home first, however, and Carmen only arrived at two o'clock in the morning.

"'Come with me,' I said.

"'Very well, let us go,' she answered.

"I went and fetched my horse; I put her behind me, and we travelled all the rest of the night without speaking. At daybreak we were in a solitary gorge.

"'Listen,' I said to Carmen, 'I forget everything. Only swear to me one thing, that you will follow me to America, and live there quietly with me.'

"'No,' she said, in a sulky tone, 'I do not want to go to America. I am quite comfortable here.'

"I implored her to let us change our way of life and Carmen answered, 'I will follow you to death, but I will not live with you any longer. I always thought you meant to kill me, and now I see that is what you are going to do. It is destiny, but you will not make me yield.'

"'Listen to me!' I said, 'for the last time. You know that it is for you I have become a robber and a murderer. Carmen! my Carmen, there is still time for us to save ourselves,' I promised anything and everything if she would love me again.

"'José,' she replied, 'you ask me for the impossible. I do not love you any more. All is over between us. You have the right to kill me. But Carmen must always be free. To love you is impossible, and I do not wish to live with you.'

"Fury took possession of me, and I killed her with my knife. An hour later I laid her in a grave in the wood. Then I mounted my horse, galloped to Cordova, and gave myself up at the first guard-house.... Poor Carmen! it is the gipsies who are to blame for having brought her up like that."

* * * * *

MARY RUSSELL MITFORD

Our Village

Mary Russell Mitford was known first as a dramatist, with
tragedy as her forte, and in later years as a novelist, but by
posterity she will be remembered as a portrayer of country
life, in simply worded sketches, with a quiet colouring of
humour. These sketches were collected, as "Our Village," into
five volumes, between 1824 and 1832. Miss Mitford was born
Dec. 16, 1787, at Alresford, Hampshire, England, the daughter
of a foolish spendthrift father, to whom she was pathetically
devoted, and lived in her native county almost throughout her
life. In her later years she received a Civil List pension.
She died on January 10, 1855. The quietness of the country is
in all Miss Mitford's writing, but it is a cheerful country,
pervaded by a rosy-cheeked optimism. Her letters, too,
scribbled on small scraps of paper, are as attractive as her
books.

_I.--Some of the Inhabitants_

Will you walk with me through our village, courteous reader? The journey is not long. We will begin at the lower end, and proceed up the hill.

The tidy, square, red cottage on the right hand, with the long, well-stocked garden by the side of the road, belongs to a retired publican from a neighbouring town; a substantial person with a comely wife--one who piques himself on independence and idleness, talks politics, reads the newspapers, hates the minister, and cries out for reform. He hangs over his gate, and tries to entice passengers to stop and chat. Poor man! He is a very respectable person, and would be a very happy one if he would add a little employment to his dignity. It would be the salt of life to him.

Next to his house, though parted from it by another long garden with a yew arbour at the end, is the pretty dwelling of the shoemaker, a pale, sickly-looking, black-haired man, the very model of sober industry. There he sits in his little shop from early morning till late at night. An earthquake would hardly stir him. There is at least as much vanity in his industry as in the strenuous idleness of the retired publican. The shoemaker has only one pretty daughter, a light, delicate, fair-haired girl of fourteen, the champion, protectress, and play-fellow of every brat under three years old, whom she jumps, dances, dandles, and feeds all day long. A very attractive person is that child-loving girl. She likes flowers, and has a profusion of white stocks under her window, as pure and delicate as herself.

The first house on the opposite side of the way is the blacksmith's--a gloomy dwelling, where the sun never seems to shine; dark and smoky within and without, like a forge. The blacksmith is a high officer in our little state, nothing less than a constable; but alas, alas! when tumults arise, and the constable is called for, he will commonly be found in the thickest of the fray. Lucky would it be for his wife and her eight children if there were no public-house in the land.

Then comes the village shop, like other village shops, multifarious as a bazaar--a repository for bread, shoes, tea, cheese, tape, ribbons, and bacon; for everything, in short, except the one particular thing which you happen to want at the moment, and will be sure not to find.

Divided from the shop by a narrow yard is a habitation of whose inmates I shall say nothing. A cottage--no, a miniature house, all angles, and of a charming in-and-outness; the walls, old and weather-stained, covered with hollyhocks, roses, honeysuckles, and a great apricot-tree; the casements full of geraniums (oh, there is our superb white cat peeping out from among them!); the closets (our landlord has the assurance to call them rooms) full of contrivances and corner-cupboards; and the little garden behind full of common flowers. That house was built on purpose to show in what an exceeding small compass comfort may be packed.

The next tenement is a place of importance, the Rose Inn--a whitewashed building, retired from the road behind its fine swinging sign, with a little bow-window room coming out on one side, and forming, with our stable on the other, a sort of open square, which is the constant resort of carts, waggons, and return chaises.

Next door lives a carpenter, "famed ten miles around, and worthy all his fame," with his excellent wife and their little daughter Lizzy, the plaything and queen of the village--a child three years old according to the register, but six in size and strength and intellect, in power and self-will. She manages everybody in the place; makes the lazy carry her, the silent talk to her, and the grave to romp with her. Her chief attraction lies in her exceeding power of loving, and her firm reliance on the love and the indulgence of others.

How pleasantly the road winds up the hill, with its broad, green borders and hedgerows so thickly timbered! How finely the evening sun falls on that sandy, excavated bank, and touches the farmhouse on the top of the eminence!

_II.--Hannah Bint_

The shaw leading to Hannah Bint's habitation is a very pretty mixture of wood and coppice. A sudden turn brings us to the boundary of the shaw, and there, across the open space, the white cottage of the keeper peeps from the opposite coppice; and the vine-covered dwelling of Hannah Bint rises from amidst the pretty garden, which lies bathed in the sunshine around it.

My friend Hannah Bint is by no means an ordinary person. Her father, Jack Bint (for in all his life he never arrived at the dignity of being called John), was a drover of high repute in his profession. No man between Salisbury Plain and Smithfield was thought to conduct a flock of sheep so skilfully through all the difficulties of lanes and commons, streets and high-roads, as Jack Bint, aided by Jack Bint's famous dog, Watch.

No man had a more thorough knowledge of the proper night stations, where good feed might be procured for his charge, and good liquor for Watch and himself; Watch, like other sheepdogs, being accustomed to live chiefly on bread and beer, while his master preferred gin.

But when a rheumatic fever came one hard winter, and finally settled in Jack Bint's limbs, reducing the most active and handy man in the parish to the state of a confirmed cripple, poor Jack, a thoughtless but kind creature, looked at his three motherless children with acute misery. Then it was that he found help where he least expected it--in the sense and spirit of his young daughter, a girl of twelve years old.

Hannah was a quick, clever lass of a high spirit, a firm temper, some pride, and a horror of accepting parochial relief--that surest safeguard to the sturdy independence of the English character. So when her father talked of giving up their comfortable cottage and removing to the workhouse, while she and her brothers must move to service, Hannah formed a bold resolution, and proceeded to act at once on her own plans and designs.

She knew that the employer in whose service her father's health had suffered so severely was a rich and liberal cattle-dealer in the neighbourhood, who would willingly aid an old and faithful servant. Of Farmer Oakley, accordingly, she asked, not money, but something much more in his own way--a cow! And, amused and interested by the child's earnestness, the wealthy yeoman gave her a very fine young Alderney.

She then went to the lord of the manor, and, with equal knowledge of character, begged his permission to keep her cow on the shaw common. He, too, half from real good nature, and half not to be outdone in liberality by his tenant, not only granted the requested permission, but reduced the rent so much that the produce of the vine seldom failed to satisfy their kind landlord.

Now Hannah showed great judgment in setting up as a dairy-woman. One of the most provoking of the petty difficulties which beset a small establishment in this neighbourhood is the trouble, almost the impossibility, of procuring the pastoral luxuries of milk, eggs, and butter. Hannah's Alderney restored us to our rural privilege. Speedily she established a regular and gainful trade in milk, eggs, butter, honey, and poultry--for poultry they had always kept.

In short, during the five years she has ruled at the shaw cottage the world has gone well with Hannah Bint. She has even taught Watch to like the buttermilk as well as strong beer, and has nearly persuaded her father to accept milk as a substitute for gin. Not but that Hannah hath had her enemies as well as her betters. The old woman at the lodge, who always piqued herself on being spiteful, and crying down new ways, foretold that she would come to no good; nay, even Ned Miles, the keeper, her next neighbour, who had whilom held entire sway over the shaw common, as well as its coppices, grumbled as much as so good-natured and genial a person could grumble when he found a little girl sharing his dominion, a cow grazing beside his pony, and vulgar cocks and hens hovering around the buckwheat destined to feed his noble pheasants.

Yes! Hannah hath had her enemies, but they are passing away. The old woman at the lodge is dead, poor creature; and the keeper?--why, he is not dead, or like to die, but the change that has taken place there is the most astonishing of all--except perhaps the change in Hannah herself.

Few damsels of twelve years old, generally a very pretty age, were less pretty than Hannah Bint. Short and stunted in her figure, thin in face, sharp in feature, with a muddied complexion, wild, sunburnt hair, and eyes whose very brightness had in them something startling, over-informed, too clever for her age; at twelve years old she had quite the air of a little old fairy.

Now, at seventeen, matters are mended. Her complexion has cleared; her countenance has developed itself; her figure has shot up into height and lightness, and a sort of rustic grace; her bright, acute eye is softened and sweetened by a womanly wish to please; her hair is trimmed and curled and brushed with exquisite neatness; and her whole dress arranged with that nice attention to the becoming which would be called the highest degree of coquetry if it did not deserve the better name of propriety. The lass is really pretty, and Ned Miles has discovered that she is so. There he stands, the rogue, close at her side (for he hath joined her whilst we have been telling her little story, and the milking is over); there he stands holding her milk-pail in one hand, and stroking Watch with the other. There they stand, as much like lovers as may be; he smiling and she blushing; he never looking so handsome, nor she so pretty, in their lives.

There they stand, and one would not disturb them for all the milk and the butter in Christendom. I should not wonder if they were fixing the wedding-day.

_III.--A Country Cricket Match_

I doubt if there be any scene in the world more animating or delightful than a cricket match. I do not mean a set match at Lord's Ground--no! the cricket I mean is a real solid, old-fashioned match between neighbouring parishes, where each attacks the other for honour and a supper.

For the last three weeks our village has been in a state of great excitement, occasioned by a challenge from our north-western neighbours, the men of B----, to contend with us at cricket. Now, we have not been much in the habit of playing matches. The sport had languished until the present season, when the spirit began to revive. Half a dozen fine, active lads, of influence among their comrades, grew into men and yearned for cricket. In short, the practice recommenced, and the hill was again alive with men and boys and innocent merriment. Still, we were modest and doubted our own strength.

The B---- people, on the other hand, must have been braggers born. Never was such boasting! Such ostentatious display of practice! It was a wonder they did not challenge all England. Yet we firmly resolved not to decline the combat; and one of the most spirited of the new growth, William Grey by name, and a farmer's son by station, took up the glove in a style of manly courtesy that would have done honour to a knight in the days of chivalry.

William Grey then set forth to muster his men, remembering with great complacency that Samuel Long, the very man who had bowled us out at a fatal return match some years ago at S--, our neighbours south-by-east, had luckily, in a remove of a quarter of a mile last Lady Day, crossed the boundaries of his old parish and actually belonged to us. Here was a stroke of good fortune! Our captain applied to him instantly, and he agreed at a word. We felt we had half gained the match when we had secured him. Then James Brown, a journeyman blacksmith and a native, who, being of a rambling disposition, had roamed from place to place for half a dozen years, had just returned to our village with a prodigious reputation in cricket and gallantry. To him also went the indefatigable William Grey, and he also consented to play. Having thus secured two powerful auxiliaries, we began to reckon the regular forces.