Chapter II: Part 2

"So is your mercy rewarded," muttered the grim Kirkpatrick.

"So am I true to my duty," returned Wallace, "though De Valence is a traitor to his."

The Countess of Mar looked for the first time upon Wallace's countenance. He was the enemy of her kinsmen of the house of Cummin; unknown to her husband, she had sought to betray him to one of these kinsmen; and now, as this beautiful woman beheld the man she had tried to injure, a sense of shame, accompanied by a strange fascination, entered her bosom.

"How does my soul seem to pour itself out to this man!" she said to herself. "Hardly have I seen this William Wallace, and yet my very being is lost in his!"

Love mingled with ambition in her uneasy mind. Her husband was old and wounded; his life would not be long. Wallace had the genius of a conqueror. Might he not be proclaimed king of Scotland? She threw herself assiduously into his company during the days that followed. At last, with tears in eyes, she confessed her love, thinking, in her folly, that she could move the heart of one who had consecrated himself to the service of Scotland and the memory of Marion.

"Your husband, Lady Mar," he said with gentleness, "is my friend; had I even a heart to give to women, not one sigh should arise in it to his dishonour. But I am deaf to women, and the voice of love sounds like the funeral knell of her who will never breathe it to me more."

He rose, and ere the countess could reply, a messenger entered with news from Ayr. Eighteen Scottish chiefs had been treacherously put to death, and others were imprisoned and awaiting execution. Wallace and his men marched straight to the castle of Ayr, surprised it while the English lords were feasting within, and set it afire. Those who escaped the flames either fell by Scottish steel, or yielded themselves prisoners.

Castle and fortalice opened their gates before Wallace as he marched from Ayr to Berwick; but at Berwick he encountered stout resistance from a noble foeman, the Earl of Gloucester, who with his garrison yielded only to starvation. Wallace, touched with their valour, permitted them to march out with all the honours of war, and with the chivalrous earl he formed a friendship that was never dimmed by the enmity of the nations to which they belonged.

Soon there came a summons to Stirling. By a dishonourable stratagem of De Valence's, Lord and Lady Mar and Helen had been seized and carried to Stirling Castle, where Lord Mar was in danger of immediate death. Helen was in the power of De Valence, who pressed his hateful suit upon her. Wallace and his men marched hastily, and captured the town; once more De Valence begged Wallace's mercy, and once more, unworthy as he was, obtained it. But the ruthless Cressingham, commanding the castle, placed Lord Mar on the battlements with a rope round his neck, and declared that unless the attack ceased the earl and his whole family would instantly die. Wallace's reply was to bring forward De Valence, pale and trembling. "The moment Lord Mar dies, De Valence shall instantly perish," he declared.

Cressingham agreed to an armistice, hoping to gain time until De Warenne, with the mighty English host then advancing from the border, had reached Stirling. Next morning this great army in its pride poured across the bridge of the Forth; but the Scottish warriors, rushing down from the hillsides, with Wallace at their head, swept all before them. It was rather a carnage than a battle. Those who escaped the steel of Wallace's men were thrust into the river, and land and water were burdened with English dead.

That evening Stirling Castle surrendered, the Scottish prisoners were released, and their places were taken by the commanders of the enemy's host.

_III.--Wallace the Regent_

When the victorious chiefs were gathering in the hall of the castle, Helen looked upon each one with anxious eyes. Would the gentle knight who rescued her be in Wallace's train? Lady Mar turned a restless glance upon her step-daughter. "Wallace will behold these charms," she cried to herself, "and then, where am I?"

Amid a crowd of knights in armour the conqueror entered; and as Helen raised her eyes she saw that the knight of her dream, the man who had saved her from worse than death, was Wallace himself!

"Scots, behold the Lord's anointed!" cried the patriot Bishop of Dunkeld, drawing from his breast a silver dove of sacred oil, and pouring it upon Wallace's head.

Every knee was bent, and every voice cried "Long live King William!"

"Rise, lords!" exclaimed Wallace. "Kneel not to me--I am but your fellow soldier. Bruce lives; God has yet preserved to you a lawful monarch."

Eagerly they sought to persuade him, but in vain. He consented to hold the kingdom for the rightful sovereign, under the name of regent, but the crown he would not accept. He found a nation waiting on his nod--the hearts of half a million people offered to his hand.

On the night before the English prisoners were to start on their journey southwards to be exchanged with Scottish nobles--an exchange after which, by England's will, the war was to continue--Lady Mar, whose husband was now governor of Stirling Castle, gave a banquet in honour of the departing knights. The entertainment was conducted with that chivalric courtesy which a noble conqueror always pays to the vanquished.

But the spirit of Wallace was sad amid the gaiety; seeking quiet, he wandered along a darkened passage that led to the chapel, unobserved save by his watchful enemy De Valence--whose hatred had been intensified by the knowledge that Helen, whose hand he had again demanded in vain, loved the regent. He had guessed her secret, and she had guessed his--the design he had of murdering the foe who had twice spared his life.

As Wallace entered the chapel and advanced towards the altar, he saw a woman kneeling in prayer. "Defend him, Heavenly Father!" she cried. "Guard his unshielded breast from treachery!" It was Helen's voice.

Wallace stepped from the shadow; Helen was transfixed and silent. "Continue to offer up these prayers for me," he said gently, "and I shall yet think, holy maid, that I have a Marion to pray for me on earth, as well as in heaven."

"They are for your life," she said in agitation, "for it is menaced."

"I will inquire by whom," answered he, "when I have first paid my duty at this altar. Pray with me, Lady Helen, for the liberty of Scotland."

As they were praying together, Helen rose with a shriek and flung her arms around Wallace. He felt an assassin's steel in his back, and she fell senseless on his breast. Her arm was bleeding; she had partly warded off the blow aimed at him, and had saved his life. He took her up in his arms, and bore her from the chapel to the hall.

"Who has done this?" cried Mar, in anguish.

"I know not," replied Wallace, "but I believe some villain who aimed at my life." With a gasp he sank back unconscious on the bench.

Helen was the first to recover, and while they were staunching the blood that flowed from Wallace's wound, Lady Mar turned to her step-daughter.

"Will you satisfy this anxious company," said she sneeringly, "how it happened that you should be alone with the regent? May I ask our noble friends to withdraw, and leave this delicate investigation to my own family?"

Wallace, recovering his senses, rose hastily.

"Do not leave this place, my lords, till I explain how I came to disturb the devotions of Lady Helen;" Straightforwardly and with dignity, he told the story of what had happened, and the jealous Lady Mar was silenced.

"But who was the assassin?" they asked.

"I shall name him to Sir William Wallace alone," said Helen.

But the dagger, found in the chapel, revealed the truth. The chiefs clamoured for De Valence's death, Wallace again granted him life. Next morning, as the cavalcade of southern knights was starting, Wallace rode up and handed the dagger to De Valence.

"The next time that you draw this dagger," said he, "let it be with a more knightly aim than assassination."

De Valence, careless of the looks of horror and contempt cast upon him by his fellow countrymen, broke it asunder, and, throwing the fragments in the air, said to the shivered weapon, "You shall not betray me again!"

"Nor you betray our honours, Lord de Valence," said De Warenne sternly. "As lord warden of this realm, I order you under arrest until we pass the Scottish lines."

After the exchange of prisoners had been effected, Wallace invaded the enemy's country, and brought rich stores from the barns of Northumberland to the starving people of desolated Scotland. The reduction followed of all the fortresses held by the English in Northern Scotland. King Edward himself was now advancing; but a greater peril menaced the regent than that of the invader.

Many of the nobles, headed by the Earls of Athol, Buchan, and March, were bitterly jealous of the ascendancy of a low-born usurper--for so they called Scotland's deliverer--and conspired to restore the sovereignty of Edward. Their chance of treachery came when Wallace faced the English host at Falkirk. When the battle was joined, Athol, Buchan, and all the Cummins, crying, "Long live King Edward!" joined the English, and flung themselves upon their fellow-countrymen. Grievous was the havoc of Scot on Scot; and beside the English king throughout the battle stood Bruce, the rightful monarch, aiding in the destruction of his nation's liberties.

But on the night of that disastrous day, a young stranger in splendid armour came secretly to Wallace. It was Robert Bruce, seeking to offer his services to his country and to wipe out the stigma that his father had cast upon his name.

_IV.--The Traitors_

None fought more fiercely than Robert Bruce in the attack made by Wallace's men upon the English on the banks of the Carron, and the traitor, Earl of March, fell by the young warrior's own hand. But treason, smitten on the field of battle, was rampant at Stirling; and when Wallace returned there, bowed with grief at the death of Lord Mar, he found the Cummin faction--Lady Mar's kinsmen--in furious revolt against the "upstart." His resolution was quickly made; he would not be a cause of civil strife to his country.

"Should I remain your regent," said he to the assembled people, "the country would be involved in ruinous dissensions. I therefore quit the regency; and I bequeath your liberty to the care of the chieftains. But should it be again in danger, remember that, while life breathes in this heart, the spirit of Wallace will be with you still!" With these words he mounted his horse, and rode away, amidst the cries and tears of the populace.

Lady Mar, whose secret hopes had been stirred afresh by the death of her husband, heard with consternation of Wallace's departure. But he went away without a thought of her; his mission was the rescue of Helen, to which he had pledged himself by the death-bed of Lord Mar. Helen had been kidnapped by De Valence, and carried off by him to his castle in Guienne.

Wallace disguised himself as a minstrel, and travelled to Durham, where King Edward held his court, and where young Bruce, taken captive, was now confined. By making himself known to the Earl of Gloucester, Wallace was able to gain access to Bruce, whose father was now dead, and to lay his plans before him. These were that Bruce should escape from Durham, that the two should travel to Guienne and rescue Helen, and that they should then, as unknown strangers, offer their services to Scotland.

The plans were fulfilled. Bruce escaped, De Valence was once more deprived of his prey--he did not suspect the identity of the two knights until after Helen had been delivered from his clutches--and the pair fought as Frenchmen in the wars of Scotland. To few was the truth revealed, and only one discovered it--a knight wearing a green plume, who refused to divulge his name until Wallace proclaimed his own on the day of victory.

But the secret could not be kept for ever, and it was Wallace himself who cast off the disguise. At the battle of Rosslyn the day seemed lost; an overwhelming mass of English bore down the Scots; men were turning to fly. The fate of Wallace's country hung on an instant. Taking off his helmet, he waved it in the air with a shout, and, having thus drawn all eyes upon him, exclaimed: "Scots, follow William Wallace to victory!" The cry of "Wallace!" turned the fugitives; new courage was diffused in every breast; defeat was straightway changed into triumph.

Soon after this declaration the knight of the green plume came to Wallace, tore off the disguise of knighthood, and stood before him the bold and unblushing Countess of Mar. It was unconquerable love, she said, that had induced her to act thus. Wallace told her once more that his love was buried in the grave, and entreated her to refrain from guilty passion. Angered, she thrust a dagger at his breast; he wrenched the weapon from her hand, and bade her go in peace.

Ere sunset next evening he heard that he had been accused of treason to Scotland, and that his accuser was the Countess of Mar.

He faced the false charge, and repudiated it. But such was the hatred of the Cummins and their supporters that it was plainly impossible for him to serve Scotland, now that his name was known, without causing distraction in the country's ranks. He wandered forth, alone save for his ever-faithful follower, Edwin Ruthven, a price set upon his head by the relentless Edward, leaving his enemies to rejoice, and his friends to despair of Scotland's liberty.

_V.--Tragedy and Triumph_

As Wallace journeyed in the regions made sacred to him by Marion's memory, he was met by Sir John Monteith, who offered to conduct him to Newark-on-the-Clyde, where he might embark on a vessel about to sail. Wallace gladly accepted the offer, little guessing that his old and trusted friend Monteith was in the pay of England.

As he and Edwin reposed in a barn near Newark, a force of savages from the Irish island of Rathlin burst in upon them. Wallace, with a giant's strength, dispersed them as they advanced. But a shout was heard from the door. Monteith himself appeared, and an arrow pierced Edwin's heart. Wallace threw himself on his knees beside the dying boy. They sprang upon him, and bound him. Wallace was Edward's prisoner.

As he lay in the Tower of London awaiting death, a page-boy entered nervously, and turned pale when he cast his eyes upon him. He started; he recognised the features of her who alone had ever shared his meditations with Marion.

"Lady Helen," he cried, "has God sent you hither to be His harbinger of consolation?"

"Will you not abhor me for this act of madness?" said Helen, in deep agitation. "And yet, where should I live or die but at the feet of my benefactor?"

"Oh, Helen," exclaimed Wallace, "thy soul and Marion's are indeed one; and as one I love ye!"

At that moment the Earl of Gloucester entered, and to this true friend Wallace expressed his wish that he and Helen should be united by the sacred rites of the church. Gloucester retired, and returned with a priest; the pair were joined as man and wife.

Two days later Wallace stood on the scaffold. The executioner approached to throw the rope over the neck of his victim. Helen, with a cry, rushed to his bosom. Clasping her to him, he exclaimed in a low voice: "Helen, we shall next meet to part no more. May God preserve my country, and--" He stopped--he fell. Gloucester bent to his friend and spoke, but all was silent. He had died unsullied by the rope of Edward.

"There," said Gloucester, in deepest grief, "there broke the noblest heart that ever beat in the breast of man."

* * * * *

It was the evening after Bannockburn. The English hosts were in panic-stricken flight; Scotland at last was free. Robert Bruce, king and conquerer, entered the Abbey of Cambuskenneth with his betrothed, Isabella, and stood before the bier of Wallace.

Helen, wan and fragile, was borne on a litter from the adjoining nunnery. In her presence Bruce and Isabella were wedded; her trembling hands were held over them in blessing; then she threw herself prostrate on the coffin.

At the foot of Wallace's bier stood the iron box that the dead chieftain had so faithfully cherished. "Let this mysterious coffer be opened," said the Abbot of Inchaffray, "to reward the deliverer of Scotland according to its intent" Bruce unclasped the lock, and the regalia of Scotland was discovered!

"And thus Wallace crowns thee!" said the Bishop of Dunkeld, taking the diadem from its coffer and setting it on Brace's head.

But Helen lay motionless. They raised her, and looked upon a clay-cold face. Her soul had fled.

* * * * *

ALEXANDER SERGEYEVITCH PUSHKIN

The Captain's Daughter

Alexander Sergeyevitch Pushkin was born at Moscow on June 7,
1799. He came of an ancient family, a strange ancestor being a
favourite negro ennobled by Peter the Great, who bequeathed to
him a mass of curly hair and a somewhat darker skin than
usually falls to the lot of the ordinary Russian. Early in
life a daring "Ode to Liberty" brought him the displeasure of
the court, and the young poet narrowly escaped a journey to
Siberia by accepting an official post at Kishineff, in
Southern Russia. But on the accession of Tsar Nicholas in
182s, Pushkin was recalled and appointed imperial
historiographer. His death, which occurred on February 10,
1837, was the result of a duel fought with his brother-in-law.
Pushkin's career was one of almost unparallelled brilliancy.
As a poet, he still remains the greatest Russia has produced;
and although his prose works do not rise to the high standard
of his verse, yet they are of no inconsiderable merit. "The
Captain's Daughter, a Russian Romance," was written about
1831, and published under the _nom de plume_ of Ivan Byelkin.
It is a story of the times of Catherine II., and is not only
told with interest and charm, but with great simplicity and
reality, and with a due sense of drama. Others of his novels
are "The Pistol Shot," "The Queen of Spades," and "The
Undertaker," the last-named a grim story in a style that has
been familiarised to English readers by Edgar Allan Poe.

_I.--I Join the Army_

My father, after serving in the army, had retired with the rank of senior major. Since that time he had always lived on his estate, where he married the eldest daughter of a poor gentleman in the neighbourhood. All my brothers and sisters died young, and it was decided that I should enter the army.

When I was nearly seventeen, instead of being sent to join the guards' regiment at Petersburg, my father told me I was going to Orenburg. "You will learn nothing at Petersburg but to spend money and commit follies," he said. "No, you shall smell powder and become a soldier, not an idler."

It seemed horrible to me to be doomed to the dullness of a savage and distant province, and to lose the gaiety I had been looking forward to; but there was nothing for it but to submit.

The morning arrived for my departure, the travelling carriage was at the door, and our old servant Savélütch was in attendance to accompany me.

Two days later, when we were nearing our destination, a snowstorm overtook us. We might have perished in the snow, for all traces of the road were lost, but for a stranger who guided us to a small and lonely inn, where we passed the night. In the morning, to the sorrow of Savélütch, I insisted on giving our guide, who was but thinly clad, one of my cloaks--a hare-skin _touloup_.

"Thanks, your excellency," said the vagrant, "and may heaven reward you. As long as I live I shall never forget your kindness."

I soon forgot the snowstorm, the guide, and my hare-skin _touloup_, and on arrival at Orenburg hasted to wait on the general, an old comrade-in-arms of my father's. The general received me kindly, examined my commission, told me there was nothing for me to do in Orenburg, and sent me on to Fort Bélogorsk to serve under Commander Mironoff. Bélogorsk lay about thirty miles beyond Orenburg, on the frontier of the Kirghiz Kaisak Steppes, and it was to this outlandish place I was banished.

I expected to see high bastions, a wall and a ditch, but there was nothing at Bélogorsk but a little village, surrounded by a wooden palisade. An old iron cannon was near the gateway, the streets were narrow and crooked, and the commandant's house to which I had been driven was a wooden erection.

Vassilissa Ignorofna, the commandant's wife, received me with simple kindness, and treated me at once as one of the family. An old army pensioner and Palashka, the one servant, laid the cloth for dinner; while in the square, near the house, the commandant, a tall and hale old man, wearing a dressing-gown and a cotton nightcap, was busy drilling some twenty elderly men--all pensioners.

Chvabrine, an officer who had been dismissed from the guards for fighting a duel, and Marya, a young girl of sixteen, with a fresh, round face, the commandant's daughter, were also at dinner.

Mironoff pleaded in excuse for being late for dinner that he had been busy drilling his little soldiers, but his wife cut him short ruthlessly.

"Nonsense," she said, "you're only boasting; they are past service, and you don't remember much about the drill. Far better for you to stay at home and say your prayers." Vassilissa Ignorofna never seemed to stop talking, and overwhelmed me with questions.

In the course of a few weeks I found that she not only led her husband completely, but also directed all military affairs, and ruled the fort as completely as she did the household. This really suited Ivan Mironoff very well, for he was a good-hearted, uneducated man, staunch and true, who had been raised from the ranks, and was now grown lazy. Both husband and wife were excellent people, and I soon became attached to them, and to the daughter Marya, an affectionate and sensible girl.

As for Chvabrine, he at first professed great friendship for me; but being in love with Marya, who detested him, he began to hate me when he saw a growing friendliness between Marya and myself.

I was now an officer, but there was little work for me to do. There was no drill, no mounting guard, no reviewing of troops. Sometimes Captain Mironoff tried to drill his soldiers, but he never succeeded in making them know the right hand from the left.

All seemed peace, in spite of my quarrels with Chvabrine. Every day I was more and more in love with Marya, and the notion that we might be disturbed at Fort Bélogorsk by any repetition of the riots and revolts which had taken place in the province of Orenburg the previous year was not entertained. Danger was nearer than we had imagined. The Cossacks and half-savage tribes of the frontier were again already in revolt.

_II.--The Rebel Chief_

One evening early in October, 1773, Captain Mironoff called Chvabrine and me to his house. He had received a letter from the general at Orenburg with information that a fugitive Cossack named Pugatchéf had taken the name of the late Czar, Peter III., and, with an army of robbers, was rousing the country, destroying forts and committing murder and theft. The news spread quickly, and then came a disquieting report that a neighbouring fort some sixteen miles away had been taken by Pugatchéf, and its officers hanged.

Neither Mironoff nor Vassilissa showed any fear, and the latter declined to leave Bélogorsk, though willing that Marya should be sent to Orenburg for safety. An insolent proclamation from Pugatchéf, inviting us to surrender on peril of death, and the treachery of our Cossacks and of Chvabrine, who went over at once to the rebels, only made the commandant and his wife more resolute.

"The scoundrel!" cried Vassilissa. "He has the impudence to invite us to lay our flag at his feet, and he doesn't know we have been forty years in the service!"

It was the same when Pugatchéf was actually at our door, and the assault had actually begun. Old Ivan Mironoff blessed his daughter, and embraced his wife, and then faced death. There was no fight in the poor old pensioners who made up our garrison, and both Mironoff and myself were soon captured, bound with ropes, and led before Pugatchéf.

The commandant indignantly refused to swear fidelity to the robber chief, and was hanged there and then in the market square; an old one-eyed lieutenant was soon swinging by his side. Then came my turn, and I gave the same answer as my captain had done. The rope was round my neck, when Pugatchéf shouted out "Stop!" and ordered my release. A few minutes later, and poor old Vassilissa, who had come in search of her husband, was lying dead in the market square, cut down by a Cossack's sword. Pugatchéf's arrival had prevented Marya's escape to Orenburg, and she was now lying too ill to be moved, in the house of Father Garassim, the parish priest.

Pugatchéf gave me leave to depart in safety, but before Savélütch and I left the fort, the rebel bade me come and see him. He laughed aloud when I presented myself.

"Who would have thought," he said, "that the man who guided you to a lodging on that night of the snowstorm was the great tzar himself? But you shall see better things; I will load you with favours when I have recovered my empire."

Then he invited me again and again to enter his service, but I told him I had sworn fidelity to the crown; and finally he let me go, saying: "Either entirely punish or entirely pardon. Tell the officers at Orenburg they may expect me in a week."

It hurt me to leave Marya behind, especially as Pugatchéf had made Chvabrine commandant of the fort, but there was no help for it. Father Garassim and his wife bade me good-bye. "Except you, poor Marya has no longer any protector or comforter," said the priest's wife.

At Orenburg I was in safety, but the town was soon besieged, and I could not persuade the general to sally out and attack the rebels. All through those dreary weeks of the siege I was wondering anxiously about Marya, and then one day when we had been driving off a party of cossacks, one of the rebels, whom I recognised a former soldier at Bélogorsk, lingered to give me a letter. It was from Marya, and she told me that she was now in the house of Chvabrine, who threatened to kill her or hand her over to the robber camp if she did not marry him, and that she had but three days left before her fate would be sealed. Death would be easier, she said, than to be the wife of a man like Chvabrine.

I rushed off at once to the general, and implored him to give me a battalion of soldiers, and let me march on Bélogorsk; but the general only shook his head, and said the expedition was unreasonable.

I decided to go alone and appeal to Pugatchéf, but the faithful Savélütch insisted on accompanying me, and together we arrived at the rebel camp.

Pugatchéf received me quite cordially, and I told him the truth, that I was in love with Marya, and that Chvabrine was persecuting her. He flared up indignantly at Chvabrine's presumption, and declared he would take me at once to Bélogorsk, and attend my wedding. But on our arrival Chvabrine mentioned that Marya was the daughter of Mironoff, and immediately the countenance of the robber chief clouded over.

"Listen," I said, knowing Pugatchéf was well disposed towards me. "Do not ask of me anything against my honour or my conscience. Let me go with this unhappy orphan whither God shall direct, and whatever befall we will pray every day to God to watch over you."

It seemed as if Pugatchéf's fierce heart was touched. "Be it as you wish," he answered. "Either entirely punish or entirely pardon is my motto. Take your pretty one where you like, and may God give you love and wisdom."

A safe-conduct pass was given us, and I made up my mind to take Marya to my parents' house. I knew my father would think it a duty and an honour to shelter the daughter of a veteran who had died for his country. But Marya said she would never be my wife unless my parents approved of the marriage. We set off, and as we started I saw Chvabrine standing at the commandant's window, with a face of dark hatred.

_III.--The Arrest_

I parted from Marya two days later, and entrusted her to Savélütch, who promised me to escort her faithfully to my parents. My reason for this was that we had fallen in with a detachment of the army, and the officer in charge persuaded me to join him, and it seemed to me I was bound in honour to serve the tzarina.

So all that winter, and right on till the spring came, we pursued the rebels; and still Pugatchéf remained untaken; and this war with the robbers went on to the destruction of the countryside.

At last Pugatchéf was taken, and the war was at an end. A few days later I should have been in the bosom of my family, when an unforeseen thunderbolt struck me. I was ordered to be arrested and sent to Khasan, to the commission of inquiry appointed to try Pugatchéf and his accomplices.

No sooner had I arrived in Khasan than I was lodged in prison, and irons were placed on my ankles. It was a bad beginning, but I was full of hope and courage, and believed that I could easily explain my dealings with Pugatchéf.

The next day I was summoned to appear before the commission, and asked how long I had been in Pugatchéf's service.

I replied indignantly that I had never been in his service; and then when I was asked how it was he had spared my life and given me a safe-conduct pass I told the story of the guide in the snowstorm and the hair-skin _touloup_.

Then came the question how was it I had left Orenburg, and gone straight to the rebel camp?

I felt I could not bring in Marya's name, and expose her as a witness to the cross-examination of the commission, and so I stammered and became silent.

The officer of the guard then requested that I should be confronted with my principal accuser, and Chvabrine was brought into court. A great change had come over him. He was pale and thin, and his hair had already turned grey. In a feeble but clear voice Chvabrine went through his story against me; that I had been Pugatchéf's spy in Orenburg, and that after leaving that town I had done all I could to aid the rebels. I was glad of one thing, some spark of feeling kept him from mentioning Marya's name.

I told the judges I could only repeat my former statement that I was entirely innocent of any part in the rebellion; and then I was taken back to prison, and underwent no further examination.

Several weeks passed, and then my father was informed that the tzarina had condescended to pardon his criminal son, and remit the capital punishment, condemning him instead to exile for life in the heart of Siberia.

The unexpected blow nearly killed my father. He had heard of my arrest, and both Savélütch and Marya had assured him of my complete innocence. Now he broke out into bitter lament.

"What!" he kept on saying. "What! My son mixed up in the plots of Pugatchéf! Just God! What have I lived to see! The tzarina grants him life, but does that make it easier for me to bear? It is not the execution which is horrible. My ancestors have perished on the scaffold for conscience sake; but that an officer should join with robbers and felons! Shame on our race for ever!"

In vain my mother endeavoured to comfort him by talking of the injustice of the verdict. My father was inconsolable.

_IV.--The Captain's Daughter to the Rescue_

From the first Marya had been received with the warm-hearted hospitality that belonged to old-fashioned country people. The opportunity of giving a home to a poor orphan seemed to them a favour from God. In a very short time they were sincerely attached to her, for no one could know Marya without loving her, and both my father and my mother looked forward to the union of their son Peter with the captain's daughter.

My trial and condemnation plunged all three into misery; and Marya, believing that I could have justified myself had I chosen, and suspecting the motive which had kept me silent, and holding herself the sole cause of my misfortune, determined to save me.

All at once she informed my parents that she was obliged to start for Petersburg, and begged them to give her the means to do so.

"Why must you go to Petersburg?" said my mother, in distress. "You, too--are you also going to forsake us?"

Marya answered that she was going to seek help from people in high position for the daughter of a man who had fallen a victim to his fidelity.

My father could only bow his head. "Go," he said. "I do not wish to cast any obstacles between you and your happiness. May God grant you an honest man, and not a convicted traitor, for husband."

To my mother alone Marya confided her plans, and then, with her maid Palashka and the faithful Savélütch--who, parted from me, consoled himself by remembering he was serving my betrothed--set out for the capital.

Arrived at Sofia, Marya learnt that the court was at the summer palace of Tzarskoe-Selo, and at once resolved to stop there. She was able to get a lodging at the post-house, and the postmaster's wife, who was a regular gossip, began to tell her all the routine of the palace, at what hour the tzarina rose, had her coffee, and walked in the gardens.

Next morning, very early, Marya dressed herself and went to the imperial gardens. She saw a lady seated on a little rustic bench near the large lake, and went and seated herself at the other end of the bench. The lady wore a cap and a white morning gown, and a light cloak. She appeared to be about fifty years old, and the repose and gravity of her face, and the sweetness of her blue eyes and her smile, all attracted Marya and inspired confidence. The lady was the first to speak.

"You do not belong to this place?"

"No, madame. I only arrived yesterday from the country."

"You came with your parents?"

"No, madame, alone. I have neither father nor mother."

"You are very young to travel by yourself. You have come on business?"

"Yes, madame. I have come to present a petition to the tzarina."

"You are an orphan. It is some injustice or wrong you complain of? What is your name?"

"I am the daughter of Captain Mironoff, and it is for mercy I have come to ask."

"Captain Mironoff? He commanded one of the forts in the Orenburg district?"

"Yes, madame."

The lady seemed moved.

"Forgive me," she said, speaking even more gently, "if I meddle in your affairs; but I am going to court. Perhaps if you explain to me what it is you want, I may be able to help you."

Marya rose and curtsied; then she took from her pocket a folded paper, and handed it to her protectress, who read it over. Suddenly the gentleness turned to hardness in the face of the unknown lady.

"You plead for Peter Grineff!" she said coldly. "The tzarina cannot grant him mercy. He passed over to this rebel not in ignorance, but because he is depraved."

"It is not true!" cried Marya. "Before God it is not true! I know all; I will tell you everything. It was only on my account that he exposed himself to the misfortunes which have overtaken him. And if he did not vindicate himself before the judges, it was because he did not wish me to be mixed up in the affair."

And Marya went on to relate all that had taken place at Bélogorsk.

When she had finished, the lady asked her where she lodged, and told her she would not have to wait long for an answer to the letter.

Marya went back to the post-house full of hope, and presently, to the consternation of her hostess, a lackey in the imperial livery entered and announced that the tzarina condescended to summon to her presence the daughter of Captain Mironoff.

"Good heavens!" cried the postmaster's wife. "The tzarina summons you to court! And I'm sure you don't even know how to walk in court fashion. Shall I send for a dressmaker I know who will lend you her yellow gown with flounces? I think I ought to take you."

But the lackey explained that the tzarina wanted Marya to come alone, and in the dress she should happen to be wearing. There was nothing for it but to obey, and, with a beating heart, Marya got into the carriage and was driven to the palace. Presently she was ushered into the boudoir of the tzarina, and recognised the lady of the garden.

The tzarina spoke graciously to her, telling Marya that it was a happiness to grant her prayer.

"I have had it all looked into, and I am convinced of the innocence of your betrothed. Here is a letter for your father-in-law. Do not be uneasy about the future. I know you are not rich, but I owe a debt to the daughter of Captain Mironoff."

Marya, all in tears, fell at the feet of the tzarina, who raised her and kissed her forehead. The tzarina almost overwhelmed the orphan before she dismissed her.

That same day Marya hastened back to my father's house in the country, without even having the curiosity to see the sights of Petersburg.

I was released from captivity at the end of the year 1774, and, as it happened, I was present in Moscow when Pugatchéf was executed in the following year. The famous robber chief recognised me as I stood in the crowd, and bade me farewell with a silent movement of his head. A few moments later and the executioner held up the lifeless head for all the people to look upon.

Chvabrine I never saw again after the day I was confronted with him at my trial.

Soon after Pugatchéf's death, Marya and I were married from my father's house.

An autograph letter from the tzarina, Catherine II., framed and glazed, is carefully preserved. It is addressed to the father of Peter Grineff, and contains, with the acquittal of his son, many praises of the intelligence and good heart of the daughter of Captain Mironoff.

* * * * *

FRANCOIS RABELAIS

Gargantua and Pantagruel

Francois Rabelais was born at Seuillé in Touraine, France,
about 1483. Brought up in a Franciscan convent, he was made a
priest in 1520. During his monastic career he conceived a deep
and lasting contempt for monkish life, and he obtained
permission from the Pope to become a secular priest. He then
studied medicine, and became a physician. After wandering
about France for many years, he was appointed parish priest of
Meudon in 1551, and he died at Paris in 1553. "The Great and
Inestimable Chronicles of the Grand and Enormous Giant
Gargantua" ("Les Grandes et Inestimables Chroniques du Grande
et Enorme Géant Gargantua"), and its sequel, "Pantagruel,"
appeared between 1533 and 1564. Had these appeared during
Rabelais' life, his career would probably have been shorter
than it was, for the work is, with all its humour, a very
bitter satire against both the Roman Church and the
Calvinistic. Rabelais is one of the very great French writers
and humourists whose work is closely connected with English
literature. But what he borrowed from Sir Thomas More, he
generously repaid to Shakespeare, Swift, and Sterne. The
famous Abbey of Thelema is inspired by More's "Utopia"; on the
other hand, Shakespeare's praise of debt is taken from the
speech of Panurge--the most humorous character in French
literature, and worthy to stand beside Falstaff.

_I.--The Very Horrific Life of the Great Gargantua_

Grangousier was a right merry fellow in his time, and he had as great a love as any man living in the world for neat wine and salt meat. When he came to man's estate he married Gargamelle, daughter to the king of the Parpaillons, a jolly wench and good looking, who died in giving birth to a son.

They had gone out with their neighbours in a hurl to Willow Grove, and there on the thick grass they danced so gallantly that it was a heavenly sport to see them so frolic. Then began flagons to go, gammons to trot, goblets to fly, and glasses to rattle. "Draw, reach, fill, mix. Give it to me--without water; so my friend. Whip me off this bowl gallantly. Bring me some claret, a full glass running over. A truce to thirst! By my faith, gossip, I cannot get in a drinking humour! Have you caught a cold, gammer? Let's talk of drinking. Which was first, thirst or drinking? Thirst, for who would have drunk without thirst in the time of innocence? I do, as I am a sinner. I drink to prevent thirst. I drink for the thirst to come. Let's have a song, a catch; let us sing a round. Drink for ever, and you shall never die! When I am not drinking I am as good as dead. Drink, or I'll--The appetite comes with eating and the thirst goes with drinking. Nature abhors a vacuum. Swallow it down, it is wholesome medicine!"

It was at this moment that Gargantua was born. He did not whimper as the other babes used to do, but with a high, sturdy, and big voice, he shouted out, "Drink, drink, drink!" The sound was so extremely great that it rang over two counties. I am afraid that you do not thoroughly believe in the truth of this strange nativity. Believe it or not, I do not care. But an honest man, a man of good sense, always believes what is told him, and what he finds written.

When the good man Grangousier, who was then merrily drinking with his guests, heard his son roar out for drink, he said to him in French, "Que Grand Tu As et souple le gousier!" That is to say, "How great and nimble a throat thou hast." Hearing this, the company said that the child verily ought to be called Gargantua, because it was the first word uttered by his father at his birth. Which the father graciously permitted, and to calm the child they gave him enough drink to crack his throat, and then carried him to the font where he was christened according to the manner of good Christians.

So great was Gargantua, even when a babe of a day old, that seventeen thousand nine hundred and thirteen cows were required to furnish him with milk. By the ancient records to be seen in the chamber of accounts at Montsoreau, I find that nine thousand six hundred ells of blue velvet were used for his gown, four hundred and six ells of crimson velvet were taken up for his shoes, which were soled with the hides of eleven hundred brown cows; and the rest of his costume was in proportion. By the commandment of his father, Gargantua was brought up and instructed in all convenient discipline, and he spent his time like the other children of the country--that is, in drinking, eating, and sleeping; in eating, sleeping, and drinking; and in sleeping, drinking, and eating.

In his youth he studied hard under a very learned man, called Master Tubal Holofermes, and, after studying with him for five years and three months, he learnt so much that he was able to say the alphabet backwards. About this time, the king of Numidia sent out of the country of Africa to Grangousier, the hugest and most enormous mare that was ever seen. She was as large as six elephants, and of a burnt sorrel colour with dapple grey spots; but, above all, she had a horrible tail. For it was little more or less as great as the pillar of St. Mars, which, as you know, is eighty-six feet in height.

When Grangousier saw her, he said, "Here is the very thing to carry my son to Paris. He shall go there and learn what the study of the young men of France is, and in time to come he shall be a great scholar!"

The next morning, after, of course, drinking, Gargantua set out on his journey. He passed his time merrily along the highway, until he came a little above Orleans, in which place there was a forest five-and-thirty leagues long and seventeen wide. This forest was most horribly fertile and abundant in gadflies and hornets, so that it was a very purgatory for asses and horses. But Gargantua's mare handsomely avenged all the outrages committed upon beasts of her kind. For as soon as she entered the forest, and the hornets gave the attack, she drew out her tail and swished it about, and swept down all the trees with as much ease as a mower cuts grass. And since then there has been neither a forest nor a hornet's nest in that place, for all the country was thereby reduced to pasture land.

At last Gargantua came to Paris, and inquired what wine they drank there, and what learning was to be had. Everybody in Paris looked upon him with great admiration. For the people of this city are by nature so sottish, idle, and good-for-nothing, that a mountebank, a pardoner come from Rome to sell indulgences, or a fiddler in the crossways, will attract together more of them than a good preacher of the Gospel. So troublesome were they in pursuing Gargantua, that he was compelled to seek a resting-place on the towers of Notre Dame. There he amused himself by ringing the great bells, and it came into his mind that they would serve as cowbells to hang on the neck of his mare, so he carried them off to his lodging.

At this all the people of Paris rose up in sedition. They are, as you know, so ready to uproars and insurrections, that foreign nations wonder at the stupidity of the kings of France at not restraining them from such tumultuous courses, seeing the manifold inconveniences which thence arise from day to day. Believe for a truth, that the place where the people gathered together was called Nesle; there, after the case was proposed and argued, they resolved to send the oldest and most able of their learned men unto Gargantua to explain to him the great and horrible prejudice they sustained by the want of their bells. Thereupon Gargantua put up the bells again in their place, and in acknowledgement of his courtesy, the citizens offered to maintain and feed his mare as long as he pleased. And they sent her to graze in the forest of Biére, but I do not think she is there now.

For some years Gargantua studied at Paris under a wise and able master, and grew expert in manly sports of all kinds, as well as in learning of every sort. Then he was called upon to return to his country to take part in a great and horrible war.

_II.--The Marvellous Deeds of Friar John_

The war began in this way: At the time of the vintage, the shepherds of Grangousier's country were set to guard the vines and hinder the starlings from eating the grapes. Seeing some cake-bakers of Lerné passing down the highway with ten or twelve loads of cakes, the shepherds courteously asked them to sell some of their wares at the market price. The cake-bakers, however, were in no way inclinable to the request of the shepherds; and, what is worse, they insulted them hugely, calling them babblers, broken-mouths, carrot-pates, tunbellies, fly-catchers, sneakbies, joltheads, slabberdegullion druggels, and other defamatory epithets. And when one honest shepherd came forward with the money to buy some of the cakes, a rude cake-baker struck him a rude lash with a whip. Thereupon some farmers and their men, who were watching their walnuts close by, ran up with their great poles and long staves, and thrashed the cake-bakers as if they had been green rye.

When they were returned to Lerné, the cake-makers complained to their king, Picrochole, saying that all the mischief was done by the shepherds of Grangousier. Picrochole incontinently grew angry and furious, and without making any further question, he had it cried throughout his country that every man, under pain of hanging, should assemble in arms at noon before his castle. Thereupon, without order or measure, his men took the field, ravaging and wasting everything wherever they passed through. All that they said to any man that cried them mercy, was: "We will teach you to eat cakes!"

Having pillaged the town of Seuillé, they went on with the horrible tumult to an abbey. Finding it well barred and made fast, seven companies of foot and two hundred lances broke down the walls of the close, and began to lay waste the vineyard. The poor devils of monks did not know to what saint to pray in their extremity, and they made processions and said litanies against their foes. But in the abbey at that time was a cloister-monk named Friar John of the Trenchermen, young, gallant, frisky, lusty, nimble, quick, active, bold, resolute, tall, wide-mouthed, and long-nosed; a fine mumbler of matins, a fair runner through masses, and a great scourer of vigils--to put it short, a true monk, if ever there was one since the monking world monked a monkery. This monk, hearing the noise that the enemy made in the vineyard, went to see what they were doing, and perceiving that they were gathering the grapes out of which next year's drink of the abbey ought to be made, he grew mighty angry. "The devil take me," he cried, "if they have not already chopped our vines so that we shall have no drink for years to come! Did not St. Thomas of England die for the goods of the church? If I died in the same cause should I not be a saint likewise? However, I shall not die for them, but make other men to do so."

Throwing off his monk's habit, he took up a cross made out of a sour apple-tree, which was as long as a lance, and with it he laid on lustily upon his enemies. He scattered the brains of some, and the legs and arms of others. He broke their necks; he had off their heads; he smashed their bones; he caved in their ribs; he impaled them, and he transfixed them. Believe me, it was a most horrible spectacle that ever man saw. Some died without speaking, others spoke without dying; some died while they were speaking, others spoke while they were dying. So great was the cry of the wounded, that the prior and all his monks came forth, and seeing the poor wretches hurt to death, began to confess them. But when those who had been shriven tried to depart, Friar John felled them with a terrible blow, saying, "These men have had confession and are repentant, so straight they go into Paradise!"

Thus by his prowess and valour were discomfited all those of the army, under the number of thirteen thousand six hundred and twenty-two, that entered the abbey close. Gargantua, who had come from Paris to help his father against Picrochole, heard of the marvellous feats of Friar John, and sought his aid, and by means of it utterly defeated the enemy. What became of Picrochole after his defeat I cannot say with certainty, but I was told that he is now a porter at Lyons. He always inquires of all strangers on the coming of the Cocquecigrues, for an old woman has prophesied that at their coming he shall be re-established in his kingdom.

_III.--The Abbey of Thelema_