knows what trouble might have darkened her life and yours had this thing
not happened. I know you will not be able to think so now, but you will
feel it so some day."

An hour later Lieutenant Gulston entered the doctor's cabin. There was a
look of anger as well as of grief on his face that the doctor did not
understand.

"Doctor, I believe this is no murder by a wandering tramp, as the paper
says. I believe it was done from revenge, and that the things were
stolen simply to throw people off the scent. I will tell you what took
place yesterday. I drove up as far as the gate in the garden; there one
road sweeps round in front of the house, the other goes straight to the
stables; so I got down, and told the man he might as well drive straight
in, while I walked up to the house. The road follows close under the
drawing-room windows, and, one of these being open, as I passed I heard
a man's voice raised loud in anger, so loudly and so passionately,
indeed, that I involuntarily stopped. His words were, as nearly as I can
recollect, 'You have fooled me and spoilt my life, but you shall regret
it. You think after all these years I am to be thrown off like an old
glove. No, by Heaven; you may throw me over, but I swear you shall never
marry this sailor or anybody else, whatever I may have to do to prevent
it. You say I have the curse of the Carnes in my blood! You are right,
and you shall have cause to regret it.' The voice was so loud and
passionate that I believed the speaker was about to do some injury to
Margaret, for I did not doubt that it was to her he was speaking, and I
ran round through the hall-door to the door of the room; but I found
Carne himself standing there. He, too, I suppose, when he had been about
to enter, had heard the words. He said, 'Don't go in just at present,
Margaret and her cousin are having a quarrel, but I think it's over
now.' Seeing that he was there at hand I went away for a bit, and found
afterwards that Mervyn had jumped from the window, gone to the stable
and ridden straight off. Margaret didn't come down to dinner, making an
excuse that she was unwell. Now, what do you think of that, doctor? You
know that Mervyn's mother was a Carne, and that he has this mad blood
that you warned me against in his veins. There is his threat, given in
what was an almost mad outburst of passion. She is found dead this
morning; what do you think of it?"

"I don't know what to think of it, Gulston; I know but little of Mervyn
myself, but I have heard men in his regiment say that he was a queer
fellow, and though generally a most cheery and pleasant companion, he
has at times fits of silence and moroseness similar, I should say, to
those of his cousin, Reginald Carne. It is possible, lad, though I don't
like to think so. When there is madness in the blood no one can say when
it may blaze out, or what course it can take. The idea is a terrible
one, and yet it is possible; it may indeed be so, for the madness in the
family has twice before led to murder. The presumption is certainly a
grave one, for although his messmates may consider Mervyn to be, as they
say, a queer fellow, I do not think you would find any of them to say he
was mad, or anything like it. Remember, Gulston, this would be a
terrible accusation to bring against any man, even if he can prove--as
probably he can prove--that he was at home, or here in Plymouth, at the
time of the murder. The charge that he is mad, and the notoriety such a
charge would obtain, is enough to ruin a man for life."

"I can't help that," the lieutenant said, gloomily. "I heard him
threaten Margaret, and I shall say so at the coroner's inquest
to-morrow. If a man is such a coward as to threaten a woman he must put
up with any consequences that may happen to befall him."

The coroner and jury met in the dining-room at The Hold; they were all
Carnesford men. Hiram Powlett, Jacob Carey, and the landlord of the
"Carne's Arms" were upon it, for the summoning officer had been careful
to choose on such an important occasion the leading men of the village.
After having gone upstairs to view the body, the coroner opened the
proceedings. The room was crowded. Many of the gentry of the
neighbourhood were present. Lieutenant Gulston, with a hard set look
upon his face, stood in a corner of the room with the doctor beside him.
Ronald Mervyn, looking, as some of the Carnesford people remarked in a
whisper, ten years older than he did when he drove through the village a
few days before, stood on the other side of the table talking in low
tones to some of his neighbours.

"We shall first, gentlemen," the coroner said, "hear evidence as to the
finding of the body. Ruth Powlett, the maid of the deceased lady, is the
first witness."

A minute later there was a stir at the door, and Ruth was led in by a
constable. She was evidently so weak and unhinged that the coroner told
her to take a chair.

"Now, Miss Powlett, tell us what you saw when you entered your
mistress's room."

"Upon opening the door," Ruth said, in a calmer and more steady voice
than was expected from her appearance, "I saw that the window was open
and the blind up. I was surprised at this, for Miss Carne did not sleep
with her window open in winter, and the blind was always down. I walked
straight to the washstand and placed the can of hot water there; then I
turned round to wake Miss Carne, and I saw her lying there with a great
patch of blood on her nightdress, and I knew by her face that she was
dead. Then I fainted. I do not know how long I lay there. When I came to
myself I got up and went to the door, and went downstairs to the kitchen
and gave the alarm."

"You did not notice that any of Miss Carne's things had been taken from
the table?" the coroner asked.

"No, sir."

"Were there any signs of a struggle having taken place?"

"No, sir, I did not see any. Miss Carne lay as if she was sleeping
quietly. She was lying on her side."

"The bedclothes were not disarranged?"

"No, sir, except that the clothes were turned down a short distance."

"You were greatly attached to your mistress, Miss Powlett?"

"Yes, sir."

"She was generally liked--was she not?"

"Yes, sir. Every one who knew Miss Carne was fond of her."

"Have any of you any further questions to ask?" the coroner asked the
jury.

There was no reply.

"Thank you, Miss Powlett. I will not trouble you further at present."

The cook then gave her testimony, and Dr. Arrowsmith was next called. He
testified to the effect that upon his arrival he found that the room had
not been disturbed in any way; no one had entered it with the exception,
as he understood, of Miss Carne's maid, the cook, and Mr. Carne. The
door was locked. When he went in, he found the deceased was dead, and it
was his opinion, from the coldness and rigidity of the body, that she
must have been dead seven or eight hours. It was just nine o'clock when
he arrived. He should think, therefore, that death had taken place
between one and half-past two in the morning. Death had been caused by a
stab given either with a knife or dagger. The blow was exactly over the
heart, and extended down into the substance of the heart itself. Death
must have been absolutely instantaneous. Deceased lay in a natural
position, as if asleep. The clothes had been turned down about a foot,
just low enough to uncover the region of the heart.

After making an examination of the body, he examined the room with the
constable, and found that a jewel-box on the table was open and its
contents gone. The watch and chain of the deceased had also disappeared.
He looked out of the window, and saw that it could be entered by an
active man by climbing up a thick stem of ivy that grew close by. He
observed several leaves lying on the ground, and was of the opinion that
the assassin entered there.

"From what you say, Dr. Arrowsmith, it is your opinion that no struggle
took place?"

"I am sure that there was no struggle," the doctor replied. "I have no
question that Miss Carne was murdered in her sleep. I should say that
the bedclothes were drawn down so lightly that she was not disturbed."

"Does it not appear an extraordinary thing to you, Dr. Arrowsmith, that
if, as it seems, Miss Carne did not awake, the murderer should have
taken her life?"

"Very extraordinary," the doctor said, emphatically. "I am wholly unable
to account for it. I can understand that had she woke and sat up, a
burglar might have killed her to secure his own safety, but that he
should have quietly and deliberately set himself to murder her in her
sleep is to me most extraordinary."

"You will note this circumstance, gentlemen," the coroner said to the
jury. "It is quite contrary to one's usual experiences in these cases.
As a rule, thieves are not murderers. To secure their own safety they
may take life, but as a rule they avoid running the risk of capital
punishment, and their object is to effect robbery without rousing the
inmates of the house. At present the evidence certainly points to
premeditated murder rather than to murder arising out of robbery. It is
true that robbery has taken place, but this might be merely a blind."

"You know of no one, Dr. Arrowsmith, who would have been likely to
entertain any feeling of hostility against Miss Carne?"

"Certainly not, sir. She was, I should say, universally popular, and
certainly among the people of Carnesford she was regarded with great
affection, for she was continually doing good among them."

"I am prepared to give evidence on that point," a voice said from the
corner of the room, and there was a general movement of surprise as
every one turned round to look at the speaker.

"Then perhaps, sir, we may as well hear your evidence next," the coroner
said, "because it may throw some light upon the matter and enable us to
ask questions to the point of further witnesses."

The lieutenant moved forward to the table: "My name is Charles Gulston.
I am first-lieutenant of the _Tenebreuse_, the flagship at Plymouth. I
had the honour of the acquaintance of Mr. and Miss Carne, and have spent
a day or two here on several occasions. I may say that I was deeply
attached to Miss Carne, and had hoped some day to make her my wife. The
day before yesterday I came over here upon Mr. Carne's invitation to
dine and spend the night. His dogcart met me at the station. As we drove
up to the last gate--that leading into the garden--I alighted from the
trap and told the man to drive it straight to the stable, while I walked
across the lawn to the house. The drawing-room window was open, and as I
passed I heard the voice of a man raised in tones of extreme passion, so
much so that I stopped involuntarily. His words were:

"'You have fooled me and spoilt my life, but you shall regret it. You
think that after all these years I am to be thrown off like an old
glove. No, by Heaven! You may throw me over, but I vow that you shall
never marry this sailor, or any one else, whatever I may have to do to
prevent it. You say I have the curse of the Carnes in my blood. You are
right, and you shall have cause to regret it.'

"The words were so loud and the tone so threatening that I ran round
into the house and to the door, and should have entered it had not Mr.
Carne, who was standing there, having apparently just come up, begged me
not to do so, saying that his sister and cousin were having a quarrel,
but that it was over now. As he was there I went away for a few minutes,
and when I returned I found that Miss Carne had gone upstairs, and that
her cousin had left, having, as Mr. Carne told me, left by the open
window."

While Lieutenant Gulston was speaking a deep silence reigned in the
room, and as he mentioned what Reginald Carne had said, every eye turned
towards Ronald Mervyn, who stood with face as white as death, and one
arm with clenched hand across his breast, glaring at the speaker.

"Do you mean, sir----?" he burst out as the lieutenant ceased; but the
coroner at once intervened.

"I must pray you to keep silent for the present, Captain Mervyn. You
will have every opportunity of speaking presently.

"As to these words that you overheard, Mr. Gulston, did you recognise
the speaker of them before you heard from Mr. Carne who was with his
sister in the drawing-room?"

"Certainly. I recognised the voice at once as that of Captain Mervyn,
whom I have met on several occasions."

"Were you impressed with his words, or did they strike you as a mere
outburst of temper?"

"I was so impressed with the tone in which they were spoken that I ran
round to the drawing-room to protect Miss Carne from violence."

"Was it your impression, upon thinking of them afterwards, that the
words were meant as a menace to Miss Carne?"

"No, sir. The impression left upon my mind was that Captain Mervyn
intended to fix some quarrel on me, as I had no doubt whatever that it
was to me he alluded in his threats. The matter dwelt in my mind all the
evening, for naturally nothing could have been more unpleasant than a
public quarrel with a near relative of a lady to whom one is attached."

There was a long silence. Then the coroner asked the usual question of
the jurymen.

None of them had a question to ask; indeed, all were so confounded by
this new light thrown upon the matter that they had no power of framing
a question.

Job Harpur was then called. He testified to entering the bedroom of the
deceased with Dr. Arrowsmith, and to the examination he had made of it.
There he had found the jewel-box opened, its contents abstracted, and
the watch gone. He could find nothing else disarranged in the room, or
any trace whatever that would give a clue as to the identity of the
murderer. He then looked out of the window with Dr. Arrowsmith, and saw
by a few leaves lying on the ground, and by marks upon the bark of the
ivy, that some one had got up or down.

Dr. Arrowsmith had suggested that he should take up his post there, and
not allow any one to approach, as a careful search might show footsteps
or other marks that would be obliterated were people allowed to approach
the window. When Captain Hendricks came they examined the ground
together. They could find no signs of footsteps, but at a distance of
some ten yards, at the foot of the wall, they found a torn glove, and
this he produced.

"You have no reason in connecting this with the case in any way, I
suppose, constable?" the coroner asked as the glove was laid on the
table before him. "It might have been lying there for some time, I
suppose."

"It might, sir."

It was a dog-skin glove stitched with red, with three lines of black and
red stitching down the back. While the glove was produced and examined
by the jury, Ronald Mervyn was talking in whispers to some friends
standing round him.

"I wish to draw your attention," Lieutenant Gulston said in a low tone
to Captain Hendricks, "that Captain Mervyn is at this moment holding in
his hand a glove that in point of colour exactly matches that on the
table; they are both a brighter yellow than usual." The Chief Constable
glanced at the gloves and then whispered to the coroner. The latter
started, and then said, "Captain Mervyn, would you kindly hand me the
glove you have in your hand. It is suggested to me that its colour
closely resembles that of the glove on the table." Mervyn, who had not
been listening to the last part of the constable's evidence, turned
round upon being spoken to.

"My glove, yes, here it is. What do you want it for?" The coroner took
the glove and laid it by the other. Colour and stitching matched
exactly; there could be no doubt but that they were a pair. A smothered
exclamation broke from almost every man in the room.

"What is it?" Ronald Mervyn asked.

"The constable has just testified, Captain Mervyn, that he found this
glove a few feet from the window of the deceased. No doubt you can
account for its being there, but until the matter is explained it has,
of course, a somewhat serious aspect, coupled with the evidence of
Lieutenant Gulston."

Again Ronald Mervyn whitened to the hair.

"Do I understand, sir," he said in a low voice, "that I am accused of the
murder of my cousin?"

"No one is at present accused," the coroner said, quietly. "We are only
taking the evidence of all who know anything about this matter. I have
no doubt whatever that you will be able to explain the matter perfectly,
and to prove that it was physically impossible that you could have had
any connection whatever with it."

Ronald Mervyn passed his hand across his forehead.

"Perhaps," the coroner continued, "if you have the fellow of the glove
now handed to me in your pocket, you will kindly produce it, as that
will, of course, put an end to this part of the subject."

"I cannot," Ronald Mervyn answered. "I found as I was starting to come
out this morning that one of my gloves was missing, and I may say at
once that I have no doubt that the other glove is the one I lost; though
how it can have got near the place where it was found I cannot explain."

The men standing near fell back a little. The evidence given by Mr.
Gulston had surprised them, but had scarcely affected their opinion of
their neighbour, but this strong piece of confirmatory evidence gave a
terrible shock to their confidence in him.

Mr. Carne was next called. He testified to being summoned while dressing
by the cries of the servants, and to having found his sister lying dead.

"Now, Mr. Carne," the coroner said, "you have heard the evidence of
Lieutenant Gulston as to a quarrel that appears to have taken place on
the afternoon of this sad event, between your sister and Captain Mervyn.
It seems from what he said that you also overheard a portion of it."

"I beg to state that I attach no importance to this," Reginald Carne
said, "and I absolutely refuse to give any credence to the supposition
that my cousin, Captain Mervyn, was in any way instrumental in the death
of my sister."

"We all think that, Mr. Carne, but at the same time I must beg you to
say what you know about the matter."

"I know very little about it," Reginald Carne said, quietly. "I was
about to enter the drawing-room, where I knew my cousin and my sister
were, and I certainly heard his voice raised loudly. I opened the door
quietly, as is my way, and was about to enter, when I heard words that
showed me that the quarrel was somewhat serious. I felt that I had
better leave them alone, and therefore quietly closed the door again. A
few seconds later Lieutenant Gulston rushed in from the front door, and
was about to enter when I stopped him. Seeing that it was a mere family
wrangle, it was better that no third person should interfere in it,
especially as I myself was at hand, ready to do so if necessary, which I
was sure it was not."

"But what were the words that you overheard, Mr. Carne?"

Reginald Carne hesitated. "I do not think they were of any consequence"
he said. "I am sure they were spoken on the heat of the moment, and
meant nothing."

"That is for us to judge, Mr. Carne. I must thank you to give them us as
nearly as you can recollect."

"He said then," Reginald Carne said, reluctantly, "'I swear you shall
never marry this sailor or any one else, whatever I may have to do to
prevent it.' That was all I heard."

"Do you suppose the allusion was to Lieutenant Gulston?"

"I thought so at the time, and that was one of the reasons why I did not
wish him to enter. I thought by my cousin's tone that did Lieutenant
Gulston enter at that moment an assault might take place."

"What happened after the lieutenant, in compliance with your request,
left you?"

"I waited a minute or two and then went in. My sister was alone. She was
naturally much vexed at what had taken place."

"Will you tell me exactly what she said?"

Again Reginald Carne hesitated.

"I really don't think," he said after a pause, "that my sister meant
what she said. She was indignant and excited, and I don't think that her
words could be taken as evidence."

"The jury will make all allowances, Mr. Carne. I have to ask you to tell
them the words."

"I cannot tell you the precise words," he said, "for she spoke for some
little time. She began by saying that she had been grossly insulted by
her cousin, and that she must insist that he did not enter the house
again, for if he did she would certainly leave it. She said he was mad
with passion; that he was in such a state that she did not feel her life
was safe with him. I am sure, gentlemen, she did not at all mean what
she said, but she was in a passion herself and would, I am sure, when
she was cool, have spoken very differently."

There was a deep silence in the room. At last the coroner said:

"Just two more questions, Mr. Carne, and then we have done. Captain
Mervyn, you say, had left the room when you entered it. Is there any
other door to the drawing-room than that at which you were standing?"

"No, sir, there is no other door; the window was wide open, and as it is
only three feet from the ground I have no doubt he went out that way. I
heard him gallop off a minute or two later, so that he must have run
straight round to the stables."

"In going from the drawing-room window to the stables, would he pass
under the window of your sister's room?"

"No," Reginald replied. "That is quite the other side of the house."

"Then, in fact, the glove that was found there could not have been
accidentally dropped on his way from the drawing-room to the stable?"

"It could not," Reginald Carne admitted, reluctantly.

"Thank you; if none of the jury wish to ask you any question, that is
all we shall require at present."

The jury shook their heads. They were altogether too horrified at the
turn matters were taking to think of any questions to the point. The
Chief Constable then called the gardener, who testified that he had
swept the lawn on the afternoon of the day the murder was committed, and
that had a glove been lying at that time on the spot where it was
discovered he must have noticed it.

When the man had done, Captain Hendricks intimated that that was all the
evidence that he had at present to call.

"Now, Captain Mervyn," the coroner said, "you will have an opportunity
of explaining this matter, and, no doubt, will be able to tell us where
you were at the time Miss Carne met her death, and to produce witnesses
who will at once set this mysterious affair, as far as you are
concerned, at rest."

Ronald Mervyn made a step forward. He was still very pale, but the look
of anger with which he had first heard the evidence against him had
passed, and his face was grave and quiet.

"I admit, sir," he began in a steady voice, "the whole facts that have
been testified. I acknowledge that on that afternoon I had a serious
quarrel with my cousin, Margaret Carne. The subject is a painful one to
touch upon, but I am compelled to do so. I had almost from boyhood
regarded her as my future wife. There was a boy and girl understanding
between us to that effect, and although no formal engagement had taken
place, she had never said anything to lead me to believe that she had
changed her mind on the subject; and I think I may say that in both of
our families it was considered probable that at some time or other we
should be married.

"On that afternoon I spoke sharply to her--I admit that--as to her
receiving the attentions of another man; and upon her denying altogether
my right to speak to her on such a subject, and repudiating the idea of
any engagement between us, I certainly, I admit it with the greatest
grief, lost my temper. Unfortunately I have been from a child given to
occasional fits of passion. It is long since I have done so, but upon
this occasion the suddenness of the shock, and the bitterness of my
disappointment, carried me beyond myself, and I admit that I used the
words that Lieutenant Gulston has repeated to you. But I declare that I
had no idea whatever, even at that moment, of making any personal threat
against her. What was in my mind was to endeavour in some way or other
to prevent her marrying another man."

Here he paused for a minute. So far the effect of his words had been
most favourable, and as he stopped, his friends breathed more easily,
and the jury furtively nodded to each other with an air of relief.

"As to the glove," Ronald Mervyn went on, deliberately, "I cannot
account for its being in the place where it was found. I certainly had
both gloves on when I rode over here; how I lost it, or where I lost it,
I am wholly unable to say. I may also add that I admit that I went
direct from the drawing-room to the stable, and did not pass round the
side of the house where the glove was found." He again paused. "As to
where I was between one o'clock and half-past two the next morning, I
can give you no evidence whatever." A gasp of dismay broke from almost
every one in the room.

"It was becoming dark when I mounted my horse," he said, "and I rode
straight away; it is my custom, as my fellow-officers will tell you,
when I am out of spirits, or anything has upset me, to ride away for
hours until the fit has left me, and I have sometimes been out all
night. It was so on this occasion. I mounted and rode away. I cannot say
which road I took, for when I ride upon such occasions, I am absorbed in
my thoughts and my horse goes where he will. Of myself, I do not know
exactly at what hour I got home, but I asked the stableman, who took my
horse, next morning, and he said the clock over the stable-gate had just
struck half-past three when I rode in. I do not know that I have
anything more to say."

The silence was almost oppressive for a minute or two after he had
finished, and then the coroner said: "The room will now be cleared of
all except the jury."

The public trooped out in silence. Each man looked in his neighbour's
face to see what he thought, but no one ventured upon a word until they
had gone through the hall and out into the garden. Then they broke up in
little knots, and began in low tones to discuss the scene in the
dining-room. The shock given by the news of the murder of Miss Carne was
scarcely greater than that which had now been caused by the proceedings
before the coroner. A greater part of those present at the inquest were
personal friends of the Carnes, together with three or four farmers
having large holdings under them. Very few of the villagers were
present, it being felt that although, no doubt, every one had a right to
admission to the inquest, it was not for folks at Carnesford to thrust
themselves into the affairs of the family at The Hold.

Ronald Mervyn had, like the rest, left the room when it was cleared. As
he went out into the garden, two or three of his friends were about to
speak to him, but he turned off with a wave of the hand, and paced up
and down the front of the house, walking slowly, with his head bent.

"This is a horribly awkward business for Mervyn," one of the young men,
who would have spoken to him, said. "Of course Mervyn is innocent; still
it is most unfortunate that he can't prove where he was."

"Most unfortunate," another repeated. "Then there's that affair of the
glove and the quarrel. Things look very awkward, I must say. Of course,
I don't believe for a moment Mervyn did it, because we know him, but I
don't know what view a jury of strangers might take of it."

Two or three of the others were silent. There was present in their minds
the story of The Hold, and the admitted fact of insanity in the family
of Ronald Mervyn, which was in close connection with the Carnes. Had it
been any one else they, too, would have disbelieved the possibility of
Ronald Mervyn having murdered Margaret Carne. As it was, they doubted:
there had been other murders in the history of the Carnes. But no one
gave utterance to these thoughts, they were all friends or acquaintances
of the Mervyn family. Ronald might yet be able to clear himself
completely. At any rate, at present no one was inclined to admit that
there could be any doubt of his innocence.

"Well, what do you think, doctor, now?" Lieutenant Gulston asked his
friend, as separated from the rest they strolled across the garden.

"I don't quite know what to think," Dr. Mackenzie said, after a pause.

"No?" Gulston said in surprise. "Why it seems to me as clear as the sun
at noon-day. What I heard seemed pretty conclusive. Now there is the
confirmation of the finding of the glove, and this cock and bull story
of his riding about for hours and not knowing where he was."

"Yes, I give due weight to these things," the doctor said, after another
pause, "and admit that they constitute formidable circumstantial
evidence. I can't account for the glove being found there. I admit that
is certainly an awkward fact to get over. The ride I regard as
unfortunate rather than damnatory, especially if, as he says, his fellow
officers can prove that at times, when upset, he was in the habit of
going off for hours on horseback."

"But who else could have done it, Mackenzie? You see the evidence of the
doctor went to show that she was murdered when asleep; no common burglar
would have taken life needlessly, and have run the risk of hanging; the
whole thing points to the fact that it was done out of revenge or out of
ill-feeling of some sort, and has it not been shown that there is not a
soul in the world except Mervyn who had a shadow of ill-feeling against
her?"

"No, that has not been shown," the doctor said, quietly. "No one was her
enemy, so far as the witnesses who were asked knew; but that is a very
different thing; it's a very difficult thing to prove that any one in
the world has no enemies. Miss Carne may have had some; some servant may
have been discharged upon her complaint, she may have given deep offence
to some one or other. There is never any saying."

"Of course that is possible," said the lieutenant again, "but the
evidence all goes against one man, who is known to have an enmity
against her, and who has, to say the least of it, a taint of insanity in
his blood. What are the grounds on which you doubt?"

"Principally on his own statement, Gulston. I watched him narrowly from
the time that you gave your evidence, and I own that my impression is
that he is innocent. I give every weight to your evidence and that
afforded by the glove, and to his being unable to prove where he was;
and yet, alike from his face, his manner, and the tone of his voice, I
do not think that he is capable of murder."

No other words were spoken for some time, then the lieutenant asked:

"Do you think that an insane person could commit a crime of this kind
and have no memory of it in their saner moments?"

"That is a difficult question, Gulston. I do believe that a person in a
sudden paroxysm of madness might commit a murder, and upon his recovery
be perfectly unconscious of it; but I do not for a moment believe that a
madman sufficiently sane to act with the cunning here shown in the mode
of obtaining access, by the quiet stealthiness in which the victim was
killed whilst in her sleep, and by the attempt to divert suspicion by
the abstraction of the trinkets, would lose all memory of his actions
afterwards. If Captain Mervyn did this thing, I am sure he would be
conscious of it, and I am convinced, as I said, that he is not
conscious."

"What will the jury think?" the lieutenant asked after a long pause.

"I think they are sure to return a verdict against him. A coroner's jury
are not supposed to go to the bottom of a matter; they are simply to
declare whether there is _primâ facie_ evidence connecting any one with
a crime; such evidence as is sufficient to justify them in coming to a
conclusion that it should at any rate be further examined into. It's a
very different thing with a jury at a trial; they have the whole of the
evidence that can be obtained before them. They have all the light that
can be thrown on the question by the counsel on both sides, and the
assistance of the summing-up of the judge, and have then to decide if
the guilt of the man is absolutely proven. A coroner's jury is not
supposed to go into the whole merits of the case, and their finding
means no more than the decision of a magistrate to commit a prisoner for
trial. I think the coroner will tell the jury that in this case such
evidence as there is before them points to the fact that Captain Mervyn
committed this murder, and that it will be their duty to find such a
verdict as will ensure the case being further gone into."

"Most of the jury are tenants of the Carnes," Gulston said; "two or
three of them I know are, for I met them at the inn when I was over here
fishing. They will scarcely like to find against a relation of the
family."

"I don't suppose they will," the doctor argued, "but at the same time
the coroner will not improbably point out to them that their verdict
will simply lead to further investigation of the case, and that even for
Captain Mervyn's own sake it is desirable that this should take place,
for that the matter could not possibly rest here. Were they to acquit
him, I imagine the Chief Constable would at once arrest him and bring
him before a magistrate, who, upon hearing a repetition of the evidence
given to-day, would have no choice but to commit him for trial."

"I suppose he would do that, anyhow?" Lieutenant Gulston said.

"Not necessarily. I fancy a man can be tried upon the finding of a
coroner's jury as well as upon that of a magistrate. Perhaps, however,
if the coroner's jury finds against him he may be formally brought up
before the magistrates, and a portion of the evidence heard, sufficient
to justify them in committing him for trial. See, people are going into
the house again. Probably they have thrown the door open, and the jury
are going to give their finding. I don't think we need go in."

CHAPTER VI.

RUTH POWLETT.

Lieutenant Gulston and his companion had not long to wait to learn the
verdict, for in a few minutes the people began to pour out of the house,
and a constable came out, and, after looking round, walked up to the
lieutenant.

"Mr. Gulston," he said, "your presence will be required to-morrow at
eleven o'clock at Mr. Volkes's. Captain Mervyn will be brought up there
at eleven o'clock to-morrow."

"Very well," Mr. Gulston replied. "What verdict have the coroners jury
found?"

"They have found Captain Mervyn guilty of wilful murder," the man
replied.

The next morning the inquiry was heard before Mr. Volkes and two other
magistrates, and the doctor's evidence, that of Mr. Gulston, the
gardener, the cook, and the constable who found the glove, was
considered sufficient. Mr. Carne was not summoned, and although Ruth
Powlett's name was called, she did not answer to it, Dr. Arrowsmith
explaining to the bench that she was too ill to be present. Captain
Mervyn was asked if he had any questions to ask the witnesses, or any
statement to make; but he simply said that he should reserve his
defence, and the case was then adjourned for a week to see if any
further evidence would be forthcoming, the magistrates intimating that
unless some altogether new light was thrown upon the subject they should
commit the prisoner for trial.

Very gravely and silently the men who composed the coroner's jury walked
down to Carnesford; scarce a word was spoken on the way, and a
stranger, meeting them, might have supposed, not unnaturally, that they
were returning from a funeral. The news had arrived before them, having
been carried down at full speed by one of the few villagers who had been
present. It had at first been received with absolute incredulity. The
idea that Captain Mervyn should kill Margaret Carne seemed so wild a
proposition that the first person to arrive with it was wholly
disbelieved, and even the confirmation of those who followed him was
also doubted. People, however, moved towards the foot of the hill to
meet the jury, and a small crowd had collected by the time they had come
down. The jury, upon being questioned, admitted that they had found
Ronald Mervyn guilty, and when the fact was grasped, a sort of awed
silence fell upon their hearers.

"Why, whatever were you all thinking of?" one of the men said. "Why, you
must have been downright mad. You find that Captain Mervyn was the
murderer of his own cousin, and Mr. Carne your own landlord, too! I
never heard tell of such a thing."

The jury, indeed, were regarded almost as culprits; even to themselves
now, their verdict seemed monstrous, though at the time the evidence had
appeared so strong that they had felt themselves unable to resist the
coroner's expressed opinion that, upon the evidence before them, they
had no course open but to return a verdict of wilful murder against
Ronald Mervyn.

"You will hear about it presently, lads," Hiram Powlett said. "If you
had been in our place, and had heard what we have heard, you would have
said the same. I should have no more believed it myself this morning, if
any one had told me that Captain Mervyn had murdered his cousin, than I
should if they had told me that the mill stream was running the wrong
way; but now I sees otherwise. There ain't one of us here as wouldn't
have given another verdict if we could have done so, but having heard
what we heard there weren't no other verdict to be given. I would have
given a hundred pounds myself to have found any other way, but I
couldn't go against my conscience; and besides, the coroner told us that
if Captain Mervyn is innocent, he will have full opportunity of proving
it at the trial. And now I must be off home, for I hear Mr. Carne sent
down Ruth, as soon as she had given her evidence, in one of his
carriages."

Ruth had so far recovered that she was sitting on a chair by the fire
when her father entered. She had heard nothing of what had taken place
at the inquest beyond her own evidence, and she looked anxiously at her
father as he slowly took off his coat and hat and hung them up, and came
over to the fire beside her.

"How are you feeling now, Ruth? You were looking sadly when you were in
the court."

"I believe you will kill the child between you," Mrs. Powlett said,
testily, as she entered with the dinner. "Any one can see with half an
eye that she ain't fit to be going before a court and giving evidence
after the shock as she 'as had. She ought to have been left quiet. If
you had half the feeling of a man in you, Hiram Powlett, you wouldn't
have let them do it. If I had been there I should have got up and said:
'Your worship can see for yourself as my daughter is more fit to be in
bed than to be worrited and questioned here. She ain't got nothing to
tell you more than you knows yourself. She just came in and found her
mistress dead, and that's all she knows about it.'"

"And what verdict did you find, father?" Ruth asked, as soon as her
mother had finished.

[Illustration: "'_What verdict did you find, father?' Ruth asked._"]

"Verdict! What verdict should they find," Mrs. Powlett said, angrily,
"but that they just knew nothing at all about it?"

"That wasn't the verdict, Hesba," Hiram Powlett said, as he seated
himself at the table; "I wish to God it had been. There was things came
out at the trial as altogether altered the case. We found as one had
been quarrelling with Miss Carne, and threatening what he would do to
her. We found as something belonging to him had been found close at
hand, where it could only have been put somewhere about the time of the
murder. We found as the person couldn't tell us where he had been at the
time; and though it were sorely against us to do it, and seemed the most
unnatural thing in the world, we had to find a verdict of wilful murder
against Captain Mervyn."

Ruth had risen from her seat as her father was speaking; her face had
grown whiter and whiter as he went on, and one hand had gone to her
heart, while the other clutched at the back of the chair. As he finished
she gave a sudden start, and burst into a scream of hysterical laughter,
so startling Hiram Powlett and his wife, neither of whom was looking at
her, that the former upset his chair as he started to his feet, while
the latter dropped the plate she was in the act of setting before him.

For some minutes the wild laughter rang through the house. Hesba had at
once taken the girl in her arms, and seated her in the chair again, and
after trying for a minute or two vainly to soothe her, turned to Hiram.

"Don't stand staring there, Hiram; run for the doctor. Look what you
have done, with your stories about your courts and your verdicts. You
have just scared her out of her mind."

Fortunately as Hiram ran up into the village street he saw Dr.
Arrowsmith--who had waited at The Hold, talking over the matter to some
of his neighbours--driving down the hill, and at once fetched him in to
Ruth.

"The girl is in violent hysterics, Hiram," the doctor said, as soon as
he had entered. "Carry her upstairs, and lay her down on the bed; it's
no use trying to get her to drink that now"--for Mrs. Powlett was trying
in vain to get Ruth to take some brandy--"she cannot swallow. Now I will
help you upstairs with her. The great thing is to get her to lie down."

It seemed hours to Hiram Powlett, as he listened to the wild screaming
and laughter overhead, but in reality it was not many minutes before the
doctor came down again.

"I am going to drive home and get some chloroform," he said, "I shan't
be two minutes gone;" and before Hiram could ask a question he hurried
out, jumped into his dogcart, and drove off.

There was no change until his return, except that once or twice there
was a moment's cessation in the screaming. Hiram could not remain in the
house, but went out and walked up and down until the doctor returned.

"No change, I hear," the latter remarked, as he jumped down from the
dogcart, for Ruth's cries could be heard down at the gate of the garden.

Then he hurried on into the house and upstairs, poured some chloroform
into a handkerchief, and waved it in Ruth's face. Gradually the screams
abated, and in two or three minutes the girl was lying quiet and still.

"Now, lift her head, Mrs. Powlett, while I pour a few drops of this
narcotic between her lips."

"Can she swallow, sir?"

"Not consciously, but it will find its way down her throat. I don't like
doing it, but we must send her to sleep. Weak as she is, and shaken by
all she has gone through, she will kill herself if she goes on with
these hysterics."

As soon as Ruth showed signs of returning consciousness, the doctor
again placed the handkerchief near her face, keeping his fingers
carefully on her pulse as he did so.

This was repeated again and again, and then the opiate began to take
effect.

"I think she will do now," he said, at last; "it's a hazardous
experiment, but it was necessary. Now you can go down to your husband
for a few minutes, and tell him how she is. I shall remain here for a
time."

"She is off now," Mrs. Powlett said, as she came downstairs.

"Asleep?" Hiram asked.

"Well, it's sleep, or chloroform, or laudanum, or a little of each of
them," Mrs. Powlett said. "Anyhow, she is lying quiet, and looks as if
she were asleep. Dear, dear, what things girls are. And to think that
all these years we have never had a day's sickness with her, and now it
all comes one on the top of the other; but, of course, when one's got a
husband who comes and blurts things out before a girl that's that
delicate that the wind would blow her over, what can you expect?"

"I didn't mean----" Hiram began, but Hesba cut him short.

"That's the way with men; they never do mean; they never use the little
sense they have got. I don't expect that there's a man, woman, or child
in Carnesford that wouldn't have known better. Here you had her down
here for well nigh a month as bad as she could be; then she gets that
terrible shock and goes off fainting all day; then she has to go into
court, and as if that wasn't enough for her, you comes and blurts out
before her that you found as Captain Mervyn murdered his cousin. I
wouldn't call myself a man if I was you, Hiram Powlett. I had a better
idea of you before."

"What could I have said?" urged Hiram, feebly.

"Said?" Hesba repeated, scornfully. "In the first place you need not
have said anything; then if you couldn't hold your tongue, you might
have said that, of course, you had found a verdict of wilful murder
against some one or other, which would be quite true; but even if it
hadn't been you need not have minded that when it comes to saving your
own daughter's life. There, sit down and have some food, and go out to
your mill."

Hiram Powlett had no appetite whatever, but he meekly sat down, ate a
few mouthfuls of food, and then, when Hesba left the room for a moment,
took his cap from the peg and went out. Mrs. Powlett ate her meal
standing; she had no more appetite for it than her husband, but she knew
she should not have an opportunity of coming downstairs again when once
the doctor had left, so she conscientiously forced herself to eat as
much as usual, and then, after clearing away the things, and warning the
little servant that she must not make the slightest sound, she went into
the parlour and sat down until the doctor came downstairs.

"She is quiet now. I will come back again when I have had my dinner. Sit
close by her, and if you see any signs of change, sprinkle a little
water on her face and send for me; and you may pour a few drops of
brandy down her throat. If her breathing continues regular, and as slow
as it is at present, do nothing until I return."

For a fortnight Ruth Powlett lay between life and death, then she turned
the corner, and very slowly and gradually began to recover. Six weeks
had passed by, and she was about again, a mere shadow of her former
self. No further evidence of any kind had been obtained with reference
to the murder at The Hold. Mrs. Mervyn had a detective down from
London, and he had spent days in calling at all the villages within
twenty miles in the endeavour to find some one who had heard a horseman
pass between the hours of twelve and three. This, however, he failed to
do; he had tracked the course of Ronald Mervyn up to ten o'clock, but
after that hour he could gather no information. Even a reward of fifty
pounds failed to bring any tidings of a horseman after that hour. Ronald
Mervyn had followed a circuitous route, apparently going quite at
random, but when heard of at ten o'clock he was but thirteen miles
distant, which would have left an ample margin of time for him to have
ridden to The Hold and carried out his designs.

The description of Margaret Carne's watch and jewellery had been
circulated by the police throughout England, but so far none of it
appeared to have been offered for sale at any jeweller's or pawnbroker's
in the country. In South Devonshire, people were divided into two
parties on the subject of Ronald Mervyn's guilt or innocence. No one
remained neutral on the subject. Some were absolutely convinced that, in
spite of appearances, he was innocent. Others were equally positive that
he was guilty. The former insisted that the original hypothesis as to
the murder was the correct one, and that it had been committed by some
tramp. As to the impossibility of this man having killed Margaret Carne
in her sleep, they declared that there was nothing in it. Every one knew
that tramps were rough subjects, and this man might be an especially
atrocious one. Anyhow, it was a thousand times more probable that this
was how it came about than that Ronald Mervyn should have murdered his
cousin.

The other party were ready to admit that it was improbable that a man
should murder his cousin, but they fell back upon the evidence that
showed he and no one else had done it, and also upon the well-known
curse upon Carne's Hold, and the fact that Mervyn on his mother's side
had the Carne blood in his veins. Every one knew, they argued, that mad
people murder their husbands, wives, or children; why, then, not a
cousin?

There was a similar difference of opinion on the subject among the
little conclave in the snuggery at the "Carne's Arms."

Jacob Carey and the old clerk were both of opinion that Ronald Mervyn
was guilty, the former basing his opinion solely upon the evidence, and
the latter upon the curse of the Carnes. The landlord maintained a
diplomatic reserve. It was not for him to offend either section of his
customers by taking a decided side. He therefore contented himself by
saying, "There's a great deal in what you say," to every argument
brought forward in the coffee-room, the tap-room, or snuggery.

The "Carne's Arms" was doing a larger trade than it had ever done
before. There were two detectives staying in the house, and every day
coaches brought loads of visitors from Plymouth; while on Saturday and
Monday hundreds of people tramped over from the railway station, coming
from Plymouth and Exeter to have a view of the house where the tragedy
had taken place. The pressure of business was indeed so great that the
landlord had been obliged to take on two extra hands in the kitchen, and
to hire three girls from the village to attend to the customers in the
coffee-room and tap-room.

Hiram Powlett was Captain Mervyn's champion in the snuggery. It was true
he had few arguments to adduce in favour of his belief, and he allowed
the smith and Reuben Claphurst to do the greater part of the talking,
while he smoked his pipe silently, always winding up the discussion by
saying: "Well, neighbours, I can't do much in the way of arguing, and I
allow that what you say is right enough, but for all that I believe
Captain Mervyn to be innocent. My daughter Ruth won't hear a word said
as to his being guilty, and I think with her."

Hiram Powlett and his wife had indeed both done their best to carry out
the doctor's orders that nothing should be said in Ruth's hearing of the
murder. But the girl, as soon as she was sufficiently recovered to talk,
was always asking questions as to whether any further clue had been
discovered as to the murderer, and she was indeed so anxious and urgent
on the matter that the doctor had felt it better to withdraw his
interdict, and to allow her father to tell her any little scraps of
gossip he had picked up.

"The idea has evidently got possession of her mind, Hiram," the doctor
said. "She was very attached to her mistress, and is no doubt most
anxious that her murderer shall be brought to justice. I have changed my
opinion, and think now that you had better not shirk the subject. She
has been a good deal more feverish again the last day or two. Of course
she must stay here now until after the trial, which will come off in a
fortnight. When that is over, I should strongly recommend you to send
her away from here for a time; it doesn't matter where she goes to, so
that she is away from here. If you have any friends or relations you can
send her to, let her go to them; if not, I will see about some home for
convalescent patients where she would be taken in. There are several of
them about; one at the Isle of Wight, I believe. That would suit her
very well, as the climate is mild. Anyhow, she must not stop here. I
shall be heartily glad myself when the trial is over. Go where I will I
hear nothing else talked about. No one attends to his own business, and
the amount of drunkenness in the place has trebled. If I had my way, I
would have a regulation inflicting a heavy fine upon every one who
after the conclusion of the trial ventured to make any allusion, however
slight, to it. It's disgusting to see the number of people who come here
every day and go up the hill to have a look at the house."

As the day for the trial approached, Ruth Powlett became more and more
anxious and nervous about it. It kept her awake at nights, and she
brooded on it during the day. For hours she would sit with her eyes
fixed upon the fire without opening her lips, and the doctor became
seriously anxious lest she should be again laid up before it became
necessary to give her evidence.

There was indeed a terrible fight going on in Ruth's mind. She knew that
Captain Mervyn was innocent; she knew that George Forester was guilty,
and yet the memory of her past life was still so strong in her that she
could not bring herself to denounce him, unless it became absolutely
necessary to do so to save Ronald Mervyn's life. Ronald had insulted and
threatened her mistress, and had not George Forester been beforehand
with him, he might have done her some grievous harm, or he might perhaps
have murdered Lieutenant Gulston, for whom Ruth felt a strong attraction
because she had discerned that Margaret loved him.

It was right, then, that Ronald Mervyn should suffer, but it was not
right that he should be hung. If he could clear himself without her
being obliged to denounce George Forester, let him do so; but if not, if
he were found guilty, then she had no other course open to her. She must
come forward and produce the knife and describe how she had found it,
and confess why she had so long concealed it. All this would be very
terrible. She pictured to herself the amazement of the court, the
disapproval with which her conduct would be received, the way in which
she would be blamed by all who knew her, the need there would be for
going away from home afterwards and living somewhere where no one would
know her story; but not for this did she ever waver in her
determination. Ronald Mervyn must be saved from hanging, for she would
be as bad as a murderess if she kept silent and suffered him to be
executed for a crime she knew that he had not committed.

Still she would not do it until the last thing; not till everything else
failed would she denounce George Forester as a murderer. She loved him
no longer; she knew that had he not been interrupted he would perhaps
have killed her. It was partly the thought of their boy-and-girl life,
and of the hours they had spent together by the side of the Dare, that
softened her heart; this and the thought of the misery of the kind old
man, his father.

"I don't understand Ruth," the doctor said one day to Mrs. Powlett. "She
ought to get better faster than she does. Of course she has had a
terrible shock, and I quite understand its affecting her as it did, just
as she was recovering from her former illness; but she does not mend as
she ought to do. She has lost strength instead of gaining it during the
past week. She is flushed and feverish, and has a hunted look about her
eyes. If I had known nothing of the circumstances of the case I should
have said that she has something on her mind."

"There is nothing she can have on her mind," Hesba Powlett replied. "You
know we had trouble with her about that good-for-nothing George
Forester?" The doctor nodded. It was pretty well known throughout the
village how matters stood.

"She gave him up weeks and weeks ago, just at the time he went away,
when he was wanted for the share he had in that poaching business up in
the Carne Woods. She told her father that she saw we had been right, and
would have nothing more to say to him. That was a week or more before
she had that fall on the hill, and I have never heard her mention his
name since. I feel sure that she is not fretting about him. Ruth has
always been a sensible girl, and once she has made up her mind she
wasn't likely to turn back again."

"No, I should not say that she was fretting on his account, Mrs.
Powlett. Fretting in young women shows itself in lowness of spirits and
general depression and want of tone. In her case it appears to me to be
rather some sort of anxiety, though about what I cannot guess. If it had
been any other girl in the village, I should have had my suspicion that
she had taken a fancy in some way to Ronald Mervyn, and was anxious
about the trial; but of course that is out of the question in Ruth's
case. No doubt she is anxious about the trial, and has a nervous dread
of being obliged to stand up and describe the scene again in a crowded
court, and perhaps be questioned and cross-questioned. It's a trying
thing for any one; still more so, of course, for a girl whose nerves
have been shattered, and who is in a weak and debilitated state of
health. Well, I shall be heartily glad when it's all over, and we settle
down into our ordinary ways."

"What do you think will be the verdict, sir? Do you think they will find
Captain Mervyn guilty?"

"I do not like to give an opinion, Mrs. Powlett. It depends so much on
the jury, and on the way the counsel and judge put it, but I hardly
think that the evidence is sufficient to hang a man. There are, of
course, grave grounds for suspicion, but I should doubt whether any jury
would find Mervyn guilty upon them. It would be amply sufficient if it
were merely a case of robbery, but men don't like to find a verdict when
there is a possibility of their finding out too late to save a man's
life that they have been mistaken. At any rate, Mrs. Powlett, do your
best to keep Ruth's thoughts from dwelling on the subject. I wish it was
summer weather, and that she could sit out in the garden. Of course she
is not strong enough to be able to walk, except for a hundred yards or
so, but I would get her to take a little turn, if it's only once round
the garden now and then."

"I don't think she would walk if she could, sir. When I was speaking the
other day about her getting well enough to go out for walks, she turned
white and shivered, and said she didn't want to go outside the door
again, not for ever so long. That fall she got seems to have changed her
altogether."

"Well, well, we must get her away, as I said, Mrs. Powlett. She wants
more bracing air than you have got here, and to have the wind either
coming straight off the sea or else to be in some hilly, breezy place."

"I am sure I don't know how it's to be managed. She can't go by herself,
and I don't see how I am to leave Hiram."

"You will have to leave Hiram for a day or two, and take her wherever we
fix upon as the best place and settle her there. Hiram will get on very
well without you for a day or two. She is no more fit to travel alone
than a baby. However, I must be off. Keep up her spirits as well as you
can, and don't let her brood over this business."

At last the day when Ronald Mervyn was to be tried for murder arrived.
The Assizes were at Exeter, and never in the memory of man had there
been such numerous applications to the sheriff and other officials for
seats in the court. The interest in the case had extended far beyond the
limits of Devonshire. The rank in life of the victim and the accused,
the cold-blooded nature of the murder, and the nature of the evidence
rendered the affair a _cause célèbre_, and the _pros_ and _cons_ of the
case were discussed far and wide.

The story of the curse of Carne's Hold had been given at full length by
the reporters of the local papers and copied by all the journals of the
kingdom, and the fact that madness was hereditary in the family went for
much in the arguments of those who held that Captain Mervyn was guilty.
Had it not been for this, the tide of public feeling would have been
distinctly in favour of the accused.

By itself, the rest of the evidence was inconclusive. Men who have been
jilted not unfrequently use strong language, and even threats, without
anything coming of it. The fact of the glove having been found where it
was was certainly suspicious, but, after all, that in itself did not
count for much; the glove might have been blown to where it was found,
or a dog might have picked it up and carried it there. A dozen
explanations, all possible even if not probable, could be given for its
presence, and before a man could be found guilty of murder upon
circumstantial evidence, there must be no room whatever left for doubt.
Therefore, the quarrel, the finding of the glove, and even the fact that
Captain Mervyn was unable to prove an _alibi_, would scarcely have
caused public opinion to decide against him had it not been for the fact
of that taint of insanity in his blood. Call a dog mad and you hang him.
Call a man mad and the public will easily credit him with the commission
of the most desperate crimes; therefore, the feeling of the majority of
those who assembled at the Court House at Exeter, was unfavourable to
Ronald Mervyn.

The attitude of the prisoner did much to dispel this impression; he was
grave, as one might well be with such a charge hanging over him, but
there was nothing moody or sombre, still less wild, in his expression;
he looked calmly round the court, acknowledged the encouraging nods
given him by some of his fellow officers, who had come over to bear
witness on the point of character, and who to a man believed him to be
innocent. Certainly there was nothing to suggest in the slightest degree
the suspicion of madness in his appearance; and many of those who had
before been impressed by the story of the family taint, now veered round
and whispered to their friends that the story of insanity was all
nonsense, and that Ronald Mervyn looked wholly incapable of such a crime
as that of which he was accused.

Dr. Arrowsmith had brought Ruth over under his personal charge. As she
came out, when he called in his trap to take her to the station, he was
surprised at the change which had taken place since he saw her the
evening before. The anxious and nervous expression of her face was gone,
and she looked calm and composed. There was indeed a certain determined
expression in her face that led the doctor to believe that she had by a
great effort conquered her fear of the ordeal to which she was to be
exposed, and had nerved herself to go through it unflinchingly. As they
journeyed in the train she asked him:

"Shall we be in the court all the time, doctor?"

"No, Ruth, I do not think you will be in court. I fancy the witnesses
remain in a room together until they are wanted. I myself shall be in
court, as the solicitor for the defence is a personal friend of mine,
and will give me a place at his table."

"Do you think, sir, that after I have given my evidence they would let
me stand there until it is done?"

"I should hardly think so, Ruth, and I am sure it would be a very bad
thing for you."

"I have a particular reason for wanting to be there, Dr. Arrowsmith, and
to hear it to the end. A most particular reason. I can't tell you what
it is, but I must be there."

The doctor looked at her in surprise.

"You think you will not feel the suspense as much if you are in the
court as you would outside Ruth? Is that what you mean?"

"That's it, partly, sir. Anyhow, I feel that I must be there."

"Very well, Ruth, if you see it in that way, I will do what I can for
you. I will ask Captain Hendricks to speak to the policemen in the
court, and tell them to let you remain there after you have given your
evidence. There will be a great crowd, you know, and it will be very
close, and altogether I think it is foolish and wrong of you."

"I am sorry you think so, sir; but I do want to be there, whatever
happens to me afterwards."

"Of course you can do as you like, Ruth; but the probability is that you
will faint before you have been there five minutes."

"I will try not to, sir, and I don't think I shall. It is only when I
get a sudden shock that I faint, and I don't think I can get one there."

CHAPTER VII.

THE VERDICT.

The trial of Ronald Mervyn for the murder of Margaret Carne was marked
by none of the unexpected turns or sudden surprises that not
unfrequently give such a dramatic interest to the proceedings. All the
efforts of the police had failed in unearthing any facts that could
throw a new light upon the subject, and the evidence brought forward was
almost identical with that given at the coroner's inquest; the counsel
asked a great many questions, but elicited no new facts of importance;
the only witnesses called for the defence were those as to character,
and one after another the officers of Mervyn's regiment came forward to
testify that he was eminently popular, and that they had never observed
in him any signs of madness.

They said that at times he got out of spirits, and was in the habit of
withdrawing himself from their society, and that on these occasions he
not infrequently went for long rides, and was absent many hours; he was,
perhaps, what might be called a little queer, but certainly not in the
slightest degree mad. Old servants of the family and many neighbours
gave testimony to the same effect, and Dr. Arrowsmith testified that he
had attended him from childhood, and that he had never seen any signs of
insanity in his words or actions.

Ruth had escaped the one question which she dreaded, whether she had
seen anything in the room that would afford a clue to the discovery of
the perpetrator of the crime. She had thought this question over a
hundred times, and she had pondered over the answer she should give. She
was firmly resolved not to tell an actual lie, but either to evade the
question by replying that when she recovered her senses she made
straight to the door without looking round; or, if forced to reply
directly, to refuse to answer, whatever the consequences might be. It
was then with a sigh of deep relief that she left the witness-box, and
took up her station at the point to which the policeman made way for
her. As she did so, however, he whispered:

"I think you had better go out, my girl. I don't think this is a fit
place for you. You look like to drop now;" but she shook her head
silently, and took up her station in the corner, grasping in one hand
something done up in many folds of paper in her pocket.

The same question had been asked other witnesses by the counsel for the
defence, and he had made a considerable point of the fact that the
constable and Dr. Arrowsmith both testified that the candles were
standing one on each side of the looking-glass, and although the room
had been carefully searched, no half-burnt match had been discovered. In
his address for the defence he had animadverted strongly upon this
point.

"It was a dark night, gentlemen. A dark night in November. You will
remember we had the evidence that whoever committed this murder must
have moved about the room noiselessly; the evidence shows that the
murderer drew down the clothes so gently and softly that he did not
awaken the sleeper. Now, as intelligent men, you cannot but agree with
me that no man could have made his way about this absolutely dark room
with its tables and its furniture, and carried out this murder in the
way stated, without making some noise; it would be an utter
impossibility. What is the conclusion? He was either provided with a
light, or he was forced to strike a match and light a candle.

"In the latter case he must have been provided with silent matches, or
the noise would have awakened the sleeper. Of one thing you may be sure,
Captain Mervyn had not provided himself with silent matches; but even
had not the sound of an ordinary match being struck awakened the
sleeper, surely the sudden light would have done so. I ask you from your
own experience whether, however soundly you might be sleeping, the
effect of a candle being lit in your room would not awaken you;
therefore I think it safe to assume that in the first place, because no
match was found, and in the second place, because had a candle been lit
it would assuredly have awakened the sleeper, and we know that she was
not awakened, that no candle was lighted in the room.

"How then did the assassin manage after entering the room to avoid the
dressing-table, the chairs, and other furniture, and to see to
manipulate the bedclothes so gently that the sleeper was not awakened?
Why, gentlemen, by means of the implement carried by every professional
burglar, I mean, of course, a dark lantern. Opening the shade slightly,
and carefully abstaining from throwing the light towards the bed, the
burglar would make his way towards it, showing sufficient light to carry
out his diabolical purpose, and then opening it freely to examine the
room, open the trinket-box, and carry away the valuables.

"The counsel for the prosecution, gentlemen, has not even ventured to
suggest that the prisoner, Captain Mervyn, was possessed of such an
article. His course has been traced through every village that he rode,
up to ten o'clock at night, by which time every shop had long been
closed, and had he stopped anywhere to buy such an article we should
surely have heard of it. Therefore, gentlemen, I maintain that even if
this fact stood alone, it ought to convince you of the innocence of the
prisoner.

"In his reply, the counsel for the prosecution had admitted that some
weight must be attached to this point, but that it was quite possible
that whoever entered the window might have felt on the table until he
found a candlestick, and lit it, stooping down behind the table, or at
the bottom of the bed, and so shading it with his coat that its light
would not fall on the face of the sleeper. As for the point made that no
match had been found, no great weight could be attached to it; the
prisoner might have put it in his pocket or thrown it out of the
window."

When the defence was concluded, and the counsel for the prosecution rose
to speak, the feeling in the court was still against the prisoner.

In all that had been said the evidence pointed against him, and him
only, as the author of the crime; no hint of suspicion had been dropped
against any other person; and the manner in which the crime had been
committed indicated strongly that it was the act of a person actuated by
jealousy, or animosity rather than that of a mere burglar. This view of
the case was strongly brought out by the counsel for the prosecution.

"The theory of the prosecution is," he said, "not that this unfortunate
gentleman, while in the full possession of his senses, slew this lady,
to whom he was nearly related, and for whom he had long cherished a
sincere affection--the character you have heard given him by so many
witnesses would certainly seem to show him to be a man incapable of such
a crime. Our theory is that the latent taint of insanity in his
blood--that insanity which, as you have heard from Dr. Arrowsmith and
other witnesses, is hereditary in his ancestors on his mother's side,
and has, before now, caused calamities, almost if not quite as serious
as this--suddenly flamed out. We believe that, as has been shown by
witnesses, he galloped away many miles over the country, but we believe
that at last, wrought up to the highest pitch of frenzy, he returned,
scaled the wall, opened the window, and murdered Miss Carne. You have
heard that he was subject to moody fits, when he shunned all society;
these fits, these wild rides you have heard of, are symptoms of a
disordered mind. Perhaps had all gone happily with him, the malady would
not have shown itself in a more serious form.

"Unfortunately, as we know, there was sharp and sudden unhappiness--such
unhappiness as tries the fibre even of the sanest men, and might well
have struck a fatal blow to his mind. It is not because you see him now,
calm and self-possessed, that you are to conclude that this theory is a
mistaken one. Many, even the most dangerous madmen, have long intervals
when, apparently, their sanity is as perfect as that of other people.
Then suddenly, sometimes altogether without warning, a change takes
place, and the quiet and self-possessed man becomes a dangerous
lunatic--perhaps a murderer.

"Such, gentlemen, is the theory of the prosecution. You will, of course,
weigh it carefully in your minds, and it will be your duty, if you agree
with it, to give expression to your opinion in your verdict."

The judge summed up the case with great care. After going through the
evidence piecemeal, he told the jury that while the counsel for the
defence had insisted upon the uncertainty of circumstantial evidence,
and the numerous instances of error that had resulted from it, it was
his duty to tell them that in the majority of cases of murder there
could be, from the nature of things, only circumstantial evidence to go
upon, for that men did not commit murder in the open streets in sight of
other people. At the same time, when circumstantial evidence alone was
forthcoming, it was necessary that it should be of the most conclusive
character, and that juries should, before finding a verdict of guilty,
be convinced that the facts showed that it was the prisoner, and he
only, who could have done the deed.

"It is for you, gentlemen, to decide whether the evidence that has been
submitted to you does prove, absolutely and conclusively to your minds,
that the prisoner must have been the man who murdered Miss Carne.
Counsel on both sides have alluded to the unquestioned fact that madness
is hereditary in the family of the prisoner; whether or not it is
inherited by him, is also for you to decide in considering your verdict.
You will have to conclude first whether the prisoner did or did not
commit this murder. If you believe that he did so, and that while he did
so he was insane, and incapable of governing his actions, your duty will
be to find him not guilty upon the ground of insanity."

The general tenor of the summing-up certainly showed that in the opinion
of the judge the evidence, although strong, could not be considered as
absolutely conclusive. Still, the bias was not strongly expressed, and
when the jury retired, opinions in court were nearly equally divided as
to what the verdict would be.

When he left the witness-box, Dr. Arrowsmith made his way to the corner
in which one of the policemen had placed Ruth after giving her evidence.
She had done this with a steadiness and composure that had surprised the
doctor; she had fortunately escaped much questioning, for the counsel
saw how fragile and weak she looked, and as she had but entered the
room, seen her mistress dead, fainted and left again, there was but
little to ask her. The questions put were: "Was the jewellery safe in
the box when she left the room the night before? Did she remember
whether the window was fastened or not?" To this her reply was negative.
Miss Carne had shut it herself when she went up in the afternoon, and
she had not noticed whether it was fastened. "Was the blind a Venetian
or an ordinary roller blind?"

"A roller blind."

"Then, if the window opened, it could be pushed aside without noise. Did
you notice whether the candlesticks were standing where you had left
them?"

"I noticed that they were on the table and in about the same place where
they were standing the night before, but I could not say exactly."

"I want you to go out, Ruth," Dr. Arrowsmith said, when he reached her
after the jury had retired. "They may be an hour or more before they
make up their minds. You are as white as death, child. Let me lead you
out."

Ruth shook her head, and murmured, "I must stay." The doctor shrugged
his shoulders and returned to his seat. It was an hour and a half before
the door opened and the foreman of the jury entered. As he was
unaccompanied, it was evident he wanted to ask a question.

"My lord," he said, "we are unanimous as to one part of the verdict, but
we can't agree about the other."

"How do you mean, sir?" the judge asked. "I don't want to know what you
are unanimous about, but I don't understand what you mean about being
unanimous about one part of the verdict and not unanimous on the other."

The foreman hesitated. Then, to the astonishment of the court, the
prisoner broke in in a clear steady voice:

"I will not accept acquittal, sir, on the ground of insanity. I am not
mad; if I had been the events of the last two months would have driven
me so. I demand that your verdict be guilty or not guilty."

The judge was too surprised to attempt to check the prisoner when he
first began to speak, and although he attempted to do so before he had
finished, the interruption was ineffectual.

"Go back, sir," the judge then said to the foreman. "You must be
unanimous as to the whole of your verdict."

The interruption of the prisoner had enlightened those in court as to
the nature of the foreman's question. Undoubtedly he had divined
rightly. The jury were in favour of the verdict not guilty, but some of
them would have added on the ground of insanity. The interruption,
although irregular, if not unprecedented, had a favourable effect upon
his hearers. The quickness with which the accused had seized the point,
and the steady, resolute voice in which he had spoken, told in his
favour, and many who before, had they been in the jury-box, would have
returned the verdict of not guilty on the ground of insanity, now
doubted whether they would add the concluding words.

A quarter of an hour later the jury returned.

"We are now unanimous, my lord. We say that the prisoner at the bar is
not guilty."

A sound like a sigh of relief went through the court. Then every one got
up, and there was a movement to the doors. The policeman lifted the bar,
and Ronald Mervyn stepped out a free man, and in a moment was surrounded
by a number of his fellow officers, while some of his neighbours also
pressed forward to shake him by the hand.

"I will shake hands with no man," he said, drawing back; "I will greet
no man so long as this cloud hangs over me--so long as it is unproved
who murdered Margaret Carne."

"You don't mean it, Mervyn; you will think better of it in a few days,"
one of his fellow officers said, as they emerged into the open air.
"What you have gone through has been an awful trial, but now that you
are proved to be innocent you will get over it."

"I am not proved to be innocent, though I am not proved to be guilty.
They have given me the benefit of the doubt; but to the end of my life
half the world will believe I did it. Do you think I would go through
life to be pointed at as the man who murdered his cousin? I would rather
blow out my brains to-night. No, you will never see me again till the
verdict of guilty has been passed on the wretch who murdered my cousin.
Good-bye. I know that you believe me innocent, but I will not take your
hands now. When you think it over, you will see as well as I do that
you couldn't have a man in the regiment against whom men as he passed
would whisper 'murderer.' God bless you all." And Ronald Mervyn turned
and walked rapidly away. One or two of the officers would have followed
him, but the colonel stopped them.

"Leave him alone, lads, leave him alone. We should feel as he does were
we in his place. Good Heavens! how he must have suffered. Still, he's
right, and however much we pity him, we cannot think otherwise. At the
present moment it is clear that he could not remain in the regiment."

As soon as the crowd had turned away, Dr. Arrowsmith made his way to the
point where Ruth had been standing. Somewhat to his surprise he found
her still on her feet. She was leaning back in the corner with her eyes
closed, and the tears streaming down her cheeks.

"Come, my dear," he said, putting his arm under hers, "let us be moving.
Thank God it has all ended right."

"Thank God, indeed, doctor," she murmured. "I had hardly hoped it, and
yet I have prayed so much that it might be so."

The doctor found that though able to stand while supported by the wall,
Ruth was unable to walk. With the aid of a policeman he supported her
from the court, placed her in a vehicle, and took her to an hotel.

"There, my dear," he said, when Ruth had been assisted up to a bedroom
by two of the maids, "now you go to bed, and lie there till to-morrow
morning. I will have a basin of strong broth sent you up presently. It's
quite out of the question your thinking of going home to-night. I have
several friends in the town, and am glad of the excuse to stay over the
night. I will call for you at ten o'clock in the morning; the train goes
at half-past ten; I will have your breakfast sent up here. I will go
down to the station now. There are lots of people over here from
Carnesford, and I will send a messenger back to your mother, saying that
you have got through it better than I expected, but I wanted you to have
a night's rest, and you will be home in the morning."

"Thank you, doctor; that is kind of you," Ruth murmured.

"Help her into bed, girls. She has been ill, and has had a very trying
day. Don't ask her any questions, but just get her into bed as soon as
you can."

Then the doctor went downstairs, ordered the broth and a glass of sherry
for Ruth, and a bedroom for himself, and then went off to see his
friends. In the morning he was surprised, when Ruth came downstairs, to
see how much better she looked.

"My prescription has done you good, Ruth. I am glad to see you look
wonderfully better and brighter."

"I feel so, sir. I went to sleep directly I had taken the broth and wine
you sent me up, and I did not wake till they called me at half-past
eight. I have not slept for an hour together for weeks. I feel as if
there was such a load taken off my mind."

"Why, Ruth, you didn't know Captain Mervyn to speak to, did you, that
you should feel such an interest in him?" the doctor said, looking at
her sharply.

"No, sir, I have never once spoken to him that I know of."

"Then why do you care so much about his being acquitted?"

"It would have been dreadful if he had been found guilty when he was
innocent all the time."

"But then no one knew he was innocent for certain," the doctor said.

"I felt sure he was innocent," Ruth replied.

"But why did you feel sure, Ruth?"

"I can't exactly say, sir, but I did feel that he was innocent."

The doctor looked puzzled, but at this moment the cab arrived at the
station, and the subject was not renewed, but the doctor afterwards
wondered to himself more than once whether Ruth could have any
particular reason for her assurance of Ronald Mervyn's innocence.

For another ten days the Mervyn trial was the great topic of
conversation throughout the country, and the verdict was canvassed with
almost as much keenness and heat as the crime had been before the trial.
Now that Ronald Mervyn was no longer in hazard of his life, the feeling
of pity which had before told so strongly in his favour was wanting. If
a man so far forgets himself as to use threats to a woman, he must not
be surprised if he gets into trouble. Of course, now the jury had given
a verdict of "Not guilty," there was no more to be said. There was no
doubt he was a very lucky fellow, and the jury had given him the benefit
of the doubt. Still, if he hadn't done it, who had killed Margaret
Carne?

Such was the general opinion, and although Ronald had still some staunch
adherents in his own neighbourhood, the tide of feeling ran against him.

Two months after the trial, Mrs. Mervyn died, broken down by grief, and
while this naturally caused a renewal of the talk, it heightened rather
than otherwise the feeling against her son. The general verdict was that
it was his doing; whether he killed Margaret Carne or not, there was no
doubt that he had killed his mother. All this was doubtless unfair, but
it was not unnatural; and only those who believed thoroughly in Ronald's
innocence felt how hard this additional pain must be for him.

Immediately the funeral was over, the two girls moved away to London,
and the house was advertised to let, but the odour of the recent tragedy
hung over it. No one cared to take a house with which such a story was
connected. A month or two later there was a sale of the furniture; the
house was then shut up and lost to the county. Ten days after the trial
it was announced in _The Gazette_ that Ronald Mervyn had retired from
the service upon sale of his commission. No one had seen him after he
had left the court a free man. His horses were sold a week later, and
his other belongings forwarded from the regiment to an address he gave
in London. His mother and sister had a few days later gone up for a day
to town, and had met him there. He had already written to them that he
intended to go abroad, and they did not seek to combat his resolution.

"I can never come back, mother, unless this is cleared up. You must feel
as well as I do, that I cannot show my face anywhere. I am surprised
that I have got off myself, and indeed if it were not that I am sure I
never got off my horse that night, I should sometimes suspect that I
must for a time have been really mad and have done what they accuse me
of. I have already sent down a detective to the village. There must be
some clue to all this if one could only hit upon it, but I own that at
present I do not see where it is to be looked for. I do not believe that
it was done by some passing tramp. I agree with every word that was said
at my trial in that respect.

"Everything points to the fact that she was deliberately murdered,
though who, except myself, could have entertained a feeling of animosity
against Margaret, God only knows. There is one comfort, mother, and only
one," he said with a hard laugh. "I can set our minds at ease on one
point, which I have never felt sure about before, that is, that I have
not inherited the curse of the Carnes. Had I done so, the last two
months would have made a raving lunatic of me, whereas I have never felt
my head cooler and my reason clearer than I have since the day I was
arrested. But you mustn't grieve for me more than you can help, mother;
now that it is over, I feel more for you and the girls than I do for
myself. I have a sort of conviction that somehow, though I don't see
how, the thing will be cleared up some day. Anyhow I mean to go and lead
a rough life somewhere, to keep myself from brooding over it. The weight
will really fall upon you, far more than upon me, and I should strongly
advise you to shut up the house, let it if you can, and either come up
here or settle in some place--either Brighton or Hastings--where this
story will be soon forgotten and no one will associate your names with
this terrible business."

About that time a stranger arrived at Carnesford. He announced that he
was a carpenter from the North, and that he suffered from weak lungs,
and had been recommended to live down South. After staying for a week at
the "Carne's Arms," he stated that he liked the village so much that he
should settle there if he saw a chance of making a livelihood, and as it
happened that there was no carpenter in the village, the idea was
received with favour, and a week later he was established in a cottage
that happened to be vacant. As he was a man who seemed to have travelled
about England a good deal, and was well spoken and informed, he soon
took a good position in the place, and was even admitted to form one of
the party in the snuggery, where he would talk well upon occasions, but
was specially popular as an excellent listener.

When spring came there was a fresh sensation. The gardener at The Hold,
in digging up some ground at the edge of the shrubbery, to plant some
rhododendrons there, turned up the missing watch and jewellery of
Margaret Carne. It was all buried together a few inches below the soil,
without any wrapper or covering of any kind. Captain Hendricks arrived
at Carnesford as soon as the news of the discovery reached him. Reginald
Carne was himself away, having been absent ever since the trial took
place. Most of the servants had left at once; the old cook and a niece
of hers alone remaining in charge, and two stablemen from the garden
also staying in the house.

Nothing came of the discovery; but it, of course, renewed the interest
in the mystery of Margaret Carne's death, and the general opinion was
that it was fortunate indeed for Ronald Mervyn that the discovery had
not been made before his trial, for it completely demolished the theory
that the murder was the work of a burglar. It was possible, of course,
that such a man, knowing the active hue and cry that would be set on
foot, and that it would be dangerous to offer the jewellery for sale,
and still more dangerous to keep it about him, had at once buried it,
intending to go back some day to recover it, for, as Reginald stated at
the trial, the missing jewels were worth fifteen hundred pounds.

But had they been so hidden they would assuredly have been put in a box
or some sort of cover that would protect them from the damp, and not
have been merely thrust into the ground. Altogether the discovery
greatly heightened, instead of diminishing, the impression that the
murder was an act of revenge and not the outcome of robbery; and the
cloud over Ronald Mervyn became heavier rather than lighter in
consequence.

Ruth Powlett had gained health and strength rapidly after the verdict
"Not guilty" had been returned against Ronald Mervyn. She was still
grave and quiet, and as she went about her work at home, Hesba would
sometimes tell her that she looked more like a woman of fifty than a
girl of nineteen; but her mind had been lightened from the burden of her
terrible secret, and she felt comparatively happy. She spent much of her
time over at the Foresters', for the old man and his wife were both
ailing, and they knew that there was little chance of their ever seeing
their son again, for the gamekeeper who had been injured in the poaching
affray had since died, and as the evidence given at the inquest all
pointed to the fact that it was George Forester who had struck the blow
that had eventually proved fatal, a verdict of "Wilful murder" had been
returned against him.

Ruth's conscience was not altogether free as to her conduct in the
matter, and at the time of Mrs. Mervyn's death she suffered much. As for
Ronald Mervyn himself, she had little compassion for him. She would not
have permitted him to be hung; but the disgrace that had fallen upon
him, and the fact that he had been obliged to leave the country,
affected her but little. She had been greatly attached to her mistress,
who had treated her rather as a friend than as a servant; and that he
should have insulted and threatened Margaret was in her eyes an offence
so serious that she considered it richly deserved the punishment that
had befallen him.

Until she heard of Mrs. Mervyn's death, she had scarcely considered that
the innocent must suffer with the guilty, and after that she felt far
more than she had done before, that she had acted wrongly in keeping the
secret, the more so since the verdict returned against George Forester
in the other case had rendered the concealment to some extent futile.
But, indeed, Forester and his wife did not suffer anything like the pain
and shame from this verdict that they would have done had their son been
proved to have been the murderer of Miss Carne. Public opinion, indeed,
ran against poaching as against drunkenness, or enlisting in the army,
or other wild conduct; but it was not considered as an absolute crime,
nor was the result of a fight, in which a keeper might be killed by a
blow struck in self-defence, regarded as a murder, in whatever point of
view the law might take it. Still Ruth suffered, and at times told
herself bitterly that although she meant to act for the best, she had
done wrongly and wickedly in keeping George Forester's secret.

Three months later, to the regret of all Carnesford, the carpenter, who,
although not a first-rate hand, had been able to do the work of the
village and neighbourhood, suddenly left. He had, he said, received a
letter telling him he had come into a little property up in the North,
and must return to see after it. So two days later the cottage again
stood vacant, and Carnesford, when it wanted a carpenter's job done, was
obliged to send over to the next village for a man to do it.

CHAPTER VIII.

ENLISTED.

It was in August, 1850. Some newly-arrived emigrants had just landed
from their ship, and were walking through the streets of Cape Town,
watching with great amusement the novel sights, the picturesque groups
of swarthy Malays in huge beehive-shaped hats, with red-and-yellow
bandanas round their necks, and their women in dresses of the most
gorgeous colours. Settlers from inland farms rode at a reckless pace
through the streets, and huge waggons drawn by eight or ten bullocks
came creaking along, often at a trot. One of the party stopped before a
placard.

"Active young men wanted for the Cape Mounted Rifles. For full
particulars as to service and pay, inquire of the Adjutant at the
Barracks of the Corps."

"I thought they were recruited in England," he muttered to himself. "I
will go round presently and see about it, but I will look at the papers
first. If there is any trouble on with the natives it would suit me
well, but I certainly will not enlist merely to dawdle about in the
towns. I would rather carry out my idea of buying a farm and going in
for stock-raising." He went into a liquor shop, called for some of the
native wine, and took up a newspaper. It contained numerous letters from
settlers on the frontier, all saying that the attitude of the natives
had changed greatly within the last few weeks, and that all sorts of
alarming rumours were current, and it was feared that in spite of the
solemn treaties they had made two years before, the natives were again
going to take up arms.

"I think that's good enough," he said to himself. "There are likely to
be stirring times again here. Nothing would suit my case better than an
active life, hard work, and plenty of excitement."

Having finished his wine, he inquired the way to the barracks of the
detachment of the corps stationed at Cape Town, and being directed to
it, entered the gates. He smiled to himself at his momentary feeling of
surprise at the sentry at the gate neglecting to salute him, and then
inquiring for the orderly room, he went across the little barrack-yard
and entered. The adjutant looked up from the table at which he was
writing.

"I see a notice that you want men, sir," the new-comer said.

"Yes, we are raising two fresh troops. What age are you?"

"Twenty-eight."

"You have served before, have you not?" the adjutant said, looking at
the well-knit figure standing before him.

[Illustration: "'_You have served before, have you not?' the Adjutant
said._"]

"Yes, I have served before."

"Infantry or cavalry?"

"The infantry; but I can ride."

"Have you your papers of discharge?"

"No."

"Have you any one to speak to your character?"

"No one here. I only landed this morning by the _Thalia_, which came in
from England last night."

"That is awkward," the officer said. "You know that as a rule we only
enlist in England, and only take applicants of good character."

"I am aware of that, sir; but as just at present you are likely to want
men who can fight, character is not of so much importance."

The adjutant smiled, and again scrutinised the applicant closely.

"The man has been an officer," he said to himself. "Well, that is
nothing to me; he has the cut of a soldier all over."

"Do you know the conditions of service? You provide your own horse and
uniform. Government provides arms. In the event of your not being able
to find your horse and uniform, Government will--as it is anxious to
fill up the ranks as soon as possible--provide them, and stop the money
from your pay."

"I can provide horse and uniform."

"Very well, then, I will take you," the officer said.

"I enlist as Harry Blunt. I may say, sir, that I should feel very
greatly obliged if, as I know my duty, you would post me to a troop
already up the country instead of to one of those you are raising, and
who will have to learn their drill and how to sit a horse before they
can be sent up on active duty."

"I can do that," the officer said; "it is only yesterday that we called
for recruits, and we have only had two or three applications at present;
there is a draft going on to Port Elizabeth next week, and if I find
that you are, as you say, up in your drill, I will send you up with
them."

"Thank you, sir, I am very much obliged to you."

"The major will be here at four o'clock," the adjutant said; "come in at
that time, and you can be attested and sworn in."

"After all," Ronald Mervyn said to himself, as he strode away, "there's
nothing like soldiering. I know I should have fretted for the old work
if I had settled down on a farm, or even if I had gone in, as I half
thought of doing, for shooting for a year or so before settling down. If
these natives really mean to make trouble, we shall have an exciting
time of it, for the men I have talked with who fought in the last war
here say that they have any amount of pluck, and are enemies not to be
despised. Now I will be off and look for a horse. I'd better not order
my uniform until I am sworn in; the major may, perhaps, refuse me on the
ground of want of character." He went up to two or three young farmers
who were standing talking in the street.

"I am a stranger, gentlemen, and have just landed. I want to buy a good
horse; can you tell me what is the best way to set about it?"

"You will have no difficulty about that," one of them replied, "for
there's been a notice up that Government wants to buy horses, and at two
o'clock this afternoon, those who have animals to dispose of fit for
cavalry service are to bring them into the parade ground in front of the
infantry barracks. Government has only asked for fifty horses, and there
will probably be two or three times that number brought in. We have
each brought in a horse or two, but they are rather expensive animals. I
believe the horses are intended for mounts for staff-officers. They want
more bone and strength than is general in the horses here."

"I don't much mind what I pay," Ronald said, carelessly. "However,
gentlemen, I may see you down there, and if Government does not take
your horses, perhaps I may make a deal with one of you."

At the appointed hour Ronald strolled down to the parade. There were a
good many officers assembled there, and a large number of young Boer
farmers, each with one or more horses, led by natives. The major and
adjutant of the Cape Mounted Rifles were examining the horses, which
were ridden up and down before them by their owners, the adjutant
himself sometimes mounting and taking them a turn. Presently his eyes
fell upon Ronald, who was closely scrutinising the horses.

"That is the young fellow I was speaking to you about, major, the man in
the tweed suit examining that horse's mouth."

"Yes, I have no doubt you are right, Lawson; he has the cut of a
military man all over, and beyond all question a gentleman. Out-ran the
constable at home, I suppose. Well, we will take him anyhow; for rough
work men of that stamp make the very best soldiers. I fancy we have more
than one in our ranks now. No, you need not bring that horse up," he
broke off, addressing the young farmer, whose horse Ronald had just been
examining. "He's got some vice about him, or you would not be offering
him at our prices."

"He's as good a horse as there is in the colony," the young Dutchman
said; "but I am not offering him at your price. I thought that some
young officer might be inclined to buy him, and I have brought him down
to show. There is no vice about him that I know of, but he has only been
mounted twice, and as he has never been off the farm before he is a bit
fidgety."

"What do you want for him?" the major asked, examining the horse
closely.

"I want a hundred and twenty pounds for him."

"A hundred and twenty fiddlesticks," the major said. "Why, man, there
are not ten horses in the colony worth a hundred and twenty pounds."

"Perhaps not," the young Dutchman said, coolly, "but this is one of the
ten."

Several of the other officers now came up and examined the horse, and
they were unanimous in their approval of him.

"He would be worth three hundred as a hunter at home," one of them
remarked, "but nobody's going to give such a price as that out here,
when you can get a decent runner for twenty; but he is certainly the
handsomest horse I have seen since I have been in the colony, and I have
seen some good ones, too."

The farmer moved off with the horse. As he left the ground, Ronald again
walked up to him.

"I like your horse," he said, "and if you will take a hundred pounds for
him, I will give it you."

"Very well," the Dutchman said, "I will take it, but I wouldn't take a
penny under. Have you the money here?"

"I have not got it in my pocket," Ronald replied, "but I have letters of
credit on the bank. Walk round with me there, and I will give you the
cash."

In ten minutes the money was obtained and handed to the farmer, who gave
Ronald a receipt for it. Ronald took the halter from the hands of the
native, and at once led the horse to the stable of the hotel at which
he had already left his luggage. Then he ordered one of the cases to be
opened, and took out a saddle and bridle which he had brought out with
him in view of rough colonial work.

"I did not expect to be suited so soon," he said to himself, "and
certainly did not expect to find such a mount here. I like him better
than either of my old hunters, and will back him, after a couple of
months' good handling, to win any military steeplechase. That's money
well laid out; when a man may have to ride for his life, money in
horseflesh is a good investment."

He went down at four o'clock, and was attested and sworn in.

"I saw you down on the parade ground, Blunt," the adjutant said. "We
have bought a score of horses for the use of recruits. You can have one
of them at the Government price if you choose."

"I am much obliged to you, sir," Ronald replied, "but I picked one up
myself."

"He will have to pass inspection, you know, Blunt?"

"I think he's good enough to pass, sir," Ronald said, quietly. "I am
considered a pretty good judge of a horse."

"There is the address of a tailor," the adjutant said, handing him a
card; "he has got a supply of the right cloth, and has contracted to
supply uniforms at a very reasonable price. You need not come into
barracks until to-morrow, unless you choose."

"I thank you, sir. I have a few things to get, and I would rather not
report myself until to-morrow afternoon, if you will give me leave."

"Very well, then, I will not ration you to-morrow. Report yourself to
Sergeant Menzies any time before nine o'clock in the evening."

Ronald gave the military salute, turned on his heel, and went out of
the barracks. He went straight to the tailor whose card had been given
to him. "I want to be measured for a uniform for the Mounted Rifles," he
said. "How much do you charge?"

"We supply tunic, jacket, and two pairs of breeches, and cap, for nine
pounds."

"When can you let me have them?"

"In three days."

"I must have them by to-morrow afternoon, by six o'clock, and I will pay
you two pounds extra to get them done by then. But mind, I want
good-fitting clothes. Do you understand?"

"You will pay eleven pounds for them if I get them ready by six o'clock.
Very well, then, I will try and do them."

"Of course you can do them, if you choose," Ronald said. "If you get
them cut out and stitched together, I will come in at nine o'clock in
the morning to try them on. Now where can I get jack-boots?"

"The last shop down the end of this street. Moens is the name. He always
keeps a lot by him, and the Mounted Rifles here mostly deal with him."

Ronald was fortunate enough to obtain a pair of boots that fitted him
well, and he now strolled back to his hotel. The next morning, after
trying on his uniform, which was of dark green, he went to the stables
and saddled his new purchase. The horse was fidgety and nervous from its
new surroundings, and refused for some time to let him mount; but he
patted and soothed it, and then putting one hand on the saddle, sprang
into it at a bound. He rode at a walk through the streets, and when he
got beyond the limits of the town touched the horse with his spurs. The
animal reared up, lashed out behind once or twice, and then went off at
a gallop. Ronald kept along the road until he was beyond the patches of
land cultivated by the natives. When once in the open country, he left
the road, and allowed the horse to gallop across country until its speed
abated, by which time he was nearly ten miles from Cape Town; then he
turned its head, and at a quiet pace rode back to the town.

"A month's schooling," he said, "and it will be an almost perfect horse;
its pace is very easy, and there's no doubt about its strength and wind.
You are a beauty, old boy," he went on, as he patted the animal's neck,
"we shall soon be capital friends."

The uniform was delivered punctually, and after saying good-bye to his
fellow-passengers who were staying at the hotel, Ronald put on his
uniform, filled the valise, he had that afternoon purchased, with a
useful kit, took out an excellent sporting rifle that would carry
Government ammunition, and a brace of revolvers, and, packing up his
other clothes and ordering all the baggage to be put away in a store
until required, he mounted and rode into barracks.

"Where shall I find Sergeant Menzies?" he asked one of the men at the
guardroom.

"His quarters are over there, the last door in that corner."

Ronald rode over to the point indicated, and then dismounted. He entered
the passage. The sergeant's name was written on a piece of paper
fastened on the first door. He came out when Ronald knocked. "I was
ordered by the adjutant to report myself to you, sergeant," Ronald said,
saluting.

"He told me that a recruit was coming, but how did you get your uniform?
Why, you only enlisted yesterday."

"I hurried them up a bit," Ronald said. "Where shall I put my horse?"

The sergeant went into his quarters and came out with a lantern. He
held it up and examined the horse.

"Well, lad, you have got a bonny beast, a downright beauty. You will
have to get the regulation bridle, and then you will be complete. Let me
look at you." He held up the lantern. "You will do, lad," he said, "if
you make as good a soldier as you look. You only want the sword and belt
to be complete. You will have them served you out in the morning. Now,
come along and I will show you the stable." He made his way to the
stable, where there was a vacant stall, and stood by while Ronald
removed the saddle and bridle and put on the head-stall. "You can take
an armful of hay from that rack yonder. I can't get him a ration of
grain to-night, it's too late."

"He's just had a good feed," Ronald said, "and will not want any more,
but I may as well give him the hay to amuse himself with. It will
accustom him to his new quarters. What shall I do with my rifle and
pistols?"

"Bring them with you, lad; but there was no occasion for you to have
brought them. Government finds arms."

"I happened to have them with me," Ronald said, "and as the rifle
carries Government ammunition, I thought they would let me use it."

"If it's about the right length I have no doubt they will be glad to do
so, for we have no very great store of arms, and we are not quite so
particular about having everything exactly uniform as they are in a
crack corps at home. As for the pistols, there is no doubt about them,
as being in the holsters they don't show. Several of the men have got
them, and most of the officers. Now, I will take you up to your
quarters." The room to which he led Ronald contained about a dozen men.
Some had already gone to bed, others were rubbing up bits and
accoutrements; one or two were reading. "Here's a new comrade, lads,"
the sergeant said; "Blunt's his name. He is a new arrival from home, and
you won't find him a greenhorn, for he has served already."

Ronald had the knack of making himself at home, and was, before he
turned in an hour later, on terms of good fellowship with his comrades.

In the morning, after grooming his horse, he went into the barrack-yard,
when the troop formed up for dismounted drill.

"Will you take your place at once in the ranks?" Sergeant Menzies asked.
"Do you feel equal to it?"

"Yes; I have not grown rusty," Ronald replied, as he fell in.

An hour's work sufficed to show Sergeant Menzies, who was drilling the
troop, that the new recruit needed no instructions on that score, and
that he was as perfect in his drill as any one in the troop.

"Are you as well up in your cavalry drill as in the infantry?" he asked
Ronald as the troop fell out.

"No," Ronald said, "but when one knows one, he soon gets well at home in
the other. At any rate, for simple work the system is exactly the same,
and I think with two or three drills I shall be able to keep my place."

After breakfast the troop formed up again in their saddles, and the
officers took their places in the ranks. As the sergeant handed to the
adjutant some returns he had been compiling, the latter asked:

"By the way, sergeant, did the recruit Blunt join last night?"

"Yes, sir, and he is in his place now in the rear rank. He was in his
uniform when he came, and I found this morning that he is thoroughly
well up in his drill. A smart soldier all over, I should say. I don't
know that he will do so well mounted, but I don't think you will see him
make many blunders. He is evidently a sharp fellow."

"He ought not to have taken his place until I had passed his horse,
sergeant. Still I can do that after parade drill is over."

The adjutant then proceeded to put the troop through a number of easy
movements, such as forming from line to column, and back into line, and
wheeling. There was no room for anything else in the barrack-yard, which
was a small one, as the barracks would only hold a single troop. Before
the movements were completed, the major came out. When the troop was
dismissed Sergeant Menzies brought Ronald up to the two officers. He had
in the morning furnished him with the regulation bridle, belt, and
sword. Ronald drew up his horse at a short distance from the two
officers and saluted.

"There's no doubt about his horse," the major said, "that is if he is
sound. What a good-looking beast!"

"That it is, major. By Jove, I believe it's the very animal that young
Boer asked us one hundred and twenty pounds for yesterday; 'pon my word,
I believe it's the same."

"I believe it is," the major agreed. "What a soldierly-looking young
fellow he is! I thought he was the right stamp yesterday, but I hardly
expected to see him turn out so well at first."

The two officers walked up to Ronald, examined his horse, saddle, and
uniform.

"That's not a regulation rifle you have got there," the major said.

"No, sir, it is one I brought from England with me. I have been
accustomed to its use, and as it is the regulation bore, I thought
perhaps I might carry it."

"It's a trifle long, isn't it?" the adjutant asked.

"Yes, sir, it's just two inches too long, but I can have that cut off by
a gunsmith."

"Very well; if you do that you can carry it," the major said. "Of course
it's much better finished than the regulation one, but not much
different in appearance. Very well, we pass the horse." Ronald saluted
and rode off to the stables.

"He hasn't come out penniless, anyhow," the major laughed.

"No, that's quite evident," the adjutant agreed. "I dare say his friends
gave him a hundred or two to start on a farm, and when he decided to
join us he thought he might as well spend it, and have a final piece of
extravagance."

"I dare say that's it," the major agreed; "anyhow I think we have got
hold of a good recruit this time."

"I wish they were all like him," the adjutant sighed, thinking of the
trouble he often had with newly-joined recruits.

"By the way," the major said, "I have got word this morning that the
draft is to be embarked to-morrow instead of next week. They took up a
ship for them yesterday; it seems our men there are worked off their
legs, for the Kaffirs are stealing cattle and horses in all directions,
and the colonists have sent in such a strong letter of complaint to the
Governor that even he thinks the police force on the frontier ought to
be strengthened. Not, of course, that he admits in the slightest that
there is any ground for alarm, or believes for a moment that the Kaffirs
have any evil intentions whatever; still, to reassure the minds of the
settlers, he thinks the troops may as well go forward at once."

"I wish to goodness," the adjutant said, bitterly, "that Sir Harry Smith
would take a cottage for two or three months close to the frontier; it
would not be long before his eyes were opened a little as to the
character and intentions of the Kaffirs."

"It would be a good thing," the major agreed, "but I doubt if even that
would do it till he heard the Kaffirs breaking in his doors; then the
enlightenment would come too late to be of any service to the colony.
By-the-bye, the colonel told me yesterday he should send me forward next
week to see after things. He says that of course if there is any serious
trouble he shall go forward himself."

The following morning the draft of Cape Mounted Rifles embarked on board
a steamer and were taken down to Algoa Bay, and landed at Port
Elizabeth, drenched to the skin by the passage through the tremendous
surf that beats upon the coast, and were marched to some tents which had
been erected for them on a bare sandhill behind the town.

Ronald Mervyn was amused at the variety of the crowd in the straggling
streets of Port Elizabeth. Boer farmers, Hottentots, Malays, and
Fingoes, with complexions varying through every shade of yellow and
brown up to black; some gaily dressed in light cottons, some wrapped in
a simple cowhide or a dirty blanket, many with but little clothing
beyond their brass and copper ornaments.

The country round was most monotonous. As far as the eye could see it
was nothing but a succession of bare, sandy flats, and, beyond these,
hills sprinkled with bush and occasional clumps of aloes and elephant
trees. Upon the following morning the troop marched, followed by a
waggon containing their baggage and provisions, drawn by ten oxen. A
little naked boy marched at the head of the oxen as their guide, and
they were driven by a Hottentot, armed with a tremendous whip of immense
length, made of plaited hide fastened to the top of a bamboo pole. After
a fourteen miles' march the troop reached the Zwart Kop river, and,
crossing the ford, encamped among the scattered mimosas and numerous
wait-a-bit thorns. The horses were then knee-haltered, and they and the
oxen were turned out to feed till night. The next day's march was a very
long one, and for the most part across a sandy desert, to the Sunday
River, a sluggish stream in which, as soon as the tents were pitched,
the whole party enjoyed a bath.

"To-morrow we shall reach the Addoo Bush, Blunt," one of his comrades,
who knew the country well, remarked. "This is near the boundary of what
you may call the Kaffir country, although I don't think they have their
kraals as far south as this, though there was fighting here in the last
war, and may be again."

"But I thought our territory extended as far as the Kei River?"

"So it does nominally," the other said. "All the country as far as that
was declared to be forfeited; but in point of fact the Kaffirs remained
in possession of their lands on condition that they declared their
allegiance to the Crown, and that each chief was made responsible for
any cattle or other robberies, the spoor of which could be traced to his
kraal. Of course they agreed to this, as, in fact, they would agree to
anything, resolving, naturally, to break the conditions as soon as it
suited them. Local magistrates and commissioners are scattered about
among them, and there have been a lot of schools and missionary stations
started. They say that they are having great success. Well, we shall see
about that. In the last war the so-called Christian natives were among
the first to turn against us, and I expect it will be the same here, for
it's just the laziest and worst of the natives who pretend to become
Christians. They get patches of land given them, and help in building
their huts, and all sorts of privileges. By about half-a-day's work each
week they can raise enough food to live upon, and all that is really
required of them is to attend services on a Sunday. The business
exactly suits them, but as a rule there are a great many more Hottentots
than Kaffirs among the converts. I can give you a specimen of the sort
of men they are. Not long since a gentleman was coming down with a
waggon and a lot of bullocks from King Williamstown. The drivers all
took it into their head to desert one day--it's a way these fellows
have, one of them thinks he will go, and then the whole lot go, and a
settler wakes up in the morning and finds that there isn't a single hand
left on his place, and he has perhaps four or five hundred cows to be
milked, and twice as many oxen and horses to look after. Well, this
happened within a mile or so of the missionary station, so the gentleman
rode over there and asked if some of the men would go with him down to
Beaufort, a couple of days' march. Nobody would go; he raised his
offers, and at last offered five times the usual rate of pay, but not
one of the lazy brutes would move, and he had at last to drive the whole
lot down himself, with the aid of a native or two he picked up on the
way. However, there has been pretty good order along the frontier for
the last two years, partly due to the chiefs having to pay for all
cattle traced to their kraals, partly to the fact that we have got four
hundred Kaffir police--and an uncommon smart lot of fellows they
are--scattered all along the frontier, instead of being, like us, kept
principally in towns. You see, we are considered more as a military
body. Of course, we have a much easier time of it than if we were
knocking about in small parties among the border settlements; but there
is a lot more excitement in that sort of life, and I hope that if there
is trouble they will send us out to protect the settlements."

"I hope so," Ronald said, cordially. "Barrack life at a dull little town
is the slowest thing in the world. I would never have enlisted for that
sort of thing."

"Well, if what the settlers say turns out right, you will have plenty of
excitement, I can tell you. I was in the last war, and I don't know that
I want to go through another, for these beggars fight a great deal too
well for it to be pleasant, I can tell you. The job of carrying
despatches or escorting waggons through a bush where these fellows are
known to be lurking, is about as nasty a one as a man can wish. At any
moment, without the least notice, you may have half-a-dozen assegais
stuck in your body. And they can shoot straight, too; their guns are
long and clumsy, but they carry long distances--quite as far as our
rifles, while, as for the line muskets, they haven't a chance with
them."

Two more days' marching and the troop arrived at Grahamstown. Here they
encamped near Fort England, where a wing of the 91st Regiment was
quartered, and the next fortnight was spent in constant drills. The
rifles were then ordered forward to King Williamstown, where two days
later they were joined by the infantry.

Before starting, the adjutant had specially called the attention of
Captain Twentyman, who commanded the troop, to his last joined recruit.

"You will find that man Blunt, who joined us yesterday, a good soldier,
Twentyman. It may be he has been an officer, and has got into some row
at home and been obliged to leave the service. Of course you noticed his
horse on parade this morning; we have nothing like it in the Corps. The
farmer who owned it offered it to us yesterday afternoon, and wanted a
hundred and twenty pounds for it. He said that both his sire and dam
were English hunters, the sire he had bought from an English officer,
and the grandsire was a thoroughbred horse. The man has a large farm,
about twenty-five miles from Cape Town, and goes in for horse-breeding;
but I have seen nothing before of his as good as that. I expect the
young fellow has spent his last penny in buying it. Of course I don't
know what he will turn out in the way of conduct; but you will find, if
he is all right in that respect, that he will make a first-rate
non-commissioned officer, and mounted as he is, will, at any rate, be a
most useful man for carrying despatches and that sort of thing. I
confess I am very much taken with him. He has a steady, resolute sort of
face; looks pleasant and good-tempered, too. Keep your eye upon him."

Captain Twentyman had done so during the voyage and on the line of
march, and Ronald's quickness, alacrity, and acquaintance with his duty
convinced him that the adjutant's supposition was a correct one.

"By Jove, Twentyman," an officer of the 91st said as he was standing
beside him when Ronald rode up and delivered a message, "that fellow of
yours is wonderfully well mounted. He's a fine soldierly-looking fellow,
too, and I don't know why, but his face seems quite familiar to me."

"I fancy he has been an officer," Captain Twentyman replied, "we have
several in the corps--men who have been obliged for some reason or other
to sell out, and who, finding nothing else to do, have enlisted with us.
You see the pay is a good deal higher than it is in the regular cavalry,
and the men as a whole are a superior class, for you see they find their
own horses and uniforms, so the life is altogether more pleasant than
the regular service for a man of that kind. Almost all the men are of
respectable family."

"I certainly seem to know his face," said the officer, thoughtfully,
"although where I saw it I have not the least idea. What is his name?"

"He enlisted as Harry Blunt, but no doubt that's not his real name.
Very few men of his kind, who enlist in the army, do so under their own
names."

"I don't know any one of that name," the officer said, "but I certainly
fancy I have seen your man before; however, I don't suppose in any case
he would like being recognised; men who are under a cloud don't care
about meeting former acquaintances."

A week later, to Ronald's great satisfaction, a party of twenty men, of
whom he was one, under Troop-Lieutenant Daniels, were ordered to march
the next morning to the Kabousie River, whence the settlers had written
praying that a force might be sent for their protection, as the Kaffirs
in the neighbourhood were becoming more and more insolent in their
manner. Many of their cattle had been driven off, and they were in daily
expectation of an attack. No waggons accompanied the party, as they
would erect huts if they remained in one place, and would have no
difficulty in obtaining provisions from the farmers. The men chosen for
the service were all in high glee at the prospect of a change from the
dulness of the life at King Williamstown, and were the objects of envy
to their comrades.

The start was made at daybreak, and after two days' long marching they
reached their destination. The country was a fertile one, the farmhouses
were frequent, most of them embedded in orchards and vineyards, showing
signs of comfort and prosperity.

"This is the first place that I have seen since I reached the colony,"
Ronald said to the trooper riding next to him, "where I should care
about settling."

"There are a good many similar spots in this part of the country," the
man said, "and I believe the folks here are everywhere doing well, and
would do better if it were not for these native troubles. They suffered
a lot in the last war, and will, of course, bear the brunt of it if the
natives break out again. There are a good many English and Scotch
settlers in this part. There are, of course, some Dutch, but as a rule
they go in more for cattle-farming on a big scale. Besides, they do not
care about English neighbours; they are an unsociable set of brutes, the
Dutch, and keep themselves to themselves as much as possible."

CHAPTER IX.

THE OUTBREAK.

As it was possible that the detachment might remain for some time in
their present quarters, Lieutenant Daniels at once set them to work to
erect a couple of huts, each capable of holding ten men. Several of the
farmers sent two or three of their native labourers to assist in cutting
and bringing to the spot timber for the framework and supplying straw
for thatching the roofs. The operation was not a long one. The walls
were made with wattle plastered with mud, and the work was accomplished
in a couple of days. The men were glad of the shelter, for, although the
heat was very great during the day, the nights were cold and sharp. The
horses were picketed behind the huts; the officer took up his quarters
at a farmhouse a hundred yards away. Once housed, the men had little to
do, for, in the daytime, there was no fear of the Kaffirs coming down on
their plundering expeditions, such attempts being only made at night.
When evening fell, the saddles were placed on the horses, and the men
lay down in their clothes, simply taking off their jackets and
jack-boots, so as to be in readiness to turn out at a moment's alarm.
Sometimes they rode out in small parties patrolling the whole country,
not with any idea of finding cattle-thieves, but merely to give
confidence to settlers, whose Kaffir servants were sure to give
intelligence to their friends in the bush of the presence of the Mounted
Rifles in the neighbourhood.

When they had been there a fortnight they heard that the Governor had
come to King Williamstown, and had summoned the various chiefs to
assemble there. They had all come with the exception of the paramount
Chief Sandilli, had assured the Governor of their fidelity, sworn
allegiance anew, and ratified it by kissing the stick of peace. The
Governor was so satisfied with their assurances that he issued a reply
to the petitions of the colonists, saying that reports throughout
British Kaffraria were most satisfactory, that the chiefs were
astonished at the sudden arrival of the troops, and that he hoped to
arrest some of the Kaffirs who had spread the alarming reports. The
Governor gave his solemn assurance to those of the settlers who had left
their farms that there was no occasion for alarm.

A commission, however, appointed by him to investigate the numerous
complaints of the settlers, speedily forwarded to him such alarming
accounts of the critical state of affairs, that he again left for the
frontier, taking with him from Cape Town the 73rd Regiment and a
detachment of artillery. A proclamation was at once issued for the
establishment of a police force, the enrolment of new levies and of a
corps of volunteers for self-defence, so as to leave the whole of the
military at liberty for operations.

One day, towards the end of November, Ronald and a comrade had ridden
some twelve miles out of the station, when they saw a young lady on
horseback riding towards them. She drew rein when she reached them.

"We have had fifty cattle driven off in the night," she said, "and some
of the neighbours have followed the trail. I am riding over to report
the fact to your officer."

"We can report it," Ronald said, "and save you the trouble of riding
further; but if you like we will ride back with you first, and see if we
can be of any service."

"I am afraid it will be no use," the girl said; "they will be in the
woods before they can be overtaken, and then, you know, there will be
nothing to do but to report where their trail ended and wait for the
chance of getting compensation from the chief."

By this time they were galloping back with her. The tale was similar to
scores of others they had heard since their arrival in the valley, and
they knew that there was but slight chance of recovering the trail, the
order being stringent that they were on no account to enter the bush.
The cattle, therefore, were as good as lost, for all were well aware
that in the present state of things there was but little prospect of
receiving compensation from the chief. The party found, indeed, upon
their arrival at the farmhouse, which was a large and comfortable one,
and furnished in English style, that the neighbours had returned, having