Confusion----!

What followed?  What followed?

A sudden, terrible pain, a suffocating sense of agony, a blinding rush
of memories, of fear, of terror; and then a figure lurched forward,
slipping sideways from the chair across the hearth, overturning a
half-filled bowl of punch in its fall.

But Marcel Trouet stood cursing volubly in hot anger and dismay, for
the features, upturned to his, were not those of Morice Conyers after
all.

The moments crept by leaden-footed.  But Marcel Trouet stood
still--very still--looking down at that white face, those stiffening
lips.

He had killed the wrong man.

It was a matter of regret.

Hardened in crime though he was, murder in cold blood had never come
his way before, and the horror of a useless deed held him there,
actually trembling a little as he watched the slowly oozing blood
trickle across the white hearth.

And the twilight was deepening in the silent room.

The hasty opening of a door startled the watcher into uttering a low
cry of terror.  But the terror passed at sight of Lord Denningham.

These two understood each other.

"Ah!"

"Unluckily I made a little mistake, mon ami.  It was Morice
Conyers--the citizen Varenac--I came to find."

"Aha!  I understand.  A little unfortunate for Steenie!  Poor devil!
But how go the affairs of State, friend Trouet?"

"It is I who should ask that.  I hear that our good Moreece has become
indeed a Marquis."

"One born out of time then, though it is true that Conyers was ready to
play the fool.  However, there is no reason to be anxious; I have
already settled matters with him."

"You----?"

"He will not trouble us again any more than poor Steenie here."

Lord Denningham was smiling, but Marcel Trouet wiped the sweat from his
forehead.

"Bon, bon.  You are a patriot, my friend."

"And now----?"

"Well, it will be clear sailing, as you call it in England.  The men of
Varenac did not see the dear Moreece?"

"Not a glimpse.  They are waiting still."

"Excellent.  Ah, ciel! what an idea!  We shall have no trouble with
these blockheads, who are sometimes difficult.  You, my dear milord,
will be Marquis, or--still better--the Citizen Varenac."

Jack Denningham stared for a moment.  But he was not slow to catch the
drift of the other's meaning.

"The Citizen Varenac?" he echoed.  "A charming idea, Marcel, only a
trifle difficult to practise."

"Difficult?"

"You forget I have been living here as Lord Denningham.  The old
curmudgeon, Pierre Koustak, would give me away.  He is Royalist and
Varenac to the backbone, and a gentleman of influence in these parts,
if I mistake not."

Trouet shrugged his shoulders.

"Ah, my friend, that is all easy enough.  Where is this Pierre Koustak?"

"Below, no doubt, in the pantry, or poking his nose where it is not
wanted."

"Let him come here.  We will deal with him according to justice."

"Justice!"

"Eh bien!  There is a man lying murdered in the library of the Manor of
Varenac.  We find him here, you and I.  Who can be suspected but the
only man in the house?  It is without doubt the work of a villain.  We
will name that villain Pierre Koustak.  You understand?"

"Perfectly.  I will fetch him."

Pierre Koustak was not far away.

The last few days had made him anxious--very anxious.  There were
things happening he could not understand, and Monsieur le Marquis had
not arrived at Varenac.

So he was ready enough to obey the summons to the library, even though
he did not like the fair-haired milord with the blue eyes which were
cold and hard as granite stones.

Yet perhaps he would hear something.

The worthy Pierre was not mistaken.  He did hear something,--but not at
all what he expected.

Murder!  Ah! how terrible.

The sight of the huddled figure on the hearth made his knees tremble in
very horror.  But he knew nothing of it, had heard nothing.  What did
it mean?

In utter bewilderment, he stared from one grim-faced accuser to the
other.

_He_ murdered the Englishman who laughed and drank all day?

Mother of Heaven! such a thought, such a suggestion, was impossible,
absurd.

But, where the prisoner is prejudged, argument is useless.

They refused to listen to the poor man's protestations, cries, and vows
of innocency.  Sir Stephen Berrington lay here, lately murdered; he,
Pierre Koustak, was the only man in the Manor at the time, therefore
Pierre must have done the deed.

That was the summing up.  Afterwards Pierre, still pleading and
imploring against such injustice, was bound, gagged, and carried to a
little room at the back of the house.

"He will be safe there," observed Jack Denningham, with a grin, as he
withdrew the key from the lock, placing it in his pocket.  "And now for
the comedy, Citizen Marcel, since tragedy is done with--for the
present."

Marcel Trouet seemed thoroughly to appreciate the jest, for his sly
face--a little paler perhaps than usual--was twisted into a satisfied
grimace.

"You will wait here now, milord," he observed with a grand bow, "and I
will bring your obedient and altogether adoring people to listen to the
fatherly advice and counsel of the Citoyen Morice Varenac, ci-devant
Marquis and aristocrat, but now the friend of liberty and the great and
glorious Revolution."

He waved his red cap excitedly over his head as he spoke, laughing
uproariously.

One is merry when one's plans succeed beyond--if contrary
to--expectation.  But it might have been observed that the
Revolutionary leader took care to avoid re-entering the library where a
dead man lay by a dying fire.

CHAPTER XXVII

WHO MICHAEL MET ON THE ROAD TO VARENAC

Michael Berrington rode to Varenac.

Grey gloom around suited well with his mood, for therein strove counter
forces as fiercely as storm-lashed waves against the jagged rocks of a
forbidding coast.

Behind lay Kérnak--and love.  Before him was Varenac--and duty.

He dared not leave his father in the unscrupulous hands of such men as
Denningham and Trouet.

Had he not promised his grandfather to preserve Berrington honour with
his life?

So he set his face sternly, never once glancing back, though his heart
cried aloud, bidding him return to the woman he loved.

Gabrielle might be in danger, for already rumour was busy, telling of
the ferment in the towns around, and the growing cries of "Vive la
nation," "À bas les aristocrats!"  Yet he must go on--on--on, leaving
Gabrielle behind.

It was getting dark; purple moorland and purple sky blending together
in a misty haze.  Hooting of owl and barking of fox came from the
forest on his right, whilst far away to the left the waves broke dully
against the cliffs.

A ghost?  Was it a ghost?

Surely something akin to it.

A flutter of white, a shadowy figure looming large in the mist, then
gradually resolving itself into a woman's form.

A woman, alone on the moorland, at this hour--in these times?

A peasant girl come to meet her lover, perhaps, but brave even then,
since Breton superstitions are manifold concerning these bleak landes
at the witching hour of twilight.

But this woman came in haste.  Surely it was to no love-tryst!

Michael was soon convinced of that.

Stumbling, panting, tripping, over the rough, uneven ground she came,
pausing, with a shrill cry, half-fear, half-welcome, at sight of the
man who had leapt from his horse and stood ready to greet her.

It was Olérie Koustak, the fair-haired daughter of the old major-domo
at Varenac.  Michael had recognised her at once, and guessed that she
ran thus for some purpose.

"M'nsieur, M'nsieur," she cried, even before she reached his side.
"Oh, M'nsieur, help!"

"Olérie," he exclaimed, catching her hand as she swayed, white to the
lips with a sudden faintness.  "Why! what has chanced?  Has the Terror
come already to Varenac?"

She looked at him, her great blue eyes beseeching him dumbly, even
before she could regain breath for speech.

But presently she told her tale.

Murder at Varenac?

Murder of one of the English m'nsieurs who said they were friends of
M'nsieur le Marquis who never came?

Michael found it difficult to put the next question, and it came short
and harsh enough at last.

"Which one?"

"The elder, M'nsieur--the one who laughed all day, and who sang and
drank much wine!"

"And he is dead?"

Was it Michael's own voice that asked the question?  He could hardly
believe it.

"Yes, yes.  He is dead--murdered.  But it was not my father who did it.
By all the blessed saints I swear it, M'nsieur.  It was impossible.
Only two minutes had he left me to go to the pantry when the English
milord called him."

"And then?"

Olérie clasped her hands tightly.

"Oh, M'sieur, I was afraid, and--and I hid--whilst I listened.
I--heard all.  They told my father it--it was he who committed the
murder, and locked him in an upper room.  Afterwards they--they laughed
and talked together.  I--I do not altogether--comprehend, for it was
not Breton tongue they talked; but it seemed that the--English milord
will stay and--call himself M'nsieur le Marquis, whilst the other
goes--to tell our people."

"And how know you this if they did not speak the Breton tongue?"

"M'nsieur, I went to an aunt in Paris when I was little.  I stayed
three--four years.  I talked French."

"And it was French these others talked?  How many were there?"

"Two, M'nsieur.  One was the English milord.  I did not see the face of
the other."

"But he was French?"

"Yes, M'nsieur.  Oh, M'nsieur, they will kill my father."

Her tears flowed fast at the thought.

"They have already killed mine."

Michael's face was very stern.

Olérie looked up in startled wonder.

"_Your_ father, M'nsieur?--the English M'nsieur who laughed and sang
always?"

"Yes."

He turned his face away, afraid to read pity in her eyes.  It was not
pity he needed just then.

His father was dead.

The thought filled him with infinite horror and infinite relief.

The Berrington honour was safe.

Yet filial affection was not wholly dead.  Weak, vacillating, utterly
unscrupulous though he was, Steenie Berrington had not been without a
certain lovableness--a kindly, merry humour which, even if insincere
and selfish, was fascinating after its kind.

And now he was dead!

Heaven have mercy on his soul!

But there were the living to think of--and justice to be done.

Michael was not one to lose opportunity in vain reveries and regrets.

He must ride with the hotter haste to Varenac, even though only his
enemies awaited him there.

He told Olérie this briefly, promising that, if the dealing of justice
lay in his hands, the innocent should not suffer for the guilty.

She thanked him tearfully, allowing him to lift her upon his horse; and
thus, together, the strange companions rode, as quickly as they might
in the gathering dusk, to Varenac.

CHAPTER XXVIII

LORD DENNINGHAM FIGHTS ONCE TOO OFTEN

Lord Denningham was waiting, not patiently--that virtue had never been
his--but with a growing irritation.

After all this was a fool's game.

Notoriety was cheap, and he could--if he had willed--have sought and
found it in far more amusing paths than those of political intrigue.

He had a good mind to throw up the whole business and return to England
by the next boat.

A fit of indigestion--or was it spleen?  Perhaps the latter, for he was
thinking of pretty Gabrielle Conyers.

If he went to England she should go with him.  Yes! he had sworn that,
and she might think herself a lucky woman that he would take her as
Lady Denningham.  He smiled over the thought, and then set his lips in
a thin, tight line.

My Lady Denningham!  Yes; he would teach the chit who was master, and
she would love him the more for it.

As for this business of Trouet's, it was the means to an end.

He would masquerade as a converted marquis, teach a crowd of loutish
peasants the tune of the Marseillaise, consign a few of these
mock-heroic aristos to the devil, and take home his bride by way of
reward, with the substantial thanks of the Committee of Public Safety
and France in general.

It was a perfectly satisfactory picture.  In the meantime he was more
than ready for the first act of the little comedy wherein the ci-devant
Marquis de Varenac would make his bow to good patriots as the Citizen
Morice.

Involuntarily he chuckled as he thought of one morning, a few days
since, when he had put a superfluous Morice de Varenac safely out of
the way.

Confound that fellow Trouet! was he never coming?

My lord was getting restless.

A passing curiosity led him to the library.

Pity old Steenie had met such a paltry fate; he might have helped wile
away a heavy hour with the cards.

Poor Steenie!

Jack Denningham slowly took a pinch of snuff as he looked down at the
still figure at his feet.

A sight to point a moral.

The handsome but bloated face, the rich dress, helpless hands, and the
broken bowl, with the sickening smell of punch-fumes mingling with the
close atmosphere of the room.

Faugh!  My lord turned to throw open a window, and came face to face
with the dead man's son.

It might have been an embarrassing situation for most, but Jack
Denningham was noted for his sang-froid.

"In good time," quoth he.  "My condolences and congratulations, Sir
Michael.  The loss of a father is not always a bereavement his heir
finds it hard to bear."

One swift glance towards the hearth, then back at the sneering, smiling
face before him.

"I await explanations," said Michael sternly.

Denningham burst into a loud laugh.

"Stap me, sir, but you take it coolly," quoth he.  "One would almost
have thought you were prepared for the blow."

"As I am to find the striker," replied Michael coldly.

"Ha, ha!  You do me the honour of suspecting my hand in the matter?  A
pretty compliment, my young friend.  May I repay it?"

The speaker's tone was yet more insolent.  Michael looked his adversary
full in the face.  Perhaps he guessed why my lord was so ready to pick
a quarrel.

Denningham was still smiling mockingly.

"Berrington Manor needed a new master--_and mistress_!" he questioned.
"But you must be careful, my friend, in your daydreams, or there will
be an unexpected awakening."

"You will explain your words, my lord, or give me satisfaction."

"Ha, ha!  You have been a frequenter of the King's Theatre.  I grant
you John Parkington is superb; but I prefer melodrama _only_ on the
stage.  I am too prosaic for you, Sir Michael."

"Your prose should be readable then."

"Have I not made it so already?  But I assure you, sir, that you must
be careful which way you look.  Mistress Gabrielle will have the honour
of being Lady Denningham one day soon."

"You lie!"

"Tut, tut! ugly words, ugly words, my Irish mongrel.  You will do well
to be discreet, seeing----"

He nodded towards the hearth.

"You dare----"

Lord Denningham had succeeded admirably; his adversary was ablaze with
unrestrainable anger.

"Ah! you will prove your innocence.  Of course, of course.  Do not lose
your temper, I implore you, sir.  Only you will not deny that your
father's murder was a matter of no surprise to you.  And as your
father's heir----"

"You will answer me for your insults, my lord--and at once."

"I am always at the service of a gentleman.  Would you prefer swords or
pistols?"

"Swords.  On guard, my lord."

"As hot at fighting as in love-making.  Aha! this mongrel blood!  Come,
if you will have it so; but I shall teach you a lesson, my friend.
Afterwards----"

"Afterwards----?"

"I shall marry pretty Gabrielle Conyers and take to writing poems."

Mockery and laughter, meant to goad on his adversary to mad
indiscretion.

But Michael Berrington was sobered already.

If he fell in the duel, Gabrielle would be at this man's mercy.

Fool that he had been to be so trapped!

But it was too late now, and there was murder sure enough in
Denningham's half-veiled blue eyes.

A duel a l'outrance.

They did not speak after the swords had once crossed.

It was for a woman they fought, and each knew it, whatever the reason
given.

A mad fight in a dying light, traitor shadows to baulk each thrust.

Yes, it would be more luck than skill which should proclaim the winner.

Not a flicker of an eyelid, not a smile to part stern lips.  A cruel
fight, with Death to guide the quick thrusts which each parried in turn.

To and fro, to and fro.  As near the window as possible to gain the
advantage of every glimmer of light.

And by the hearth the gloom deepened into darkness.

The breathing of the antagonists was getting more laboured now.  But
the eyes were hard and unflinching as ever beneath sweating brows.

To and fro, to and fro, till they were shadows amongst shadows.

And then, whilst victory hung in the balance, and Death stood back to
await his victim, the door opened.

It was Denningham who faced it--Denningham who, for the briefest
second, looked up and saw a figure standing there, watching the scene
with curious, wondering eyes.

A brief second and yet it was enough.

A look of horror swept over the mocking face, which became ghastly in
its pallor.  With a scream of fear, he lurched forward, almost falling
upon Michael Berrington's sword.

"Conyers!  My God!  Conyers!" he sobbed, sinking to the ground--and
never spoke again.

It had all been the work of an instant, too brief for realization.  No
time for Michael, indeed, to have lowered his sword before that fatal
stagger.

And the duel was over.

Not skill, not luck, but fate itself decided it, and Jack Denningham
lay dead.  It was a fate he had so often meted out to others, and the
day of reckoning must come at last.

It had come now.

But it was no ghost who knelt by the dead man's side, looking down into
the grey, horror-stricken face, but Morice Conyers in the flesh--a
little paler, a little thinner, but himself for all that.

"He is dead," he said, looking up into Michael's face.  "It was just
that he should die.  The fellow was rogue and villain."

"Rogue and villain I grant," replied Michael slowly, "but I would that
the duel had ended before you entered."

Morice shrugged his shoulders.

"Witnesses are always useful," he said.  "And there was no shadow of
blame to you."

"Even so, I would----"

"Tush, tush! there's no time for discussing the nicety of a thrust now,
as de Quernais will tell you."

"De Quernais?"

Michael looked with surprise towards the young Count, who stood beside
his cousin.

It was bewildering to find these two together after the happenings of
the past three days.

"What mean you?"' he asked briefly.

Morice Conyers straightened himself.

"I come hither as Marquis de Varenac," he replied.

"As Marquis de Varenac?  And Trouet----"

The latter question was involuntary.

"Is as much my enemy as that of my cousin here."

His eyes sought Count Jéhan's.

"Yes, yes," answered the latter quickly.  "All is explained.  My good
friend and cousin is here with me to do what he can to save his people
from themselves--and Marcel Trouet."

"If it be not too late," murmured Morice bitterly.

Michael held out his hand.

"At least we are comrades together," he replied, with one of those
winning smiles which transformed the dark grimness of his face.  "And
Trouet is not here yet."

"But he is on his way."

"Yes, and I do not think he is far off.  Denningham"--he glanced down
at the dead man--"was to have played the Marquis."

"Was that his own idea?"

"Ah!  I wonder.  It did not occur to me.  Perhaps----"

"It is possible that Trouet has already been here."

"The girl Olérie told me there were two."

"Denningham--and Sir Stephen."

"Nay; _after_ my father had--had been murdered."

Both listeners started.

"Murdered!"

They had not seen what lay in the shadows beyond the window.

"Yes," said Michael grimly, "murdered."  And he pointed to where a dim
outline was visible, huddled together on the hearth.

Morice sprang forward with a cry of dismay.  He had been fond of
Steenie Berrington.

"How did it happen?  Who did it?  Ah!  Steenie, poor Steenie!"

It was pitiful sight enough on which he gazed down.

"That is what I asked Denningham here.  He suggested that it was a case
of parricide."

"He would have picked a quarrel.  But had he done it himself?"

"I hardly think so.  My father was no one's enemy but his own.  And it
was foul murder."

It was Count Jéhan who spoke next.

"Did you not say a girl brought the news?" he questioned abruptly.

Michael nodded.

"Olérie Koustak.  I was forgetting.  She told me some tale of her
father being in danger of his life--accused of the deed."

He flung open the door as he spoke, stepping out into the passage.

"Olérie, Olérie," he cried.

The girl was not long in responding.  Crouched in a corner behind the
salon door, she had been awaiting developments in an agony of fear.

"Where is your father, child?" rapped out Morice peremptorily.

"Ah!  Monsieur, in the room above."

"He is locked in?"

"Si, si!  The English milord has the key."

She crossed herself as though speaking of the devil.

"The English lord?  I will bring it."

Count Jéhan spoke quietly.  He had no fear or passing pity for the dead
in that darkened room behind them.

He was not long absent.  But Olérie was the only one who smiled on his
return.

Together they hastened to the room above.

On their way Michael found tongue to ask what happened at Kérnak.

Again it was the Count who answered.

"They are safe," he said.  "Our servants are faithful, and Père Mouet
is with them.  They know that danger threatens.  If it draws too near
they will not await us, but escape across the landes to the coast."

"To the coast?"

"Yes, yes.  There is a cave.  It has the name of the Cave of Lost
Souls.  Our peasants are superstitious, Monsieur Berrington.  They
declare that the souls of unshriven mariners lodge there, and that to
hear their wailing cries strikes madness into the hearts of listeners.
They would not enter it after sundown if they thought that King Louis
himself were hidden there."

"And then----"

"There are boats there.  It will be easy to escape to Jersey and thence
to England."

The last words were warm with comfort.

But, alas!  England was some way from the Manor of Varenac, and
evidently the Terror was near.

It was an affecting sight to see the joy of old Pierre Koustak when
they liberated him, telling him that at last M'nsieur le Marquis had
come to his own.

He wept and sobbed over Morice's hand, kissing it again and again,
calling him his dear, dear master.

But it was not the moment for sentiment.  The tale of poor Pierre's
false accusation and imprisonment was told with some preamble, mingled
with many explanations of his whereabouts prior to the crime.

"There were two men in the library," interrupted Michael shortly.
"Describe the one who was not the English lord."

"A little man, M'nsieur, with a villainous face and villainous red cap.
He had the air of a Republican leader, and there was a scar, very red,
across his forehead."

"Marcel Trouet!"

The three looked at each other.

Michael's face was very grim.

"It was he who murdered my father."

"But why?"

Morice's voice faltered a little over the question.

"I cannot tell.  But there can be no second possibility.  He may have
mistaken him for another."

"For----"

Count Jéhan shrugged his shoulders.

"For you yourself, my cousin.  He may have heard too much talk of the
Marquis and too little of the Citizen.  It is wonderful how news
spreads.  Meantime----"

"Meantime," Michael replied slowly, "the men of Varenac will come
hither to greet their new lord."

"Their new lord?"

"Denningham told me of a proposed masquerade."

"Ah!"

They were understanding now.

It was time.

A scream from Olérie, who stood at the window, was echoed by a dull
roar from without as she threw the casement open.  Instinctively the
four men ran to her side.  Up the avenue of stately oaks--the pride of
many a generation of Varenacs--came a crowd of men and women.
Uncertainly at first, but with growing strength, rose the sounds of the
familiar tune:

  "Aux armes, citoyens!
  Le jour de gloire est arrivé."

Then a pause.

"Citoyen Varenac!  Citoyen Varenac!  Citoyen!"

The cry went up from hundreds of throats, a deep, exultant roar of
welcome and anticipation.

Morice moved forward.

A tiny balcony without would give him the opportunity he desired.

"Citoyen Varenac!  Citoyen!"

Bareheaded he stepped out.

"I am the Marquis de Varenac," he cried.

CHAPTER XXIX

"I AM THE MARQUIS DE VARENAC"

A moment's hush, then again the mighty cry:

"Citoyen Varenac!  Citoyen!"

Morice leant forward into the darkness.  Behind him lights gleamed,
from below a few torches lit up the surrounding gloom.

Yellow light flaring on pale, eager faces, turning curiously upwards.

"No, my people," he cried in clear, ringing tones, that could be heard
even on the outskirts of the crowd.  "I am no Citoyen, but your
Marquis, the heir of your well-loved Marquis Gilles de Varenac, come to
you from England with Breton blood in my veins, Breton love in my
heart, to cry 'Vive le roi.  Vive la reine.  Vive Bretagne.'"

A murmur broke his words, a murmur which grew, battling as it were with
two elements, uncertain and faltering.

That last cry had stirred their blood--and yet the poison, so cunningly
distilled amongst them, was busy at work.

And, whilst they still wavered, some crying one thing, and some
another, a shrill voice rose, dominating and stilling the growing
outcry.

"À bas les aristos," it yelled.  "Down with traitors and liars.  Hein!
men of Brittany, are you such fools?  That is no Citoyen Varenac, he is
an impostor.  The Citoyen has another voice.  He cries 'Vive la
nation,' 'Vive liberté.'  As for that fellow, he is no Varenac but a
liar.  Come, let us find the Citoyen before his enemies murder him.
Let us----"

"I am the Marquis de Varenac," cried Morice, "as Heaven is above.  Men
of Varenac, listen to me.  Will you believe one who knows?  Pierre
Koustak will tell you I speak truth."

But the temper of the mob was uncertain.

"Vive la nation," cried many voices, and a woman in shrill tones began
once more screaming out the first lines of the Marseillaise.

"Vive la nation.  Death to the aristos.  Where is the Citoyen Varenac?"

The cries were threatening.

A shot was fired towards the balcony, but Morice stood unmoved whilst
old Koustak stepped from the window to his side.

"Friends, friends," he shouted.  "Ah! you are all mad.  It is Monsieur
le Marquis, our M'nsieur le Marquis."

But the words, which would have been magic a week ago, fell now on deaf
ears.

"Le jour de gloire est arrivé."

The echo of the song rang out from the crowd.

They were in no listening and obedient mood just now.

Marcel Trouet's friends knew how to speak--and fever is infectious.

"Friends--ah! ah! foolish ones, listen----"

It was once more the piteous voice of old Koustak, but none heeded it.

They were crowding around the outer door.

"If they will but listen," groaned Jéhan de Quernais--"if only for a
minute."

Michael nodded.

"They may do so yet."

"Not if they succeed in entering the Manor.  Their mood is
dangerous--and--if Trouet declares that Denningham is Varenac----"

"We shall not live long to prove the contrary."

"And there are the women."

Michael's eyes flashed.

"I had not forgotten."

"If they will but listen.  Hark!  Morice is trying again.  With Koustak
beside him it is possible that they may be persuaded."

"If he has time."

"We must make time.  There is the courtyard."

"And the outer gate is strong.  The Manor was not built yesterday."

"Shall we come?"

"Immediately."

Without another word the two young men turned and hurried downstairs.

There was a chance still for the Cause.

It was Gabrielle's brother who stood in peril; also Gabrielle herself.

Thus each thought, and drew their pistols as they ran.

The men of Varenac had not expected resistance.

The firing of pistols as two of the most enthusiastic of their number
scaled the wall was something of a shock.  Who were these new enemies?

Marcel Trouet did not answer the question, but, from a safer distance,
screamed to good citizens to advance.

Once more the double report of firearms rang out from behind the ivy.

There was some heavy cursing amongst the crowd.

Aha!  They were cunning, those two on the other side, but they did not
know Varenac as Meldroc Tirais did.  That crumbling corner near where
the wood was stacked was unknown to them.

"Aux armes, citoyens."

But the shout of triumph came too soon.  Back from the gate ran Michael
Berrington, swift as sleuth-hound on its prey, with sword drawn.

There was fighting now, at gate and breach, rare fighting too, enough
to warm the heart of any man.

And Michael was in fighting vein--the Irish blood in him saw to
that--and the grimmer the work the merrier grew his mood.

Hotspur Mike he had been called at college, and Hotspur Mike was he, in
very truth, that night.

A Breton peasant is no coward when the humour is on him, and his temper
roused for the combat, so work there was in plenty for Michael's blade.

Surely the fairies must have kissed his eyelids--so his enemies swore,
as they drew back for a moment--for this man seemed to see as well in
the darkness as by day.

But the breach in the wall was growing--and Gabrielle was at Kérnak.

It was therefore no time for throwing away life, just because the fire
of the fight ran lustily in his veins.

"Back! back!" cried Michael, in English, and, sword in hand, ran back
himself across the courtyard, even as a dozen sturdy peasants flung
themselves at a scramble over the wall.

Count Jéhan was not slow to obey the command, though he too had fought
as la Rouerie's follower should fight.

"Fire! fire!" screamed Marcel Trouet, emptying his barrels into the
darkness.

"Kill them--kill the vermin, before they run to ground.  Mille diables!
Kill them, vile aristos."

But pistols were few amongst his followers, and, though men started
quickly enough in pursuit, Michael and his companion had reached the
porch first, and made haste to slip heavy bars across the oaken door
before their adversaries flung themselves, cursing and yelling, against
it from without.  The situation promised to be a desperate one.

All hope that the mob would listen to their new lord was gone.

Monsieur le Marquis had come too late.  What therefore remained?

Little enough, save to die, crying, "Vive le roi," "Vive Bretagne" in
the face of these murderers of king and country.  So Count Jéhan
thought.

But Michael found not the smallest consolation in such a prospect.

Life was strong in his veins,--life and love.  It was not only for his
own sake that that life was precious.

Gabrielle must be saved--and those other poor ladies of Kérnak.

But how could they be reached?  How were they to save themselves?

Already the great crowd was surging about the door.  Ere long they
would be in the Manor itself,--and after that----?  Michael did not
look further.

He was half way up the stairs when he met Morice hurrying down with
Pierre Koustak at his side.

The old man was crying bitterly, but Morice was calm.  The reckless
idler of Carlton House, with head crammed by fopperies and vanities,
had been transformed into a man--and a Marquis de Varenac.

"We must escape," he said, pausing for a moment.  "They will not
listen.  And ... and we should reach Kérnak without delay."

"But how?"  Michael's voice sounded harsh enough.

A roar from without and the sound of cracking timber answered him.

"Dieu de Dieu!" moaned Koustak.  "Hasten, Messieurs, or it will be too
late."

He clung to Morice's hand as he spoke.

"Koustak knows of a secret passage which leads to the stables,"
explained Morice hurriedly.  "We can ride to Kérnak."

"To Kérnak."

The relief in Michael's voice rang high.

"They will be in before we can reach it," muttered Count Jéhan.
"Already----"

A crash completed the sentence.

But they were running now, all together.

"This way--this way, Messieurs," sobbed their guide, and tore aside a
curtain.

A panel in the wall slipped back easily enough--one did not allow
hinges to rust in the Brittany of those days--and soon they were
groping their way down a dark, narrow passage.

Morice's heart beat fast.  He was returning to Kérnak without shame.
Even failure could not keep him from exulting over that thought.

He would be able to look little Cécile in the eyes,--to take her
brother's hand.

Above them rose shouts and cries.  The mob was searching the Manor.
Afterwards they would swarm out again into the gardens--the stables.

At present they were occupied.

Click.  Click.

A trap-door creaked, and the restless stamping of horse-hoofs proved
welcome sound enough.

They had reached the stables of Varenac.  But no moment must be lost,
for they had a Trouet to reckon with besides these addle-pated peasants.

Already they were leading out the horses.  Three of them,--for Koustak
had declared that he must remain--his daughter Olérie was here, and he
could never leave Varenac.

Shouts and yells told of fury and disappointment in the Manor close by.

Had they found their Citoyen yet?

A faint moonlight showed the fugitives a wild stretch of desolate moor
and forest.  Yonder lay Kérnak.

What was happening there?

It was the fearful question of each heart.

"Le jour de gloire est arrivé."

Dark forms were already seen hurrying from the house.  Trouet had
bethought himself of the stables.

It was time to be going.

Pierre Koustak was the first to urge it, even whilst he clung to the
hand of a master whom he had been so ready to serve and love even
before he knew him.  But the Terror had come to Varenac, and there was
no room there now for noble Marquises.

"Farewell--farewell."

It was a sad leave-taking for all; but those who rode away had less
regret than he who stayed.

A flame of fire rose, leaping high in the air from an upper window of
the old building.

Pierre Koustak's arms were around his daughter, but it was she who
upheld him.

He had vowed never to leave Varenac, and soon there would be no Varenac
left.  Then it was time for him to be going too.

"Jesu, Maria, mercy!  Monsieur le Marquis--farewell.  Ah! he is already
gone.  Jesu!  Maria!"

The grey head sank forward.

It was too heavy for Olérie to support.  Gently she laid him on the
ground, close to a clump of laurels.  Trembling and weeping, she knelt
over him.

Yes, she might well weep, but the tears should all be for herself.

The old man was smiling, his eyes closed; but no breath issued through
the parted lips.  Pierre Koustak would never leave Varenac now.

CHAPTER XXX

THE TERROR COMES TO KÉRNAK

"I love him.  Oh, Gabrielle, I love him.  And--and yet I bade him go to
Varenac."

"You love Morice?"

Gabrielle's arm was round her cousin's slender waist as they sat
together in the deep embrasure of a window overlooking the clustering
heads of the oak-trees, which grew around the foot of the hillock on
which the château stood, and away over the purple landes where the
mist-wraiths of evening gathered.

"You love Morice?"

A pair of big, troubled eyes were raised to hers at the repetition of
the words.

"Oh, yes, I love him, with all my heart, Gabrielle."

"With all your heart?  But you have only known him these few short
days."

Cécile sighed.

"Yet it is there," she whispered, laying her little hand over her
heart.  "I do not understand, for I have never loved before, but I
think I loved him from the first moment he stood in the hall and told
us that he was my cousin."

"And then you found----"

"Ah, yes--yes, the great cloud came, just when the sun was beginning to
shine.  But, though I despaired, love did not die, Gabrielle."

"Love cannot die, little cousin.  It is for always."

"But it became bitter.  Mother of Heaven! how bitter!  You do not know
the tears I shed--and the shame, when Jéhan told the story."

"And yet you loved him, even though he were a traitor?"

"Yes.  But after all, he is no traitor, Gabrielle.  He has gone to
Varenac to prove it."

"Thank God for that."

"Thank God.  Yes, that is easy to say; but supposing--supposing----"

"I will suppose nothing, dear Cécile.  We are asking all the time that
the good God will take care of those we love, and He will hear us."

"Holy Virgin, grant He may.  Let us go on praying all the time.  But
you, Gabrielle, for you it is different.  A brother----"

"He is my only one."

"So is Jéhan to me, and yet I do not think of him now."

The colour came rosily to Gabrielle's cheeks.

"There is one at Varenac who is more than brother to me," she
whispered, plucking at the end of her fichu.

"A--a lover?  Oh, Gabrielle, forgive me.  I understand.  It is the tall
Monsieur with the dark face and grey eyes, which can look two things at
once.  And he----"

"He is at Varenac.  Cécile, Cécile, God grant they may all come back in
safety.  I am afraid."

The two girls clung to each other, finding comfort in this new bond of
sympathy.

"We will not be afraid," Cécile murmured in her cousin's ear.  "We will
ask le bon Dieu to guard them.  See, it is getting dark--perhaps they
will soon be back now.  It is certain that the men of Varenac will
listen to Morice and cry, 'Vive le roi,' and then others will take
example and do the same, and Monsieur de la Rouerie will march at the
head of his army into France to save the poor King and Queen, and put
an end to the dreadful Revolution.  Afterwards we shall all be happy."

It was the summing up of a child who knows nothing of the world, and
even Gabrielle smiled at such a rose-coloured picture.

"That is a very charming dream," she replied, "and I would that we
could see Michael and Morice riding over the heath to tell us that the
first part is accomplished."

"Yes, and Jéhan.  Poor Jéhan!  I fear we forget him."

Gabrielle sighed.

"Poor Jéhan!  Yes, and yet I think he will be quite happy if he can
carry good news to this great hero of yours, the Marquis de la Rouerie."

"Ciel!  It is true he is a hero.  And so handsome.  All the demoiselles
of Brittany are in love with him; but Jéhan says his head is too full
of the Royalist cause to think of women.  Ah, Gabrielle, look!  I
believe it is a messenger."

As she spoke Cécile pushed open the casement, peering out into the
gathering darkness.

Certainly it was some one who came in haste.  Clattering steps in the
courtyard and a panting cry told that.

"It is----?" murmured Gabrielle.

The two girls looked at each other.

"Jean Marie, one of the shepherds.  He is a good boy, and--and promised
to bring warning."

"Warning?"

"Of danger."

They were standing now, the cool evening air blowing in on them,
setting stray curls fluttering.

Perhaps it was the snap of autumn chill that sent a shudder through
Cécile's slender frame.

"Come," she said, holding out an impulsive hand to her cousin.  "Let us
go down and see what Madame Maman and the good father are talking
about."

Lights were already kindled in the salon below.  Madame de Quernais,
seated near the fire, was conversing gravely with a little man in the
brown habit of a Benedictine.

A little man with a round and kindly face, which reminded one of a
russet apple long gathered.

He nodded smilingly to the two girls as they curtsied, whilst Madame
bade them come nearer the fire, as they looked cold.

"It is certainly chilly," replied Père Mouet.  "Henri Joustoc says it
will be a winter of great severity.  But I do not heed the croakers.
Always take the days as they come, and leave the future to the bon
Dieu.  That is the secret of happiness."

The salon door was flung open most unceremoniously as he spoke, and in
rushed Guillaume, the butler.

It was evident that the poor man was too excited to remember the
ceremonies, on which both he and his mistress set such store.

"Ah! ah!  M'd'me," he gasped.  "Ah! ah!  It is Jean Marie who brings
news."

Madame de Quernais had risen--not hurriedly, but with all the grave
dignity which was her birthright.

As for Père Mouet, he had already advanced to Guillaume's side.

"Peace, my son," he commanded gently.  "You will alarm Mesdames.  If
there is news, it will be told more quickly if you compose yourself."

The quiet words certainly had a soothing effect on poor Guillaume,
though his eyes continued to roll wildly.

"It is the Terror," he groaned.  "Jean M'rie brought the news.  There
are men from Paris, men of Brittany, who come with evil tongues to bid
our people rise and murder their masters.  Ohé, they are very clever,
clever as Monsieur Satan himself, and the fools listen to them.
Already they cry, 'Vive la nation,' 'Vive la guillotine!' 'Vive
liberté!'"

"Tsch, tsch," smiled Père Mouet, "their throats will soon get hoarse,
and then they will drink and go to sleep.  To-morrow, when they awake,
I will talk to them."

"Ah, mon père," cried Guillaume, "they will not wait till to-morrow.
That is why Jean M'rie came running at once with the news.  Already
they cry, 'À Varenac!  À Kérnak!'  They will be here to-night and will
do the same as they did at Baud and Villerais."

Père Mouet glanced across towards Madame de Quernais.

If indeed the Terror were here it would be wise not to delay.

Madame still stood erect, her hand clasping the back of the chair, her
powdered head held high.

If she had been alone she would certainly have defied these canaille
with her last breath.

But there were the children.

Her proud lips quivered a little as she looked at Cécile, who stood
near, with Gabrielle's hand locked in her own.

Yes, there must be no defiance.

"Take Jean Marie to the kitchen, Guillaume," she said, speaking very
slowly and decidedly.  "Give him some supper; also"--she drew a ring
from her finger--"this souvenir of his mistress, with her best thanks.
Perhaps one day I shall have opportunity of thanking and rewarding him
more befittingly."

The old butler bowed, took the ring in silence, and withdrew.

Instantly Madame turned to the others.

"We must lose no time; is that what you would say, father?" she asked
abruptly.

Père Mouet nodded.

"Not a moment more than necessary, Madame," he replied.  "It is quite
likely that Count Jéhan may be at the cave before us.  We must
certainly not delay--for sake of these children."

He murmured the last words in a lower key.

"Make haste and put your cloaks on, mes enfants," Madame de Quernais
said.  "And the little bags are packed as I ordered?  That is good.  As
we cannot take the servants we must be content with few things."

She stifled a sigh as she spoke, whilst only Père Mouet noted how her
hands clenched and unclenched.

"There are many, daughter," he replied gently, "who can never
sufficiently thank the good God if they escape with nothing but their
lives."

"It is true, father.  I will do penance for such rebellion.  Nor will I
tempt Providence with my complainings.  Thank you, Cécile.  At any rate
I shall be warm.  Come, we are all ready now."

She drew more closely round her the heavy, fur-lined cloak Cécile had
brought, and herself opened the casement which led to the terrace and
avenue.

In silence Père Mouet and the two girls followed her.

At that moment danger was too pressing--for Cécile at least--to feel
acute pain at leaving her home.

The darkness without would have been intense had it not been for the
moonlight, which but partially succeeded in piercing the misty gloom of
the lande which stretched before them.

A long, weary walk it must be, though not one of the four who set out
on it lacked courage.  But what was happening at Varenac?

Who would they find awaiting them in the Cave of Lost Souls?

Those were the questions which stirred their pulses with growing dread.

It was well they had their cloaks, for it was cold enough here, facing
the night wind across the bleak moors.

But they did not complain.

Keeping close together, they tramped on, Madame de Quernais walking out
as bravely as any of them, disdaining proffered help over the uneven
ground.

Presently a low exclamation from the priest brought them to a halt.

"Listen," he said in a whisper.  "What is that?"

It was a question which grew easier to answer every second.  There
could be no mistaking the tramp, tramp of many feet, the shouts and
cries of many voices.

The mob was on its way to the château.

    "Allons, enfants de la patrie,
    Le jour de gloire est arrivé,
    Centre nous de la tyrannie
    L'étendard sanglant est levé....
  Aux armes, citoyens, formez vos bataillons;
        Marchons, marchons!
    Qu'un sang impur abreuve nos sillons."

Nearer and clearer came the sounds, each word distinct as the song rose
from many throats in growing tumult.

They learnt their lesson easily, after all, these Breton peasants.

"They are coming this way," said Madame de Quernais quietly.

"Alas!  I fear it is true; but they may not see us.  The mists protect
us."

The wind is rising; it will blow the mists aside."

"Peace, my daughter.  Have we not sought the protection of God?  Have
no fear."

"It is not for myself, father."

Madame's voice trembled a little.

"The lambs of the flock are in His special care.  See, let us go
forward--yonder."

As he spoke Père Mouet pointed to where, on a low hillock, a Calvary
had been placed.

Over the head of the rugged rock, which had been hewn into a rough
cross, hung a blackened crown of thorns.

Nearer and nearer came the trampling of feet, the sound of singing and
shouting.  The men of Kérnak had been drinking at the Golden Merman on
their way hither.

It was the wine, quite as much as the words of Jean Floessel, which had
made them red republicans that night.

Around the foot of the Calvary knelt the little group of
fugitives--waiting.

"Aux armes, citoyens."

Torches flared, killing the white charm of the moonlight with their
sickly rays.

"Aux armes----"

A burst of laughter, followed by fierce shouting, checked the song.

The men of Kérnak had come in sight of the Calvary, and those who now
stood awaiting them there.

CHAPTER XXXI

THE CALVARY ON THE MOORS

"A cold night, Mesdames, for a walk.  Your blood needs warming."

The mocking voice of their leader evoked another roar of laughter from
the rest.

They were new to their role, those others, and Madame de Quernais had
always been one to command much respect and awe as the great lady of
the place.  Now it was strange, and a little awe-inspiring, too, to see
her standing there, facing them so quietly.

She did not seem afraid of the Terror, this Madame of theirs.

It was disappointing.

But Jean Floessel knew how to deal with vile aristos.  He advanced with
a swagger.

"Come," he jeered.  "We're on our way to pay you a visit.  It's a large
party, but there's room enough at the château for all.  It's absurd for
three people to occupy so many apartments when we herd by the dozen in
one.  But there's an end to that now.  Come, Citoyenne, you'll return
with us, and we'll have a pleasant evening.  If I mistake not, the
little one there has a fine pair of eyes and a pretty mouth.  Aha! we
shall have amusement.  And you'll be kind, my friends, if you're wise,
or there's a citoyenne at St. Malo whose embrace is closer and colder
than that of Jean Floessel, and less to your taste, I'll swear."

A hoarse shout of laughter greeted the sally.

After all, it was their day now, and, as Jean said, they would amuse
themselves.  There would be wine as well as dancing at the château.

It was at this moment that Père Mouet stepped forward.

A familiar little figure in brown habit, with a brown, kindly old face.

But, just now, the memories of the men of Kérnak were short.

"My children," he cried, raising his arm, "what is this?  You would be
led by this man into sin?  I will not believe it of you.  This is not
Paris--it is not even France.  It is Brittany--our Brittany.  We of a
good and noble land will not join hands with murderers; or what will le
bon Dieu say to us,--He who guards and protects us in storm and gale,
and who brings love and joy to our homes?  Go back to those homes now,
my children, and thank the blessed saints that you have been saved from
crime."

A low murmur died away into silence.

Père Mouet spoke to his people's hearts.

A harsh laugh interrupted him.

"Be silent, old fool," shouted Jean Floessel, "or I will throttle your
whinings in your throat.  Malédiction! it's always the way of you
priests to be greedy; but since there are three of them we can all have
our share of the kisses."

He looked round, expecting the coarse jest to meet with applause.  But
none came.  The men of Kérnak were thinking.

"Silence!" cried Père Mouet sternly, raising his hand again.  "See you
not where we stand, fellow?  Beware lest Heaven shrivel your foul
tongue in your throat in punishment.  Repent you of your evil ways ere
it is too late, and the fires of Purgatory chastise you for your sins."

Again the murmur rose from the crowd.

Religion and superstition were too deeply imbedded in these Breton
peasants to be easily up-rooted.  Already fear of the Church's anathema
was at work in their hearts.

But Jean Floessel had been in Paris.  He had learnt things
there--amongst others how to forget the early lessons his mother had
taught him.

He was not afraid of curse or Purgatory.  With a scream of rage he
flung himself forward with hand outstretched to strike the old man
standing there so fearlessly before him.

But one of the peasants--a brawny fisherman of the coast, caught him by
the collar, dragging him back.

Père Mouet was ready to follow up his advantage.

"My children," he cried.  "Ah, my children, you will listen to me.  You
will return to your homes and pray God and His dear saints to keep you
in peace from all the madness and evil of these terrible days."

His voice broke off, quavering with emotion, but the crowd answered by
a sigh--a long sigh as of waves receding from impregnable cliffs back
into the deep.

Here and there a woman sobbed and a man muttered prayer or oath.  They
were remembering how this Père Mouet had indeed a right to call them
his children; for had he not been a father to them these forty years
and more?

One recalled how he sat up three nights with little Gaston when he had
the fever, another of the prayers he offered without payment for the
soul of the poor Louis who died unshriven last autumn.  Then how good
he had been when bad days came during the winter.  Père Mouet had been
the only one who had a cheery word then, always cheery, always helpful,
always ready to nurse a sick one, or get food for a hungry one.  As for
the children, there was not one in Kérnak who did not adore him.

And now what were they doing?

That was the question many put to themselves, and hung their heads in
very shame for answer.  But Jean Floessel was quick to see the way in
which the wind was blowing.

Nom d'un chien!  Was he to have all his eloquence and exertions wasted
because these fools were ready to listen to one old man?

Bah! they had also learnt how to deal with priests in Paris.

In an instant he had thrust his hand within his blouse.

Ah, ah!  It was so sudden that not even great Gourmel Tenoit, who had
him by the coat, could see what he was about.

A click, a flash, a loud report, followed by a shriek from the women.

But Père Mouet did not cry out, though the bullet winged its way
straight enough to its mark.  Only he staggered a little, threw up both
arms, and then sank back upon the ground, at the very foot of the
Calvary, his head resting against the rough rock.

It was a terrible silence that followed pistol-shot and screams.

Madame de Quernais was on her knees beside the fallen man; all eyes
were upon her.

Presently she rose.

"He is dead," she said, and her voice, low and dull at first, became
shrill as she repeated the words "He is dead."

A picture to be remembered, that, by more than one who stood there.

The desolate stretch of moor with its tangle of briar, thistle, and
patches of purple heather; the mists broken and fleeing before the
rising wind; the smoking glare of torches on the outskirts of the
crowd, and the pale glory of moonlight streaming down unmarred upon the
great rough-hewn cross, emblem of suffering and death, with its
blackened crown of thorns telling its tale of love and victory
immortal; whilst below, gathered round the little hillock, the three
women, two girls clinging together, yet erect and dauntless, whilst the
third knelt by the prostrate figure of the dead man.

Moonbeams fell on Madame's silver hair, from which the heavy wrap had
slipped back; they fell too, on the wrinkled, kindly face of Père Mouet.

So small, so helpless he looked lying there, yet never had he been so
powerful.  No wonder that he was smiling--the glad, sweet smile of one
who had gone straight from his life-task to meet the Bridegroom.

But the life-work was not over, even though the worn old hands, which
had always been so ready for any labour of love, were stiffening now in
death.

The great crowd, gathered round, was swaying first one way, then
another.  Père Mouet was dead!  Père Mouet was dead!  Yonder stood his
murderer.

They were honest men, after all, these humble peasants of Brittany.

Père Mouet, and the relentless antagonism of the sea, had taught them
to fear God.  If they had forgotten, in a sudden burst of mad
excitement and intoxication, they were remembering with quick and
sharpened stabs of conscience.

And Père Mouet was dead!

Madame was telling them so, even now, whilst she stood like some
accusing spirit before them.  Alone, but fearless, telling them this
dread news.

Père Mouet dead!  They were realizing it--to the cost of Jean Floessel.

With a yell they would have flung themselves upon him, but Jean had
already seen his danger.

If fools must be fools, it was time for wise men to escape.

Wrenching himself free from Gourmel's slackened grasp, he dived under
the big man's arm and set off at full speed across the lande.

He must reach Varenac and Marcel Trouet.  But the men of Kérnak were of
another mind.

The tide had turned.

It was no longer "À bas les aristocrats," "Vive la nation!" but the
howl of men who seek vengeance.

Floessel heard the howl, and it added wings to his feet.

The blockheads! the fools!  All this outcry because one insignificant
priest had been killed!  Why! they died like flies in Paris.  He
himself had been a cursed idiot ever to leave that glorious city.

And behind him came the avengers of Père Mouet.

He ran well---that Jean Floessel--for over a mile, stumbling, sweating,
cursing, whilst anger gave way to growing fear.

And he had reason to fear, for behind him ran Gourmel Tenoit, whose
little lad had been nursed back to life by the good priest of Kérnak,
and beside him was Blaise Fermat, who owed wife and happiness to the
same kindly influence.

They caught Jean Floessel just by the great rock where three brave
Breton soldiers lie buried, and where the fairies visit the dead on
moonlit nights and talk to them.  Yes, they caught him there, and he
had not even time to cry "Vive la nation!" ...

Those two were happier as they walked home together, leaving behind
them a limp and hideous thing, face downwards amongst the heather.

But many wept that night in Kérnak as they whispered Père Mouet's name
in their prayers.

CHAPTER XXXII

"MICHAEL!  MICHAEL!"

They were alone.

Those three helpless women standing together under the shadow of the
Calvary beside their dead.  The crowd had gone.  Some in pursuit of
Floessel, others drifting away, shamed and frightened, as you have seen
whipped curs creep back to their kennels.

Here and there a woman had stolen near to the little group, sobbing out
a petition for pardon; but most of them had gone silently, with doubt
and fear in their hearts.

Père Mouet had bidden them return to their homes, and, at this moment,
Père Mouet's commands were powerful.

So they went--regretfully, perhaps,--when they thought of the château,
and the fine night's plunder and amusement they had promised
themselves, but hurriedly when they remembered the woman who stood,
crying, scornfully and accusingly, to them that their good priest was
dead--murdered.

But it was possible they would come back.  Cowed they might be, but
they were dangerous still.

None knew that better than Madame.

They had tasted the sweets of momentary power.  They had cried "Vive la
nation!"

They would cry it again at the bidding of another Floessel.

"We must not delay," she said, speaking very quietly, yet with a great
effort; "it is still far to the cave."

"To the cave!  You will leave the good father, Madame Maman?"

Cécile's voice was reproachful.

"He needs no more of our care, my child," replied her mother gravely.
"Nor could we leave him in a more fitting resting-place."

She crossed herself reverently as she spoke, bending over the little
figure in its brown habit; such a little shrunken figure it looked, but
the smile transfigured a wrinkled, care-worn old face into a strangely
majestic beauty.

Yes, Père Mouet would sleep well under the shadow of the cross.

They left him there, resting so peacefully after a very hard and lonely
life, and the moonbeams, falling softly on his closed eyelids, seemed
to kiss away the deep lines of care and sorrow, which he had borne so
bravely, and leave only beauty behind.  The night-wind sang his requiem
as it swept wailing over the moors.  It might rather have been the
lament of many in Kérnak, who that night had lost a friend.

It was, indeed, a long and weary walk to the coast.

Yet none of the three travellers who wended their way across the moor
complained.

It was the inevitable, which must be conquered by resignation.

Yet at last they paused to look around them and wonder, in but
half-framed whispers, whether they were coming the right way.

Père Mouet was an unerring guide; without him difficulties presented
themselves more forcibly every moment.

It was no easy task, indeed, to keep to a right track across that
almost trackless lande.

Gorse-bushes made but poor landmarks, and there were neither trees nor
hillocks near to guide them.

It was true that the coast lay before them, but this cave would be hard
to find if they had gone out of their path in approaching it.

Had it not been for the moonlight they would have despaired.  As it
was, they gazed around in bewilderment and anxiety.  Behind them lay
the forest.  Beyond that--Varenac.

Ah! what was happening at Varenac?  Another question to torment them!

Again, it was possible that the others had already reached the cave.
If so, in what apprehension they would be waiting!

At any rate they must press forward.  Enemies might overtake them at
any moment.  The persuasions of Floessel or his fellows might again
incite the peasants to pursue them, and they had walked but slowly.

Hark!  Listen!  The muffled thud, thud, of horse-hoofs coming from the
left.

The wind had dropped and mists were gathering again.  They could not
pierce those dark shadows, strain their eyes as they might.

Yet horsemen were coming towards them across the moors.

Could it be those who had gone to Varenac?

It seemed impossible, since they came from the direction of Kérnak.

Who could it be then?

Marcel Trouet and Lord Denningham.

That was Gabrielle's instant thought as she clung to Cécile's hand.

Yes, it would be those two.  They were pursuing them, they would find
them.

Instinct had long since told Gabrielle what Lord Denningham's feelings
towards her were.  She already vaguely guessed his intentions.

But she would die sooner than marry him.  Oh! it would be easy to die,
rather than that.

And he had ridden to, and from, Kérnak now to find her.

She was convinced of it.

But what should they do?

Where hide?

Not even a gorse-bush near, and the horse-hoofs were approaching
quickly.  Through the mists she would soon see her enemy appear, and
then what escape would be possible?

Her fears were the fears of her companions, though theirs were vaguer,
wrought more from strained nerves than knowledge.  Yet what could they
do?

A block of granite rocks, leaning one against the other, formed the
only shelter within sight.

It was thither they fled, Madame leaning heavily against them, for
exhaustion had well-nigh conquered courage.

So they crouched, whilst Cécile whispered to Gabrielle that, if those
who came were Breton born, they might be safe enough.

"Safe?" murmured Gabrielle, cowering low.  "Nay, a little search and
they must find us."

"They will not think of searching.  These are the haunted stones of the
Breton landes.  Have you never heard?  The fairies and dwarfs hide
their treasures here--so the ignorant say--and if any approach they are
destroyed.  But hush, these--these perhaps are----"

"From Varenac."

"Nay, nay! not from Varenac."

"Not those we need?  But I have enemies there."

"You----?"

Cécile broke off, slipping her arm round her mother.  Madame de
Quernais, weak with exhaustion, was battling against growing faintness.

"Mother of Heaven, pity," prayed the girl.

"Merciful God, hear us," moaned Gabrielle.

Through the mists loomed the outline of three horses and their riders.

Gigantic shadows at first, indefinable to those cowering behind the
boulders.  But they were plainer now; the moonlight, though waning,
showed them more than mere outline.

The sound of voices, crying to each other, struck sharply on listening
ears, and were answered in glad echoes.

"Michael, Michael!"

"Morice!  Ah, ciel! it is they! it is they!"

CHAPTER XXXIII

THE CAVE OF LOST SOULS

If the riders paused to ask whence the cries came it was only for an
instant.  The next they were on the ground beside those who stood,
laughing, sobbing, thanking Heaven, and crying welcome in a breath.

Was it possible?  All safe.  _All_.

Thank God for that!  Again and again thank God.

At first it was Madame who required all their attention.

Joy, following the cruel strain of those past hours, had been too much
for her, and she fainted with Jéhan's strong arms around her.  But she
revived shortly, for the hour of weakness must be put off yet again.

The danger was not over.

Marcel Trouet would see to that.  By this time, doubtless, he had
joined forces with some of his other friends from Paris, perhaps with
Jean Floessel himself.

There had been delay in their ride from Varenac, since they had gone
first to Kérnak, where Guillaume had kept them with a long-winded story
of the flight.

And then they had passed the Calvary.

Michael's arm was close around Gabrielle, whilst Jéhan de Quernais'
voice faltered as he spoke of their great fear and dread when they
found the body of Père Mouet.

They had hesitated, indeed, as to whether they should not return to
Kérnak at once, convinced that those they sought had been made
prisoners.

Finally, however, they decided to ride quickly to the cave and return
to the château if their search were in vain.

But it had not been in vain.

God be thanked for that!

It was a moment of emotion, not of convention.

That was why Cécile clung to Morice with no thought but that the man
she loved had come back to her from the shadow of death.

And he could look down into her eyes without shame.

After all, Morice Conyers owed something to the Red Revolution.  It had
made a man of him.

The moment of a man's reward is sweet.

Yet he took it humbly, bending to kiss the small, upturned face with a
reverence which no woman had ever inspired in him before.

And she smiled into his eyes with a frank avowal of love returned,
unmarred by any veiled doubt.

In times less perilous he might have found his wooing as long by months
as it had been short by days.  But fear and danger had swept aside the
hundred and one conventions which clustered burr-like around a
demoiselle of the old school.

And Gabrielle?

She, too, had her lover, the lover she had chosen from childhood, her
loyal knight for ever and ever.

Thus she had claimed and held him.

They belonged to each other, these two.  She did not even question so
old a fact.  And her fears for him made her kinder even than she might
have been, for Gabrielle was more woman than babe, and not averse--at
times--to the kindling of jealous flame for the sake of listening to
fresh vows of love.

But this was no time for jest.  Love in such garb as theirs was too
sacred a thing for sport or coquetry, though she could smile as she
looked up at him.

"We are safe now," she whispered contentedly.  "But, oh, Michael, I
feared it was Lord Denningham."

"No," he answered gravely.  "_He_ at least will trouble you no more."

"Dead?"

Her tone was awe-struck.

"Yes.  It was a duel.  I killed him."

She drew a deep breath.

Even though she hated Lord Denningham she knew he had loved her--and a
woman's hatred of a lover is ever a partial one.

"Yes, I was afraid of him," she mused, and shuddered.  "I am afraid
altogether," she cried piteously.  "Oh, Michael, let us go home."

She stretched out her hands to him, and he took her tenderly enough in
his arms.  But it was a moment to be more practical than sentimental.

"They may reach the coast before us," he said, looking from her to
Jéhan de Quernais.  "We should not delay."

The Count nodded.

"It is true," said he.  "We must not delay."

The waning moonlight was playing them false, even as he spoke.

Shadows, deepening around, would have confused clearer heads than
theirs.

Yes, it was time they reached the coast.  Had they not left it all too
late already?

Shouts from the right, where Varenac village lay hidden by a downward
sweep of the moor, told them that Marcel Trouet was not minded to be
outwitted.

Trackers or spies might have guessed where they rode.  At any rate, it
was certain that the pursuit was being persevered in,--would be
persevered in to the last.

But the shouts gave them warning.

A warning not to be disregarded.

Those who hastened towards the Cave of Lost Souls did not waste time in
conversation.

A desolate and gloomy shelter.  Well-named, indeed.  Moaning winds
whistled and sobbed through crevices in the great rocks which hemmed in
the cave on each side.

No wonder that the peasantry, steeped in superstition, believed that
this was fitting place for lost and wandering souls.

How vividly they could picture dead faces peering from out of the dark
clefts, dead mouths uttering their unceasing cries against the fate
which had closed for ever the gates of Paradise, dead eyes staring into
each other's depths in startled horror, or away over the grey waste of
waters ever roaring hungrily for more victims.

Even Cécile shuddered, crossing herself as she stood on the sandy
shore, listening to the eerie sobbing of wind and waves, and watched
how dying moonbeams shed ghostly patches of light in dark, deserted
corners.

But Morice's arm still encircled her, and there was no wavering or
weakness in the blue eyes which looked down into hers.

She had cried to him for protection, and manhood, ready armed, had
sprung to lusty life within him at the appeal.

"You will trust me, sweetheart?" he asked her, and his voice shook a
little over the question in humble self-distrust.

Her smile destroyed all doubt.

What matter that she left home and country behind in the mists of
night?  Before her lay love and the dawn of a new day.

"With my life, Morice," she whispered, nestling close to his side with
the confidence of a trustful child.

But Gabrielle stood nearer to the shore, the waves almost lapping her
feet, whilst flaky fragments of spume fluttered against her cloak.

The boats rocked softly to and fro as the waters rose and fell beneath
them.  Madame de Quernais was already seated in the prow of the larger
craft.

It was time to go.

Michael had taken the girl's hand in his, and, though it lay warm and
restful there, she was stretching out the other to Count Jéhan, who
stood apart.

"You are coming too, my cousin?" she said gently, for instinct told her
of a lonely heart beating near hers that night.

The light fell on her fair face and uncovered head.  Stray curls lay in
pretty disorder in the arch of her neck and across a white forehead.
Hazel eyes, sweet and true, looked kindly into the pale face opposite
her own.

Count Jéhan drew himself up proudly.

None should ever know the pain which racked him as he looked at her.

She was not his--never would be his.  Did not Michael Berrington hold
her hand--her heart?

So love must be buried at birth, and, if he must rise again, it should
be only as some tender, shadowy ghost, which, though sweet to gaze at,
could never be held in mortal arms.

Yes, love must hide from sight.

But Brittany remained.

So Count Jéhan held his head high as he made answer, sternly and
quietly, thinking--poor fool--that none guessed his secret, least of
all the woman who looked so wistfully into his eyes.

"La Rouerie calls me his friend," said he, "and Brittany her son.  As
friend and son I remain on Breton soil.

"As for the Cause, it will never die till la Rouerie breathes his last.
And so Heaven bless and hold you all in its fair keeping till we meet
in happier times."

He smiled, making light of the parting as though he went to some merry
fête.

Nor would he let his mother weep, or Cécile cling around his neck.

"For Brittany and the Cause," he cried, laughing gaily as the boats
glided out at last into the deepest waters of the bay.

"For Brittany and the Cause--we'll cry that in Paris ere long."

He waved his handkerchief as he spoke, and, though the shadows fell
around him, they could hear the glad ring of triumph in his voice.

But only Gabrielle, as she clung to Michael's side, in the great joy of
reunion and hope, knew that Count Jéhan de Quernais went back with
empty, aching heart to a lost cause.

Yet youth is selfish, and love is sweet.

"My true knight for ever and ever," she whispered, and laid a happy
head on Michael's shoulder.

There was no room in her heart just then for aught but sweet content.

_Printed by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury._

A Catalogue of Books

published by

Mills & Boon Ltd.

49, RUPERT STREET, LONDON, W.

(Close to Piccadilly Circus Tube Station.)

Telephone: 5878 Central.  Telegrams:  "Millsator, London."

This Catalogue is divided into two sections; the first (pages 1-14)
contains the most recent books and announcements, and the second (pages
15-32) contains the books previously published.

Colonial Editions are issued of all Mills & Boon's Novels, and of most
of their books in General Literature.  In the case of forthcoming books
the approximate prices at which they will be published are given.
These may be altered before publication.

SPRING ANNOUNCEMENTS.

Twenty-four Years of Cricket.

By ARTHUR A. LILLEY.  With a Portrait in Photogravure and 16
Illustrations.  Demy 8vo.  7s. 6d. net.

Surely there is not a better-known cricketer all the world over than
Arthur A. Lilley.  For the last twenty-four years he has been one of
the greatest players the fine old game has ever produced.  Popular
alike on and off the field, and gifted with a remarkable personality,
Arthur Lilley has made such a name in the history of the game that no
surprise will be felt at the present book.  Indeed, the literature of
cricket would be incomplete without it.  It would be interesting to
know how many games have been turned at the critical stage by the
astute judgment and practical ability of England's famous wicket
keeper.  Arthur Lilley's career has been one long-continued success,
and in the breezy pages of his delightful book he tells his fascinating
story of great games, great cricketers, and great globe-trotting
adventures, with many a good tale in each chapter.  "Twenty-four Years
of Cricket" also contains the author's advice on cricket, which will be
found invaluable by youthful cricketers in every clime.  The book is
well illustrated and will be one of the most interesting volumes of
1912.

My Irish Year.

By PADRAIC COLUM.  With 12 full-page Illustrations.  Demy 8vo.  10s.
6d. net.

"My Irish Year" is the third of a series of books which MILLS & BOON
initiated with that brilliant study by Miss I. A. R. Wylie, entitled
"My German Year." This was followed by another fine volume in Mr.
Richard Bagot's "My Italian Year."

"My Irish Year," like the previous books, deals with almost every phase
of Irish life.  Its author, Mr. Padraic Colum, is one of a band of
brilliant Irish writers who are rapidly becoming a force in the
literary and dramatic world.  Mr. Colum aims at giving his readers a
faithful portrait of Irish life, and does not occupy himself with its
history, except in so far as it bears directly upon the subject to
which he has confined himself.  He takes us through the length and
breadth of Ireland and introduces us to all phases of its social life
from the highest to the lowest.  "My Irish Year" is a sympathetic
impression of Irish life, and contains much curious information
regarding the manners and customs both of town and country life.

A Remarkable Book.

Involution.

By LORD ERNEST HAMILTON.  Demy 8vo.  7s. 6d. net.

"Involution" is a book which sets forth in a popular and readable form
the most recent views of the scientific and philosophic world as to the
great problem of existence.  It dwells especially on the remarkable
tendency of the moment to favour the once-ridiculed doctrine of
vitalism.  In pursuing this line of research it goes closely into the
question of religion in all its aspects, ancient and modern; Eastern
and Western, and while frankly critical of orthodoxy, brings at the
same time to light many little-known points with regard to bibliology
which cannot fail to change for the better the point of view of many to
whom current Christianity is a perplexity.

A Queen's Knight: The Life of Count Axel de Fersen.

By MILDRED CARNEGY, Author of "Kings and Queens of France."  With 12
Illustrations.  Demy 8vo.  7s. 6d. net.

"A Queen's Knight" is the life-story of Count de Fersen, the devoted
friend of Marie Antoinette, and cannot fail to be of interest to the
general public.  Living as Fersen did in one of the most stirring
periods of European history, his story brings before us, the great
French Revolution, the American War of Independence, and glimpses of
the Swedish Court under that erratic genius, Gustavus III.

Tramps through Tyrol.

By F. W. STODDARD ("Dolomite").  With 20 Illustrations.  Demy 8vo.  7s.
6d. net.

St. Clare and her Order: A Story of Seven Centuries.

By THE AUTHOR OF "THE ENCLOSED NUN." With about 20 Illustrations.  Demy
8vo.  7s. 6d. net.

The Italians of To-day.

By RICHARD BAGOT, Author of "My Italian Year." Crown 8vo.  2s. 6d. net.

Mr. Richard Bagot has been for many years a resident in Italy.  This
volume deals with Italy in war time and is chiefly a defence of the
Italian soldier who has in the author's opinion been seriously
maligned.  It is certain to create much discussion.

An Actor's Hamlet.

With full notes by LOUIS CALVERT.  Crown 8vo.  2s. 6d. net.

Mr. Louis Calvert's remarkable Shakespearean studies have been
universally recognised, and as a producer his work has probably been
second to none.

Mr. Louis Calvert has studied the character of Hamlet for over twenty
years, and this book is the fruit of his labour.  The volume contains
the text of "Hamlet," and the play is exhaustively treated with notes
which mark the editor as a man of striking originality.

The Enclosed Nun.

Fcap.  8vo.  New Edition.  Cloth 2s. 6d. net.  Paper 1s. net.

_Pall Mall Gazette_.--"A remarkably beautiful piece of devotional
writing."

A Little Girls' Cookery Book.

By C. F. BENTON and MARY F. HODGE.  Crown 8vo.  2s. 6d. net.  Paper,
1s. net.

_Daily Telegraph_.--"A capital idea.  Hitherto the manufacture of toffy
has represented the limit of nursery art in the direction indicated,
but this volume contains excellent recipes for dishes which children
will find quite easy to make, and their elders to eat without
misgivings.  Every father, mother, uncle, and aunt should make a point
of presenting their child friends with a copy of this useful and
practical book."

MILLS & BOON'S RAMBLES SERIES.

Rambles Around French Châteaux.

By FRANCES M. GOSTLING, Author of "The Bretons at Home."  With 5
Illustrations in Colour, 33 from Photographs, and a Map.  Crown 8vo.
6s.

Rambles in the Black Forest.

By I. A. R. WYLIE, Author of "My German Year," "Dividing Waters."  With
5 Illustrations in Colour and 24 from Photographs.  Crown 8vo.  6s.

Rambles with an American in Great Britain.

By CHRISTIAN TEARLE, Author of "Holborn Hill." With 21 Illustrations.
Crown 8vo.  6s.

Rambles in Irish Ways.

By ROBERT LYND, Author of "Home Life in Ireland." Fully Illustrated.
Crown 8vo.  6s.

"Rambles in Irish Ways" is a personal book of travel, a volume of
descriptions, conversations, notions, memoirs, mostly concerning the
southern half of Ireland.  Dublin, Galway (at the time of the races),
Cong, Lisdoonvarna, Killorglin (while Puck Fair is going on), Kinsale,
Cashel, Kilkenny, Enniscorthy, and Glendalough are among the places in
which the author wandered, and about which he has something to say.
The book also contains a Donegal chapter.

Rambles in Norway.

By HAROLD SIMPSON.  With 8 Illustrations in Colour, and 32 from
Photographs.  Crown 8vo.  6s.

A ramble through Norway is one of the most delightful ways imaginable
of spending a holiday.  The most jaded body or the most overworked
brain cannot fail to find new health and strength in that land of
invigorating air and almost perpetual sunshine.  For the sight-seeing
traveller it possesses attractions which can hardly be surpassed
anywhere, for Norway can boast of a scenery which is unlike that of any
other country in the world.  In many of its features, it is true, it
resembles Switzerland, but it has an advantage over the latter in the
fact of its infinite variety.  Lake, mountain, fjord, and forest
succeed one another with wonderful rapidity, so that the eye is for
ever feasting on new beauties.  For the rambler in search of rest and
quiet it has a peculiar charm, since it abounds in out-of-the-world
nooks and peaceful corners, little dream-places in which one may forget
for a while the busy world and its cares.  Both these classes of
traveller have been catered for in the present book--those who desire
to follow the beaten track as well as those whose ambition is to linger
"far from the madding crowd," and enjoy the wonderful beauties of
nature undisturbed.

MILLS & BOON'S COMPANION SERIES.

The Actor's Companion.

By CECIL F. ARMSTRONG, Author of "The Dramatic Author's Companion."
With an Introduction by ARTHUR BOURCHIER, M.A.  Crown 8vo.  2s. 6d. net.

This is a companion book to, and is by the author of, "The Dramatic
Author's Companion," published in the early part of last year.  Its
scope is much the same, and whilst having no pretensions to teaching
the difficult art of acting, it is hoped that it may contain many
practical and useful hints to the young actor.  The author, associated
as he has been for many years with one of the larger West End theatres,
has had exceptionally good opportunities of studying the inner workings
of a theatre, the technical requirements of the actor, and the many
considerations besides that of mere talent necessary to ensure success
on the stage.

Two special chapters, one dealing with Scientific Voice Production, and
the other with the Art of Gesture, are contributed by well-known
experts.  There is a chapter for amateurs.

MILLS & BOON'S SPRING NOVELS.

By the Author of "The Veil"

The Lure.

By E. S. STEVENS, Author of "The Mountain of God." Crown 8vo.  6s.

The lure of adventure, the lure of a strong and unscrupulous
personality, and the lure of the Dark Continent, play their parts in
this story.  Anne, the woman of the book, comes under the influence of
all three, to learn at the last that they have only enchained her
imagination and not her heart.  A great part of this notable novel
takes place in the less-known parts of the Soudan, where the main
actors in the drama meet and work out their destinies.  The background
is that vast land of the elephant, the crocodile, and the hippopotamus,
where solitary Englishmen are loyally serving their country and
civilisation without vainglory or hope of reward.  "The Lure" will be
one of the most remarkable novels of 1912.

By the Author of "The Rajah's People."

The Daughter of Brahma.

By I. A. R. WYLIE, Author of "Dividing Waters." Crown 8vo.  6s.

In "The Daughter of Brahma" we are transported back to the mysterious
atmosphere and brilliant Oriental colourings which marked the author's
first novel, "The Rajah's People."  But here the complications of race
and religion in India are faced from another standpoint--that of the
woman.  With profound sympathy we follow the wonderful moral and
spiritual growth of the daughter of Brahma, whose fate becomes so
strangely linked with that of the hero.  With an equal interest,
moreover, the reader is led step by step through an absorbing plot, in
which all the hidden religious and political life of India is revealed
in striking colours, until the final crisis is reached.  The crisis,
indeed, is an intensely dramatic and tragic one; but it satisfies not
only by its truth, but by the promise of future happiness which it
brings with it.  The story draws into it many minor characters, who,
like the two chief figures, win both interest and sympathy by their
originality and lifelike portraiture.

By the Author of "Sheaves."

The Room in the Tower.

By E. F. BENSON.  Crown 8vo.  6s.

These stories have been written in the hope of giving some pleasant
qualms to their reader, so that, if by chance, anyone may be occupying
a leisure half-hour before he goes to bed in their perusal at home when
the house is still, he may perhaps cast an occasional glance into the
corners and dark places of the room where he sits, to make sure that
nothing unusual lurks in the shadow.  For this is the avowed object of
ghost-stories and such tales as deal with the dim unseen forces which
occasionally and perturbingly make themselves manifest.  The author
therefore fervently wishes his readers a few uncomfortable moments.

By the Author of "The Sword Maker."

The Palace of Logs.

By ROBERT BARR.  Crown 8vo.  6s.

A fine romantic novel of Canadian life.

By the Author of "Down Our Street"

A Bachelor's Comedy.

By J. E. BUCKROSE.  Crown 8vo.  6s.

An entrancing new novel of provincial life.

The Frontier.

By MAURICE LEBLANC, Author of "813," "Arsène Lupin."  Crown 8vo.  6s.

Readers all over the world have been enchanted with the fascinating
adventures of that dashing adventurer "Arsène Lupin," and its author,
M. Maurice Leblanc, is probably known in every country where books are
sold, translated and produced.  In "The Frontier," Maurice Leblanc has
treated a remarkable present-day study of war.  It will interest
thousands of readers by reason of its clever character-drawing and the
special interest in the position of France and Germany of to-day.

When God Laughs.

By JACK LONDON, Author of "White Fang."  Crown 8vo.  6s.

A volume of stories.

Ashes of Incense.

By the AUTHOR OF "MASTERING FLAME."  Crown 8vo.  6s.

"Ashes of Incense" is a brilliant novel of modern life.  "Mastering
Flame" was one of the great successes of last year, and the new novel
is certain to repeat that success.

The Battle.

From the French of CLAUDE FARRÈRE.  Translated by E. DE CLAREMONT
TONNÈRE.  With 9 Illustrations.  Crown 8vo.  6s.

"The Battle" is an extraordinarily fine novel of Japanese life and the
period the time of the Japanese-Russian war.  Published in France about
two years ago, it has during this period run through the remarkable
sale of half a million copies.  "The Battle" has for its chief
characters a Japanese commander, a brilliant young English naval
officer, a Frenchman of original talent, and a Japanese heroine.  It
might be called a novel of intrigue.  There is one chapter in the book
describing a battle which took place during the recent war that is told
with such remarkable distinction that the reader will not find it easy
to forget.  "The Battle" is undoubtedly one of the best books MILLS &
BOON will publish during 1912.

The Written Law.

By FRANCES G. KNOWLES-FOSTER, Author of "Jehanne of the Golden Lips."
Crown 8vo.  6s.

There was published nearly two years ago a remarkable first novel,
entitled "Jehanne of the Golden Lips," which won praise and distinction
in one bound.  In "The Written Law" Miss Frances-Knowles Foster has
written a modern novel dealing chiefly with Burmese life.  It is a
powerful and dramatic story of intense interest, and it clearly stamps
its author as one who has to be counted in the fiction writers of the
moment.

Nights and Days.

By MAUDE ANNESLEY, Author of "All Awry."  Crown 8vo.  6s.

A volume of stories.

The Thornbush near the Door.

By SOPHIE COLE, Author of "A Wardour Street Idyll."  Crown 8vo.  6s.

Sons of State.

By WINIFRED GRAHAM, Author of "Mary."  Crown 8vo.  6s.

The Girl with the Blue Eyes.

By LADY TROUBRIDGE, Author of "Body and Soul."  Crown 8vo.  6s.

Enter Bridget.

By THOMAS COBB, Author of "The Choice of Theodora."  Crown 8vo.  6s.

The Prince and Betty.

By P. G. WODEHOUSE, Author of "Love Among the Chickens," Crown 8vo.  6s.

The Silver Medallion.

By PERCY J. BREBNER, Author of "A Gentleman of Virginia."  Crown 8vo.
6s.

Men and Dreams.

By MARY E. MANN.  Crown 8vo.  6s.

A volume of stories.

Ruth of the Rowldrich.

By MRS. STANLEY WRENCH, Author of "Burnt Wings."  Crown 8vo.  6s.

The book hovers irresolute between Arcady and Alsatia, for it is a
story of a woman divided between her love of the country with the folk
to whom she belongs, and the fascination of the "life literary" into
which she is drawn.  The call of London and the spell wielded by the
countryside alternate, and our heroine, Ruth, is a very woman, swayed
by impulse at whiles, so that whilst we are certain in one chapter that
the witchery of the Rowldrich country will claim her, in the next we
know that "the street of adventure" has for her a magic all its own.

Wallace Benham, the Bohemian painter, fans the restless spirit in her,
encourages her literary tendencies, and flatters her vanity, so that,
leaving David her faithful lover behind, Ruth comes up to the great
city, and we get glimpses of Fleet Street life, peeps at literary
Bohemia, with here and there shy returnings to the Rowldrich and its
spell.  Very soon a dual struggle begins.  Ruth finds comrades amongst
the men with whom she works ... there are some who would fain be
lovers, and there is one man, a Robert Forbes, to whom Ruth is strongly
attached, and possibly were he free Ruth's story would have another
ending.  How his destiny is mingled with hers, with that of Essie her
half-sister, and with Benham the painter, would be too long to relate
here; so, too, Ruth's alternating fits of despair and hope over the
books she writes.  It is not until the last chapter that we can be sure
whether Love or Ambition will claim her, and it would not be fair to
give away the secret here, though it may be safe to say the book ends
with a happy note.

His First Offence.

By J. STORER CLOUSTON, Author of "The Prodigal Father, "The Peer's
Progress."  Crown 8vo.  6s.

"His First Offence" is a new, laughter-making novel by the author of
"The Lunatic at Large" and "The Prodigal Father," two of the most
popular humorous stories that have ever been published.  "His First
Offence" deals with a farcical situation in the shape of a detective
story, which from first to last is written with extraordinary high
spirits and delightful humour.  "His First Offence" should be read by
all who like hearty laughter, and is a certain cure for the blues.

The Mark.

By MRS. PHILIP CHAMPION DE CRESPIGNY, Author of "The Valley of Achor."
Crown 8vo.  6s.

The Prelude to Adventure.

By HUGH WALPOLE, Author of "Mr. Perrin and Mr. Traill."  Crown 8vo.  6s.

The Prince.

By THOMAS METCALFE (late the Leinster Regiment Royal Canadians).  Crown
8vo.  6s.

The Author, writing to his publishers, says:

"Reading it over, it seems a strange work for these days, when almost
every novelist poses as a professor in ethics and the claim is made
that the novel should become the public's Bible.  It is because my view
is so utterly opposed to this tendency; because I believe that the
showman's booth is still possessed of more attraction for the many,
than the village institute, with its lecturer; that I have deliberately
written such a work, and so venture to test my theory.

"If there be any signs of problems in the book (and I am not aware that
there are) they are no more than bare figures, drawn in tears and
lettered with laughter upon the great universal blackboard, before
which we poor schoolboys stand, hopeless as ever of finding
solutions....  The work, after all, is but the outcome of the varied
jumble of a life of some few sorrows and many great joys!"

Stories Without Tears.

By BARRY PAIN.  Crown 8vo.  6s.

Aliens Near of Kin.

By N. VERNON.  Crown 8vo.  6s.

"Aliens Near of Kin" is a charming story of Austrian life, and a first
novel by a youthful author of decided promise.  It has charm and
simplicity, and can be cordially recommended.

MILLS & BOON'S SHILLING NET NOVELS.

New Volumes.

  The Sins of the Children.  HORACE W. C. NEWTE
  The Rajah's People.  I. A. R. WYLIE
  The Peer's Progress.  J. STORER CLOUSTON
  The Love Story of a Mormon.  WINIFRED GRAHAM
  Down our Street.  J. E. BUCKROSE
  Body and Soul.  LADY TROUBRIDGE
  The Mountain of God.  E. S. STEVENS
  Dividing Waters.  I. A. R. WYLIE
  The Needlewoman.  WINIFRED GRAHAM
  Letters of a Modern Golfer to His Grandfather.  HENRY LEACH

EDUCATIONAL ANNOUNCEMENTS

Problems in Practical Chemistry for Advanced Students.

By G. F. HOOD, M.A. (Oxon.), B.Sc. (Lend.)  With 21 Diagrams.  Crown
8vo.  5s.

The object of this book is to provide a course of practical exercises
suitable for candidates for the Higher Certificate Examination, for
University Scholarships, and for the Inter-Science Examination.  It
aims at developing both the reasoning powers and the technical skill of
the student.  Throughout the book, simplicity combined with the
necessary accuracy is insisted on.

It is hoped that the arrangement of the problems first, and the
description and full solution in the appendix, will be of especial
service in laboratories, where a large amount of personal attention by
the demonstrator is difficult to obtain.

Exercises in French Free Composition for Upper Classes.

By R. R. N. BARON, M.A.  Author of "French Prose Composition" and
"Junior French Prose."  Crown 8vo.  1s. 6d.

_Il n'y a que le premier pas qui coûte_ applies largely to the writing
of free composition, in which a pupil is confronted with four
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The method adopted in this book provides something in each of these
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Graphs in Arithmetic, Algebra, and Trigonometry.

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BOOKS PREVIOUSLY PUBLISHED

GENERAL LITERATURE

_These Books are arranged in order of price._

The English Court in Exile: James II. at St. Germain.

By MARION and EDWIN SHARPE GREW, Authors of "The Court of William III."
With 16 Illustrations.  15s. net.

_Spectator_.--"A work which should certainly be read by all students of
the revolution; an exceedingly interesting and readable book."

_Athenæum_.--"Not a single uninteresting page; where all is so good it
is difficult to discriminate, but we think the account of the hopeless
misery of the Irish campaign will be first in the judgment of most
readers.  We had no idea so good a book could be written on such a
story."

_Truth_.--" Excellent ... picturesque and impartial."

_Times_.--"The work of Mr. and Mrs. Grew cannot be neglected.  They are
popular and yet sincere historians."

_Daily Graphic_.--"Intimate and picturesque."

_Field_.--"A scholarly and original production based on sound research,
skilfully presented and well written ... an absorbing book."

_Daily Mail_.--"Told in a delightfully readable style."

_C. K. S. in The Sphere_.--"Admirable ... a very genuine contribution
to our historical libraries."

The Court of William III.

By EDWIN and MARION SHARPE GREW.  With 16 Illustrations.  Demy 8vo.
15s. net.

_Morning Post_.--"Done with fairness and thoroughness....  The book has
many conspicuous merits."

The Story of the British Navy.

By E. KEBLE CHATTERTON, Author of "Sailing Ships."  With a Frontispiece
in Colour and 50 Illustrations from Photographs.  Demy 8vo.  10s. 6d.
net.

_Naval and Military Record_.--"Contains practically everything which
the average individual wishes to know about the Navy."

_Western Morning News_.--"A popular story which all Englishmen cannot
but read with enthusiasm."

Royal Love-Letters: A Batch of Human Documents.

Collected and Edited by E. KEBLE CHATTERTON, Author of "The Story of
the British Navy."  With 12 Illustrations.  Demy 8vo.  10s. 6d. net.

_Pall Mall Gazette_.--"Full of interest and entertainment."

_Manchester Courier_.--"One of the most interesting comments on human
nature that one can recall.  It is well arranged, and the introductions
to the various collections are well written and useful."

The Wonderful Weald and the Quest of the Crock of Gold.

By ARTHUR BECKETT, Author of "The Spirit of the Downs," "Emancipation,"
etc.  With 20 Illustrations in colour and 43 Initials by ERNEST
MARILLIER.  Demy 8vo.  10s. 6d. net.

_Daily Telegraph_.--"A charmingly discursive, gossipy volume."

_Daily Chronicle_.--"A vast store of legends, facts, anecdotes, and
customs of the Weald."

_Observer_.--"This buoyant and charming book."

_Sunday Times_.--" He adopts the quest in the Stevensonian manner, and
creates the right atmosphere for the vivid presentment of the history
and romance of the Weald.  He knows the Weald so well, and can chat
about it with such unobtrusive communicativeness, such a charm of
literary allusion, and such whimsical humour, that we journey with him
delightedly, and come to its end with regret."

Sixty-Eight Years on the Stage.

By MRS. CHARLES CALVERT.  With a Photogravure and 17 Illustrations.
Demy 8vo.  10s. 6d. net.

_Pall Mall Gazette_.--"Charming."

_Morning Post_.--"Agreeable and amusing."

_Westminster Gazette_.--"One of the most interesting works issued for
some time."

Forty Years of Song.

By EMMA ALBANI.  With a Frontispiece in Photogravure and 16
Illustrations.  Demy 8vo.  10s. 6d. net.

_Spectator_.--"Her pleasant volume disarms criticism by its unfailing
charity, goodwill, and cheerfulness."

_Westminster Gazette_.--"A very readable account of a very remarkable
career."

_Standard_.--"Most interesting reading."

My Italian Year.

By RICHARD BAGOT, Author of "Casting of Nets," "A Roman Mystery,"
"Donna Diana," "The Lakes of Northern Italy," "The House of
Serravalle," etc.  With 25 Illustrations.  Demy 8vo.  10s. 6d. net.

_The Observer_.--"'My Italian Year' will tell the reader more about the
real present-day go-ahead Italy than any other book that has come to
our notice."

_Daily Telegraph_.--"A thoughtful, knowledgeful book, and one that
intending visitors to Italy will do well to read and ponder over."

_Daily Mail_.--"Absorbingly interesting."

_Daily Graphic_.--"Mr. Bagot knows the Italians better perhaps than any
other English writer."

_Evening Standard_.--"No one can read this book without feeling
convinced that they have facts before them."

Turkey and the Turks.

By Z. D. FERRIMAN, Author of "Home Life in Hellas." With 16
Illustrations.  Demy 8vo.  10s. 6d. net.

_Pall Mall Gazette_.--"This extremely fascinating and instructive
volume is peculiarly welcome just now."

_Birmingham Daily Post_.--"An attractive book which helps us to see the
Turk as he is, with occasional glimpses of the Turk's wife and
children."

The Parson's Pleasance.

By P. H. DITCHFIELD, M.A., F.S.A., F.R.S.L., F.R.Hist.S., Author of
"The Old-time Parson," etc.  With 27 Illustrations.  Demy 8vo.  10s.
6d. net.

_Daily Telegraph_.--"All lovers of the leisurely essay will here find a
book after their own hearts."

Wagner at Home.

Fully translated from the French of Judith Gautier by EFFIE DUNREITH
MASSIE.  With 9 Illustrations.  Demy 8vo.  10s. 6d. net.

_Tatler_.--"The whole book is very interesting indeed."

_Sketch_.--"None will have anything but praise for her most
illuminating book."

Yvette Guilbert: Struggles and Victories.

By YVETTE GUILBERT and HAROLD SIMPSON.  Profusely illustrated with
Caricatures, Portraits, Facsimiles of letters, etc.  Demy 8vo.  10s.
6d. net.

_Daily Telegraph_.--"The volume is a real delight all through."

Sporting Stories.

By THORMANBY.  Fully illustrated.  Demy 8vo.  10s. 6d. net.

_Daily Express_.--"Contains the best collection of anecdotes of this
generation.  It is a perfect mine of good things."

My German Year.

By I. A. R. WYLIE, Author of "The Rajah's People." With 2 Illustrations
in Colour and 18 from Photographs.  Demy 8vo.  10s. 6d. net.

_Evening Standard_.--"Should be read by every household in the land."

_Westminster Gazette_.--"A wise, well-informed, and very readable book."

Forty Years of a Sportsman's Life.

By SIR CLAUDE CHAMPION DE CRESPIGNY, Bart.  With 18 Illustrations.
Demy 8vo.  10s. 6d. net.

_Daily Mail_.--"From cover to cover there is not a dull page."

_Sporting Life_.--"More enthralling than the most romantic novel."

A Century of Ballads (1810-1910), Their Composers and Singers.

By HAROLD SIMPSON.  With 49 Illustrations.  Demy 8vo.  10s. 6d. net.

_Daily Express_.--"Deals brightly with a most fascinating subject."

Rambles with an American.

By CHRISTIAN TEARLE, Author of "Holborn Hill."

With 21 Illustrations.  Demy 8vo.  10s. 6d. net.

_Spectator_.--"The idea is good, and is well carried out, and a reader,
if he is of the right sort, will be greatly charmed with it."

An Art Student's Reminiscences of Paris in the Eighties.

By SHIRLEY FOX, R.B.A.  With Illustrations by JOHN CAMERON.  Demy 8vo.
10s. 6d. net.

Home Life in Hellas: Greece and the Greeks.

By Z. DUCKETT FERRIMAN.  With 19 Illustrations.  Demy 8vo.  8s. net.

_Morning Post_.--"Possesses the great merit of being written by an
author who not only knows but also sympathises with the people whose
life he describes."

_British Weekly_.--"Full of up-to-date information.  It is good as a
tourist's handbook, and still better for fireside reading."

My Thirty Years in India.

By EDMUND C. COX, Deputy Inspector-General of Police, Bombay
Presidency.  With 6 Illustrations.  Demy 8vo.  8s. net.

_Truth_.--"As opportune as it is interesting."

British Mountain Climbs.

By GEORGE D. ABRAHAM, Author of "The Complete Mountaineer."  With 18
Illustrations and 21 Outline Drawings of the principal routes.  Pocket
size.  Waterproof cloth.  7s. 6d. net.

_Sportsman_.--"Eminently a practical manual."

Swiss Mountain Climbs.

By GEORGE D. ABRAHAM.  With 24 Illustrations and 22 Outline Drawings of
the principal peaks and their routes.  Pocket size.  Waterproof cloth.
7s. 6d. net.

_Country Life_.--"Mr. Abraham's book should become as essential as good
climbing boots."

Home Life in Ireland.

By ROBERT LYND.  With 18 Illustrations.  Third and Popular Edition,
with a New Preface.  Crown 8vo.  6s.

_Spectator_.--"An entertaining and informing book, the work of a close
and interested observer."

The Town of Morality: or, The Narrative of One who Lived Here for a
Time.

By C. H. R.  Crown 8vo.  6s.

_Daily Graphic_.--"In short C. H. R. has written a new "Pilgrim's
Progress," a passionate, a profound and stirring satire on the
self-satisfied morality of Church and of Chapel."

_Liverpool Courier_.--"One of the most thoughtful and best written
books that has appeared in recent years."

_Scotsman_.--"An able book, both on its theological and literary sides."

Out of the Ivory Palaces.

By P. H. DITCHFIELD, M.A., F.S.A., F.R.S.L., F.R.Hist.S., Author of
"The Parson's Pleasance."  With 12 Illustrations.  Crown 8vo.  6s.

_Globe_.--"The author gives much curious and out-of-the-way information
in these very readable pages."

_Glasgow Herald_.--"A most interesting book."

The Romance of the Oxford Colleges.

By FRANCIS GRIBBLE.  With a Photogravure and 16 full-page
Illustrations.  Crown 8vo.  6s.

_Westminster Gazette_.--"Does not contain a dull page."

The Bolster Book.  A Book for the Bedside.

By HARRY GRAHAM, Author of "Deportmental Ditties."  With an illustrated
cover by LEWIS BAUMER.  Third Edition.  Crown 8vo.  6s.

_Daily Graphic_.--"Most refreshing and delightfully funny."

_Sunday Times_.--"This is a very amusing book."

_Observer_.--"Light, effervescent, witty, irresponsible, irrelevant,
and clever."

Letters of a Modern Golfer to his Grandfather.

Being the correspondence of Richard Allingham, Esq., arranged by HENRY
LEACH.  Crown 8vo.  Cloth 6s.  Picture cover, 1s. net.

_Outlook_.--"A book in which the human interest is as marked as the
practical instruction."

Nerves and the Nervous.

By EDWIN ASH, M.D. (Lond.), Assistant Physician Italian Hospital,
London; Physician for Nervous Diseases to the Kensington and Fulham
General Hospital.  Author of "Mind and Health."  Crown 8vo.  5s. net.

_Daily Express_.--"One of the most refreshing books that has been
published for some time.  Dr. Ash not only probes into exactly what one
feels when one is nervous or worried, but the treatment is so free from
fads that it does an unnervy person good to read it."

_Medical Officer_.--"His directions are sound and wise.  Undoubtedly on
the subject of treatment Dr. Ash's book is most suggestive and
original."

_Athenæum_.--"Dr. Ash writes with knowledge and judgment....  His
advice about sleeplessness is essentially sound."

_Standard_.--"Displays a wonderful knowledge of child life."

The Zoo Conversation Book.

By EDMUND SELOUS, Author of "Tommy Smith's Animals."  With 12 Full-Page
Illustrations by J. A. SHEPHERD.  Crown 8vo.  5s. net.  School Edition,
1s.

_Country Life_.--"A fascinating idea."

The Golfer's Pocket Tip Book.

By the Authors of "The Six Handicap Golfer's Companion."  Fully
Illustrated.  Pott 8vo.  Leather.  5s. net.

Harry Vardon says:--"It is a very handy little book."

_Morning Post_.--"Concise, clear, crisp, brief, and business-like,
worth as a teacher half-a-dozen ordinary books."

_Manchester Daily Dispatch_.--"The golfer has certain human qualities,
delighting in receiving presents.  And I have found the very thing!  It
is called 'The Golfer's Pocket Tip Book.'"

_World of Golf_.--"The text book de luxe."

_Sporting Life_.--"One of the very best golfing volumes yet published."

The Motorist's Pocket Tip Book.

By GEOFFREY OSBORN.  With 13 full-page Illustrations.  Fcap.  8vo.
Leather.  5s. net.

_Scottish Field_.--"Contains in the clearest, most condensed, and most
practical form just the information one wants."

Stories from Italian History Re-told for Children.

By G. E. TROUTBECK, Author of "The Children's Story of Westminster
Abbey."  With 22 Illustrations from Photographs.  Crown 8vo.  5s. net.

_Spectator_.--"Well put together and handsomely illustrated."

_Tatler_.--"These stories are so vivid and so interesting that they
should be in every schoolroom."

_Nation_.--"Miss Troutbeck tells the stories in a clear and simple
fashion and her book makes a pleasant introduction to the history of
Italy."

The Children's Story of Westminster Abbey.

By G. E. TROUTBECK, Author of "Westminster Abbey" (Little Guides).
With 4 Photogravure Plates, and 21 Illustrations from Photographs.
Crown 8vo.  5s. net.  Popular Edition, 1s. net.  School Edition, 1s.

The Children's Story of the Bee.

By S. L. BENSUSAN, Author of "Wild Life Stories." Illustrated by C.
MOORE PARK.  Crown 8vo.  5s. net.

_Standard_.--"It seems to us that we have all along wanted just
precisely the sort of book that Mr. Bensusan has now given us."

Egypt as We Knew It.

By E. L. BUTCHER, Author of "The Story of the Church of Egypt."  With
16 Illustrations.  Crown 8vo.  5s. net.

_Spectator_.--"A most entertaining book and not a little instructive
too."

Auction Bridge.

By ARCHIBALD DUNN.  Containing the Revised Rules of the game.  Crown
8vo.  5s. net.  Popular Edition, 3s. net.

_Sportsman_.--"A study of this manual will profit them in knowledge and
in pocket."

Club Bridge.

By ARCHIBALD DUNN, Author of "Bridge and How to Play it."  Crown 8vo.
1s. net.  Popular Edition, 3s. net.

_Evening Standard_.--"This is, in fact, 'THE BOOK.'"

_Manchester Guardian_.--"A masterly and exhaustive treatise."

The German Spy System in France.

Translated from the French of PAUL LANOIR.  Crown 8vo.  5s. net.

_Standard_.--"Ought to engage the serious attention of those
responsible for the national security."

Canned Classics, and Other Verses.

By HARRY GRAHAM, Author of "Deportmental Ditties," "The Bolster Book,"
etc., etc.  Profusely Illustrated by LEWIS BAUMER.  Crown 4to.  3s. 6d.
net.

_Times_.--"As fresh as ever."

_Evening Standard_.--"One long delight."

Deportmental Ditties.

By HARRY GRAHAM.  Profusely Illustrated by LEWIS BAUMER.  Fcap.  8vo.
Third Edition.  3s. 6d. net.

_Daily Graphic_.--"Harry Graham certainly has the knack."

_Daily Chronicle_.--"All clever, generally flippant, invariably
amusing."

Queery Leary Nonsense.

Being a Lear Nonsense Book, with a long Introduction and Notes by the
EARL OF CROMER, and edited by LADY STRACHEY of Sutton Court.  With
about 50 Illustrations in colour and line.  Crown 4to.  3s. 6d. net.

_Daily Telegraph_.--"A book full of fascinating absurdity, and the true
spirit of the King of Nonsense."

_Spectator_.--"Lovers of true and sound nonsense owe a debt of
gratitude to Lady Strachey and Lord Cromer for their respective shares
in putting together a volume of hitherto unpublished matter (both
letterpress and illustrations), from the pen and pencil of Edward Lear."

_Observer_.--"Adds a few more verses and a great many inimitable
pictures to the treasure heap of Lear's work."

Child-Nurture.

A Handbook for Parents and Teachers.  By HONNOR MORTEN, Author of "The
Nursery Nurse's Companion," "The Nurse's Dictionary."  With a
frontispiece in photogravure.  Crown 8vo.  3s. 6d. net.

_Athenæum_.--"Deals clearly and sensibly with the upbringing of
children."

_Standard_.--"Admirably practical ... full of useful knowledge."

_Yorkshire Post_.--"Thoroughly sound."

Ships and Sealing Wax.

By HANSARD WATT.  With 40 Illustrations by L. R. BRIGHTWELL.  Crown
4to.  3s. 6d. net.

_Daily Mail_.--"Very clever and amusing, the humour enhanced by quaint
illustrations."

A Manual for Nurses.

By SYDNEY WELHAM, M.R.C.S. (Resident Medical Officer, Charing Cross
Hospital).  With Diagrams.  Crown 8vo.  3s. 6d. net.

_British Medical Journal_.--Answers to Correspondents, 22nd October
1910.--L. M. writes: "In answer to 'Lecturer' re up-to-date book on
Medical Nursing, I have found that Mr. Welham's book 'A Manual for
Nurses' a most excellent volume.  It is very readable, quite
up-to-date, and efficient."

_Nursing Times_.--"Clear and concise, with a good glossary and index."

_British Medical Journal_.--"A useful reference work for nurses both
early and late in their career."

Through the Loopholes of Retreat.

By HANSARD WATT.  With a Portrait of COWPER in Photogravure.  Fcap.
8vo.  3s. 6d. net.

Kings and Queens of France.

A Concise History of France.

By MILDRED CARNEGY.  With a Preface by the BISHOP OF HEREFORD.  With a
Map and four full-page Illustrations.  Crown 8vo.  3s. 6d.

Peter Pan: The Fairy Story of the Play.

By G. D. DRENNAN.  With a Photogravure of Miss PAULINE CHASE as Peter
Pan.  Fcap.  8vo.  Leather, 2s. 6d. net.  Theatre Edition, Paper, 1s.
net.

The Garden of Song.

Edited by HAROLD SIMPSON.

Fcap.  8vo.  2s. 6d. net.

_Scotsman_.--"An excellent anthology of lyrics that have been set to
music.  They are, for the most part, songs that have enjoyed a wide
popularity, and this collection of lyrical gems forms a very desirable
little volume."

The Pocket Gladstone: Selections from the Writings and Speeches of
William Ewart Gladstone.

Compiled by J. AUBREY REES (National League of Young Liberals), with an
Introduction by the Rt. Hon. Sir ALGERNON WEST, P.C., G.C.B.  Fcap.
8vo.  Cloth, 2s. net.  Paper, 1s. net.

_Westminster Gazette_.--"All admirers of the Grand Old Man will be glad
to have a copy."

_Birmingham Post_.--"Many will welcome this handy book of quotations."

Pure Folly: The Story of "THE FOLLIES."

Told by FITZROY GARDNER.  With many illustrations.  Crown 4to.  Popular
Edition, 1s. net.

Popular Edition.  Fifteenth Thousand.

The New Theology.

By the REV. R. J. CAMPBELL.  Fully revised and with a New Preface.
Crown 8vo.  1s. net.

Votes for Women.  A Play in Three Acts.

By ELIZABETH ROBINS.  Crown 8vo.  1s.

MILLS & BOON'S COMPANION SERIES

This series of practical handbooks is confidently recommended to the
public by MILLS & BOON, for, as every book is by an expert, and all are
written in simple and untechnical language, they are confident that
they will appeal to that large class who want an easily read and
instructive book written by a person who thoroughly understands his
subject.  Each book is crown 8vo.

THE NURSERY NURSE'S COMPANION.
  By HONNOR MORTEN.  Cloth, 1s. 6d. net; paper, 1s. net.

THE FOOD REFORMER'S COMPANION.
  By EUSTACE MILES, M.A.  2s. 6d. net.

THE MOTHER'S COMPANION.
  By Mrs. M. A. CLOUDESLEY-BRERETON (Officier d'Académie).  With
  an Introduction by Sir LAUDER BRUNTON, M.D., F.R.S.  2s. 6d. net.

THE CHAUFFEUR'S COMPANION.
  By "A FOUR-INCH DRIVER."  With 4 Plates and 5 Diagrams.
  Waterproof cloth.  2s. net.

THE LADY MOTORIST'S COMPANION.
  By "A FOUR-INCH DRIVER."  With 7 Plates and 4 Diagrams, 2s. 6d. net.

THE SIX HANDICAP GOLFER'S COMPANION.
  By "TWO OF HIS KIND."  With Chapters by H. S. COLT and
  HAROLD H. HILTON (ex open and amateur champion).  Illustrated
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MILLS & BOON'S FICTION LIST

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  All Awry . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Maude Annesley.
  Some Experiences of a Political Agent  . . . . . Anon.
  Mastering Flame  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Anon.
  Orpheus in Mayfair . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Maurice Baring.
  Two Men and Gwenda . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . M. Barnes-Grundy.
  Cardillac  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Robert Barr.
  The Sword Maker  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Robert Barr.
  The Glen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Mary Stuart Boyd.
  A Golden Straw . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . J. E. Buckrose.
  The Pilgrimage of a Fool . . . . . . . . . . . . J. E. Buckrose.
  Down Our Street  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . J. E. Buckrose.
  Love in a Little Town  . . . . . . . . . . . . . J. E. Buckrose.
  Render unto Caesar . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Mrs. Vere Campbell
  The Bill-Topper  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . André Castaigne.
  The Vanishing Smuggler . . . . . . . . . . . . . Stephen Chalmers.
  The Prodigal Father  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . J. Storer Clouston.
  The Anger of Olivia  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Thomas Cobb.
  Mr. Burnside's Responsibility  . . . . . . . . . Thomas Cobb.
  Margaret Rutland . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Thomas Cobb.
  Phillida . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Thomas Cobb.
  The Choice of Theodora . . . . . . . . . . . . . Thomas Cobb.
  Blue Grey Magic  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Sophie Cole.
  A Wardour Street Idyll . . . . . . . . . . . . . Sophie Cole.
  Arrows from the Dark . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Sophie Cole.
  The Valley of Achor  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Mrs. P. Champion de
                                                       Crespigny.
  Fame . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . B. M. Croker.
  Rebecca Drew . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Edith Dart.
  Likeness . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Edith Dart.
  The Education of Jacqueline  . . . . . . . . . . Claire de Pratz.
  Elisabeth Davenay  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Claire de Pratz.
  Children of the Cloven Hoof  . . . . . . . . . . Albert Dorrington.
  Our Lady of the Leopards . . . . . . . . . . . . Albert Dorrington.
  The Lady Calphurnia Royal  . . . . . . . . . . . Albert Dorrington and
                                                       A. G. Stephens.
  My Lady Wentworth  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Allan Fea.
  A Tropical Tangle  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Louise Gerard.
  The Leech  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Mrs. Harold E. Gorst.
  The Enemy of Woman . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Winifred Graham.
  Mary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Winifred Graham.
  The Needlewoman  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Winifred Graham.
  The Love Story of a Mormon . . . . . . . . . . . Winifred Graham.
  When the Red Gods Call . . . . . . . . . . . . . Beatrice Grimshaw.
  The End and the Beginning  . . . . . . . . . . . Cosmo Hamilton.
  Brummell Again . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Cosmo Hamilton.
  A Sereshan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . M. Hartley.
  By Force of Circumstances  . . . . . . . . . . . Gordon Holmes.
  Margot Munro . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . M. E. Hughes.
  No. 19 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Edgar Jepson.
  Captain Sentimental  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Edgar Jepson.
  Pollyooly  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Edgar Jepson.
  Arsène Lupin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Edgar Jepson and
                                                       Maurice Leblanc.
  Jehanne of the Golden Lips . . . . . . . . . . . F. G. Knowles-Foster.
  813  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Maurice Leblanc.
  The Phantom of the Opera . . . . . . . . . . . . Gaston Leroux.
  Bound Together . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Mary E. Mann.
  The Last Lord Avanley  . . . . . . . . . . . . . Gerald Maxwell.
  The Yoke of Silence (5s.)  . . . . . . . . . . . Amy McLaren.
  The Cost . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . L. G. Moberly.
  Mary up at Gaffries  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . S. C. Nethersole.
  Ripe Corn  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . S. C. Nethersole.
  Calico Jack  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Horace W. C. Newte.
  The Sins of the Children . . . . . . . . . . . . Horace W. C. Newte.
  The Socialist Countess . . . . . . . . . . . . . Horace W. C. Newte.
  The Ealing Miracle . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Horace W. C. Newte.
  With Poison and Sword  . . . . . . . . . . . . . W. M. O'Kane.
  Draw in Your Stool . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Oliver Onions.
  Harm's Way . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Lloyd Osbourne.
  The Adventures of Captain Jack . . . . . . . . . Max Pemberton.
  The Summer Book  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Max Pemberton.
  The Stairway of Honour . . . . . . . . . . . . . Maud Stepney Rawson.
  The Year's Round . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Maud Stepney Rawson.
  The Queen's Hand . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Mrs. Baillie Reynolds.
  Nigel Ferrard  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Mrs. Baillie Reynolds.
  The Sea-Lion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Patrick Rushden.
  Sport of Gods  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . H. Vaughan-Sawyer.
  Miss Pilsbury's Fortune  . . . . . . . . . . . . Christine R. Shand.
  Odd Come Shorts  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Mrs. Alfred Sidgwick.
  Isabel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Dorothy V. Horace Smith.
  When Love Knocks . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Gilbert Stanhope.
  The Veil . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . E. S. Stevens.
  The Mountain of God  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . E. S. Stevens.
  The Earthen Drum . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . E. S. Stevens.
  Holborn Hill . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Christian Tearle.
  Written in the Rain  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . John Trevena.
  The Woman who Forgot . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Lady Troubridge
  The First Law  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Lady Troubridge
  The Cheat  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Lady Troubridge
  Body and Soul  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Lady Troubridge
  A Creature of Circumstance . . . . . . . . . . . Lady Troubridge
  The Fool of Faery  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . M. Urquhart.
  The Island of Souls  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . M. Urquhart.
  Royal Lovers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Hélène Vacaresco.
  The Two Faces  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Marie van Vorst.
  First Love . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Marie van Vorst.
  The Girl from His Town . . . . . . . . . . . . . Marie van Vorst.
  Mr. Perrin and Mr. Traill  . . . . . . . . . . . Hugh Walpole.
  Toddie . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Gilbert Watson.
  The King's Highway . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . H. B. Marriott Watson.
  The Captain's Daughter . . . . . . . . . . . . . Helen H. Watson.
  Tess of Ithaca . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Grace Miller White.
  An Averted Marriage  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Percy White.
  Memoirs of a Buccaneer . . . . . . . . . . . . . Robert Williams.
  The Honourable Derek . . . . . . . . . . . . . . R. A. Wood-Seys.
  The Device of the Black Fox  . . . . . . . . . . R. A. Wood-Seys.
  The Rajah's People . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I. A. R. Wylie.
  Dividing Waters  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I. A. R. Wylie.
  In Different Keys  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I. A. R. Wylie.
  A Blot on the Scutcheon  . . . . . . . . . . . . May Wynne.
  For Church and Chieftain . . . . . . . . . . . . May Wynne.

MILLS & BOON'S SHILLING NOVELS

Picture Covers.  Crown 8vo.  1s. net.

  SPARROWS: The Story of an Unprotected Girl . . . HORACE W. C. NEWTE
  THE LONELY LOVERS  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . HORACE W. C. NEWTE
  CALICO JACK  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . HORACE W. C. NEWTE
  CARDILLAC  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ROBERT BARR
  813 (a New Arsène Lupin Adventure) . . . . . . . MAURICE LEBLANC
  THE END AND THE BEGINNING  . . . . . . . . . . . COSMO HAMILTON
  THE VEIL . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . E. S. STEVENS
  CUMNER'S SON (Cloth) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . GILBERT PARKER
  THE ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN JACK . . . . . . . . . MAX PEMBERTON
  BEWARE OF THE DOG  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . MRS. BAILLIE REYNOLDS
  THE WOMAN WHO FORGOT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . LADY TROUBRIDGE
  THE PRODIGAL FATHER  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . J. STORER CLOUSTON
  TALES OF KING FIDO . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . J. STORER CLOUSTON
  THE ENEMY OF WOMAN . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . WINIFRED GRAHAM
  MARY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . WINIFRED GRAHAM
  MARY UP AT GAFFRIES  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . S. C. NETHERSOLE
  THE GOLDFISH . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . LILA FIELD
  FOR CHURCH AND CHIEFTAIN . . . . . . . . . . . . MAY WYNNE
  WEE MACGREEGOR . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . J. J. B.
  PROOFS BEFORE PULPING  . . . . . . . . . . . . . BARRY PAIN
  THE DIARY OF A BABY  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . BARRY PAIN
  THOMAS HENRY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . W. PETTRIDQE
  THE DOLLAR PRINCESS  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . HAROLD SIMPSON
  *THE QUAKER GIRL . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . HAROLD SIMPSON
  *THE COUNT OF LUXEMBOURG . . . . . . . . . . . . HAROLD SIMPSON
  *D'ARCY OF THE GUARDS  . . . . . . . . . . . . . L. E. SHIPMAN
  *ARSÈNE LUPIN  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . EDGAR JEPSON &
                                                       MAURICE LEBLANC
  *THE BILL-TOPPERS  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ANDRE CASTAIONR
  *PETER PAN . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . G. D. DRENNAN

* Novels of the Play.

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