"King Louis leaped fully armed into the sea."
VERY long time ago a wise man said that there was always something new to be found in Africa. The Africa he knew was only that fringe of the dark continent into which the Roman arms had penetrated, but in our days, as in his, there is a charm about the stories from that mysterious land of which we have even now so much to learn. There are the travellers' tales of men who went where no white foot had trodden before them, fighting tales of men who won honour at the sword's point, and tales, just as stirring, of those who carried only the message of peace. The names of Livingstone and Gordon, Mackenzie and Hannington, should be household words in every English home, and there are others less known of whom there are stories worth the hearing.
And our first tale is told by an old French baron, aged eighty years or more, ending his life peacefully on his fair estate in Champagne. No doubt he liked to look back to the stirring days of his youth, and I dare say the young folk who gathered round his hospitable hearth knew the Sire de Joinville for a good story-teller, who could beguile a winter evening with tales of that luckless Crusade in which he bore his part, and of his hero and leader, sovereign, saint, and soldier in one, Louis, the cross-bearing King of France; and, happily for us, before the stories died with the teller, the young Queen, Jeanne of Navarre, prevailed upon him to set down his recollections.
Five and fifty years is a long time to look back upon, but doubtless it seemed but a little while to Jean de Joinville since he gathered his vassals and kindred to follow King Louis to the East. He remembered the farewell banquet, when, standing at the head of his own table, perhaps for the last time, he bade his guests speak if they had any grudge or quarrel against him, and then courteously withdrew that they might say their minds more freely. And then, when they had no fault to find, he rode away at the head of his gallant company, not daring, he tells us, to turn his eyes lest his courage should fail him at the sight of his fair home and the thought of his two bonnie boys. It required courage indeed to set sail in those days, when the travellers knew so little of the lands whither they went, and our Crusader wondered how any man dared trust himself to the ocean with unforgiven sin upon his conscience, not knowing at night where the dawn of day might find him.
But after some delay from contrary winds, and a long wait at Cyprus, the French army landed in Egypt, where the first attack was to be made; King Louis leaped, fully armed, from his galley into the sea in his eagerness to reach the shore. The Saracens fled at first before the invading army, and the city of Damietta was taken almost without a blow. There the Queen, who had followed her husband, as our good Queen Eleanor did a few years later, was left with a sufficient garrison while the army moved onwards up the Nile.
But now the tide of war began to turn. If the valour and devotion of their leaders could have given victory to the Crusaders, they must have carried all before them, but De Joinville himself owned that King Louis was more of a dauntless soldier than a good general. The Saracens harassed the troops with their terrible Greek fire, which, De Joinville says, looked like a fiery flying dragon, and destroyed the wooden defences, to make which the Crusaders had broken up their boats. The King's brother, the Comte d'Artois, was killed in a desperate struggle when fording the Nile. Worst of all, sickness was abroad in the camp, killing more than the swords of the Saracens. Louis himself was stricken, but refused to be removed to more comfortable quarters, with the reply of a true king, 'God helping me, I will suffer with my people.' He mounted his horse for a last desperate attack, the good knight Geoffroi de Sergines riding at his bridle-rein, and, as the King told De Joinville afterwards, cutting down the Saracens who attacked him as a good servant brushes away the flies that annoy his master.
When the King could no longer keep his saddle, the brave Geoffroi carried him into a house inhabited by a good burgher-woman from Paris, and there laid him on the ground with his head on her knee, hardly expecting that he would live to see another sunrise. And here, dying as it seemed, Louis was taken by the Saracens, and his soldiers, on the false report of an order from their leader, laid down their arms.
(Concluded on page46.)
Charles Kingsley was a very kind-hearted, man, and could not bear to see anything in pain. One Sunday, as he was preaching his sermon in church, he stopped in the middle of it, stooped down, picked up something, and went into the vestry. He soon returned and went on with his sermon. After the service was over, some one asked him why he had stopped in the middle of his sermon. He answered that he had seen a butterfly lying on the floor, and he was afraid that he might tread upon it and kill it; so he picked it up and let it fly out of the vestry window.
(Continued from page23.)
Alan was just beginning to wonder whether it was not foolish to go on any further inland into the valley—indeed, whether it was any use to hunt for Thomas any longer—when he caught the sound of muffled voices coming from behind a group of trees near which he happened to be passing. The soft moss had prevented his footsteps being heard, and, as he drew closer, he caught the gruff tones of Thomas's voice.
What was Thomas doing down there? To whom could he speaking? There must be something up when two men got away into a lonely wood in order to talk. His curiosity roused, Alan crept closer still to the trees, but the undergrowth prevented his seeing any distance. He was sure, however, that it was Thomas speaking, and he could now distinguish the words, in spite of the muffled tones.
'I don't seem to see how it is to be done,' muttered the gardener, sullenly. 'It's not easy, I tell you.'
'What's the matter, man?' came in a voice with a foreign accent, which Alan did not recognise. 'The thing is possible enough if you choose to do it, and I'm sure I am making it worth your while. It isn't every day as you will get such an offer. Come, don't you be a fool, and throw your chances away.'
'I'm not throwing anything away,' returned Thomas, sulkily. 'But the risk—— '
'Well, what if it is a bit risky? You are well paid for the job. Do it quietly, take them unawares, and the risk will be nothing. But if you are going to be afraid of your own shadow I'm off with my bargain. That's the long and the short of it.'
A rustle made Alan think the speaker was moving away.
'If you cut up rough you will be the loser a great deal more than I,' replied Thomas, coolly. 'This job isn't to my taste, and if I do it, it will be in my own way. I must wait till my chance comes. It shall be done—that is, if it can be done at all—you may depend on it. I'm not going to back out. Don't be afraid. The risk is bigger for me than for you, and I'm not going to be copped—no, not for anybody.'
'Do it in your own way, man. I lay down no laws. All I want is that you get it somehow. We can do nothing without that. Do you understand? It is worth hundreds. I have known £500 and £600 given for a new specimen. And this is the only one of its kind, as yet. Now that you know what we want, we had better separate. We must not be seen together.'
'I'll be getting back to the boat, then,' returned Thomas, in a more cheerful voice.
Peering through the bushes, and listening intently, Alan was nearly caught by the sudden movement of the men towards him. He had just time to slip behind a great pine when Thomas slouched into view. The sturdy figure of a Dutchman followed. Alan could not get a glimpse of his face; he swung away at too rapid a pace, and was lost among the trees.
With lips pressed together, and ears strained, Alan had heard every word. Now he remained motionless, wondering. What did it mean? What could the men want which was worth so much money—hundreds of pounds? Was it hundreds? Could it mean robbery—jewels, plate, money? Thomas, too! Was it possible that Thomas was about to help, and be paid for helping? Alan knew that his mother, Mrs. De Bohun, and his great-aunt, Lady Coke, both possessed very valuable jewels; and his cousin, Sir Leopold Coke, had left some priceless heirlooms in his mother's care at the Moat House. Perhaps Thomas had heard somebody speak of these treasures, and his greed had been excited. He required help in hisenterprise, too; it must be of some difficulty, therefore he had spoken of it to his friend. Together they had planned how the burglary was to be carried out, and were only waiting till Thomas obtained all the information he needed.
Alan thought deeply on the subject, as he slowly followed Thomas. Supposing he decided to do anything, what should it be? First of all, he was not sure that robbery was what was intended. It was quite possible he was on the wrong tack altogether, and if this was the case, how foolish he would look with no evidence to bring forward except this strange offer of 'hundreds' to Thomas! How his father would laugh at him, and even Aunt Betty would smile incredulously! He might be asked uncomfortable questions, and have to tell about the climb up the face of the cliff. No harm had come of it, except frightening the girls, but his father might not regard the feat in that light.
No; on the whole he thought he had better keep his own counsel till something more definite turned up. He would have his weather-eye open, especially on Thomas, but otherwise let things take their usual course. He made up his mind he would not speak of what he had heard even to Marjorie. She might tell Estelle, and then it would be sure to leak out. Girls could never hold their tongues, especially when there were two of them. He had just come to this determination when, to his amazement, Thomas, on whose broad back his eyes had been steadily fixed, disappeared. Where? How? Was the whole thing only a dream? Thomas was certainly in front of him only a moment ago, and now he had suddenly gone with the rapidity of a flash of lightning.
It had required much self-control for Marjorie to put aside her anxiety so entirely as to calm the fears of the two younger ones, and devote herself to their amusement. But she was a girl of strong character, and perhaps nothing so proved it as her quiet and cheerful manner during that trying time of waiting.
She threw herself into the children's play, made fun of all their efforts to pull the boat up the beach, helped with the digging of a huge sand castle, and suggested a rampart of stones to fortify the deep moat round it. Georgie and Estelle were delighted with the windows and doors, the gardens with shells for flowers, the drawbridge, and the paved way through the ramparts. Georgie even proposed to find some sea-anemones to place among the shells as an additional ornament, and Marjorie was in the act of explaining that it would be cruel to pull the poor things off their rocks for such a purpose, when she was cut short by an exclamation from Estelle.
The little girl was toiling up the beach, her hands, holding up her overall laden with stones for the castle. It proved a heavy load for her to carry, and she looked hot and tired. It was purely a labour of love, for the castle was nearly complete, but the idea of keeping the sea out of it as long as possible had taken her fancy. About half-way she was forced to sit down and rest, and as she did so she caught sight of Thomas calmly smoking under the shadow of a great boulder.
(Continued on page38.)
"Alan had heard every word."
"He placed the 'drum' on a chair, and practised diligently."
'What is to be done? Nothing could be more inconvenient. Easter-time, and so much new music to be played!'
Master Frank Haydn, Master of the Orchestra at the parish church of Hamburg, in Southern Germany, all but tore his brown wig in his despair, at hearing of the death of the man who played the kettle-drum in his orchestra.
'I know of no one to take his place at such short notice,' he went on, though there were only his wife and little nephew to hear him.
The nephew, Joseph Haydn by name, had only lately come into the choir-master's family. He was a child of six years old, but had already shown such wonderful musical genius, that his parents had decided to place him with his uncle, where he would have great opportunities for musical study.
The little fellow now looked up from an old music book, for he could read music perfectly, and said timidly, 'I think I could manage the kettle-drum, uncle, if you would just show me a little how it should be played.'
'You, Joseph?' said the choir-master in surprise, as he looked down at the serious little face. 'It is not a violin, you know; if it were you could manage well enough, but you know nothing of kettle-drums.'
'Let me try, Uncle!' pleaded Joseph. Before long he had his wish, and both were in the big room over the church porch where the practices always took place.
Joseph's little fingers seemed to hold the drum-sticks as if to the manner born, and after a short rehearsal of the music to be played on the festival, the old man felt an immense load lifted off his shoulders.
'Capital! capital!' he exclaimed. 'I shall not miss poor Schmidt now; your touch is crisper than his!'
Then the door of the room was locked, and uncle and nephew returned home.
Joseph, however, as Easter drew near, became very anxious, and longed for an opportunity for further practice on the drum. His fingers might not be skilful enough: he could be sure of the notes without practice, but could he handle the sticks properly? He dared not ask his uncle for leave to go into the choir-room, and he had no drum in the house. What could he do? Practise he must, or he would never feel sure of himself.
'I will make a drum!' said the little fellow; 'I have an idea.'
There was a round basket in the out-house. It was generally used for flour, but it happened to be nearly empty now, and Joseph seized on this, as it was the shape of a drum; over it he stretched a clean dishcloth, fastening it as tightly as possible with string.
'It makes a beautiful drum!' he said joyfully, as he beat it with two sticks, and carrying his 'drum' into the parlour, he placed it on a chair, propped the music up in front of him, and practised the fingering diligently and noiselessly for an hour or more, till he felt quite sure of himself.
Alas, for Joseph, however! He had been too absorbed in his drumming to notice the small quantity of flour which had been left in the basket. It was shaken out with each beat of the drum-sticks, and now lay thick on the velvet cover of the chair. Joseph got a whipping for his thoughtlessness, but that was nothing uncommon for children in the eighteenth century, and was soon forgotten.
Easter arrived, and the little fellow played his drum so well, that for many years after he played that instrument in the choir.
'Little Joseph' in after life became a famous musician, and wrote many oratorios, of which the 'Creation' and the 'Seasons' are the most famous. He visited England several times, and was often at the Court of George III. Every one in this country did their best to honour the great musician. He died in 1809 at Vienna, full of years and honours.
A Cambridge Professor once asked one of his friends to lend him a book which he wished to consult. The messenger returned with the following answer: 'I never allow my books to be taken out of my study, but if you like to come there you are welcome to read as long as you please.'
Some days after this, the friend applied to the Professor for the loan of his bellows. Remembering the refusal he had lately met with, he replied: 'I never allow my bellows to be taken out of my room, but if you choose to come there, you are welcome to blow with them as long as you like.'
T
HE Queen of Fairies passed last night,The greenwood dancing through;I watched her from my window-pane,The round moon saw her too.Her light wings fluttered airily,A casket she did hold,And lo! she scattered strings of pearls,And shining beads of gold.At break of day I hurried down,To gather them with care;Yet nought I saw but buttercupsAnd daisies lying there.So now, I think the buttercupsAnd daisies in the greenAre jewels from the treasure-storeOf the kind Fairy Queen.
'Now look here, you fellows,' began Denison, whose turn it was to entertain the company at the camp-fire the next night, 'don't you go laughing at the story I'm going to tell you, and pretending that you don't believe it's true, for that would hurt my feelings, and I might burst into tears, and you wouldn't like to see a strong man weep!'
'Go on,' said Bobby, rudely, 'or perhaps one of us will give the strong man something to weep for!'
Denison eyed the speaker with contempt, but plunged into his tale at once. 'See this mark?' he said, turning up his sleeve and showing a scar upon his forearm, 'and this?' he indicated a mark on his neck; 'Well, you're going to hear how I came by these. Do you know what a Hall-mark is? A lion stamped on good metal; that's it, isn't it? Well, these are Hall-marks: the stamp of a lion; only Stationers' Hall didn't stamp them: the lion made his own mark on me. I've got more of them on my arms and legs.'
It was like this: I was antelope-shooting with a friend not so very far from the spot we are now in, though a bit farther north. My friend, Thomson by name, had been a trifle off colour, and just now was quite on the sick list, so that we had not moved camp for some time, and I spent my days in trying to get a specimen of water-buck for my collection of antelope heads.
One morning, to my joy and excitement, I came upon the spoor of a herd of them, I was alone and some miles from camp; our cleverest Kaffir hunter was on the sick list as well as Thomson, so that as a matter of fact I had been obliged to go alone—a kind of veldt influenza had got hold of the other two, and neither of them felt worth two penn'orth of toffee. I came in sight of my little water-buck family when I had scouted after them for about an hour; they were grazing peacefully in a plateau half a mile away, quite unsuspicious of my presence and evil intentions with regard to them. I was scouting against the wind, of course, and had hopes of getting my shot in—the first I had ever fired at this particular species. I made for a boulder which lay between myself and the herd, and creeping most cautiously and slowly (for I was really keen to succeed), I reached it without alarming the timid animals, which were now scarcely four hundred yards away. Very carefully I raised myself from the snake-like attitude in which I had made my advance, in order to risk a peep over the edge of the rock, for I must lay my exact plan of campaign, so that I might make sure of another couple of hundred yards, which distance gained, I was going to fire my shot.
I had risen from my crouching attitude, and was about half-way to the upright, when all of a sudden the world seemed to come to an end and break up into stars and giddy whirlings, accompanied by sharp pains in the back, flights through space, and terrific thunderous sounds in my very ears. I was conscious of turning a double or triple somersault, of alighting face-down on the long grass, of a heavy weight leaning upon my neck and spine, of pain, stiffness, semi-consciousness, of a continuous noise as though a motor-car lay and throbbed and whirred on the top of me. What had happened?'
I lay and wondered for a few minutes. Had there been a volcanic eruption? Were bits of it lying upon me and pinning me down? Would there be another upheaval in a moment; more steely-blue stars and another flight, and then—the end? If so, I wished it would come quickly and not leave me in suspense, and, oh! if only the horrible whirringnoise at my ear would only stop for a minute. My head ached as though it would burst. I opened my eyes, but could see nothing but the stalks of yellow grass in which my face was buried.
Was I sufficiently alive—had I energy enough to move, to raise my aching head a little way in order to look around a bit? For a few minutes I could not summon sufficient strength to stir a finger; I felt paralysed and utterly bereft of the power to set my muscles working. Gradually, however, I began to feel a little better, the noise at my ear ceased and let peace in; a delightful calm followed, and with it consciousness gradually returned.
I raised my head a few inches; instantly something came in violent contact with the back of my skull, dealing me a stunning blow; at the same time a crash of thunder reverberated at my ear, and again I lay still, conscious only of the horrible whirring sound which had begun again and continued without ceasing. I think I entirely lost consciousness at this point, and lay, it might have been a few minutes, it might have been an hour, lost to every sense of fear, of wonder, of pain.
When I awoke, on regaining consciousness, I still lay upon my face, but my brain felt more capable of coping with the situation. I lay and reflected. Something had happened to me: was it a stroke of paralysis? I moved the muscles of my face: they were all right on both sides. I turned my head slightly first one way and then the other—no, I was not paralysed. I tried to raise myself, but found that some heavy weight upon the small of my back prevented me. That was odd. Could there have been an earthquake, and had some rock rolled over upon me—a most unlikely thing, yet what else could it be? I wriggled my back in order to discover, if I could, the nature of the incubus. Instantly there recommenced that abominable sound, close to my ear, which had so angered me before; now that my brain was once more in working order I was able to listen with understanding. The sound was the growling of some great beast; the weight upon my back could be nothing else than its paw which held me down; I was, in a word, at the mercy of a savage animal, doubtless a lion, for the weight of the paw proved that it could be no smaller beast. I had been knocked down from behind: stalked while I myself stalked the water-buck; I was in the position of a mouse which has been caught by a cat.
My brain remained wonderfully clear, though I expected that my reason would leave me in that moment of terror. It did not. On the contrary, I lay there and thought more keenly and quickly, I believe, than I had ever thought before. How long ago had the brute sprung upon me? Surely an hour, at least, must have passed since I fell, or was it that time passes very slowly in these terrible moments? I counted thirty slowly—well, that was half a minute; nothing happened.
'Why doesn't he eat me?' I wondered. 'There must be a reason for the delay. Is he waiting for his mate?' He certainly was waiting—while I lay and thought, another minute or two had passed.
I longed to screw my head round so that I might at least catch a glimpse of the brute in whose power I lay. I wondered where my rifle was—ifonly I could see or reach it! There was a skinning-knife, I knew, in my belt, and the recollection gave me a moment of joy. A knife is not much of a weapon with which to engage a lion in battle, especially if one could not get at it; but where there is a knife there is hope. Something hard was in my right hand—what was it? Why—what—it was my rifle! It might as well, of course, be a hundred miles away at the present moment, for I dared not move a finger to draw it towards me, and my arms were both stretched at full length in front of me; but still, when the fatal moment should arrive itmightcome in useful, and the thought encouraged and cheered me.
"Stalked while I myself stalked the water-buck."
Meanwhile, was the beast falling asleep? Oh, if only he would, I thought! The idea almost stopped my breathing, so fearful was I lest anything I might do should keep my foe awake! I believehe did doze a little. The pressure of the great paw upon my back seemed to relax a trifle. I waited what seemed to me a quarter of an hour; then—my heart in my mouth—I tried a tiny little wriggle. In a moment the pressure increased, a roar rent the air, I thought my last moment had arrived and a prayer came to my lips. I felt my left shoulder or upper arm seized. 'Heaven help me!' I muttered aloud—my head swam—I think I fainted for a second. When I recovered consciousness I was being dragged through the long grass.
(Concluded on page68.)
(Concluded from page12.)
We come now to the final stages in the life of the tadpole babies. These are indicated by the appearance of a pair of tiny buds on each side of the base of the tail; day by day they grow longer and longer, and finally assume the form of the hind-leg of the adult. But as yet there are no fore-legs. If, however, the little beast be carefully examined, the missing limbs will be found tucked away under the throat, and in a day or so the left arm is thrust through the breathing-hole, to be followed shortly after by the right, which has to rupture the skin to gain its freedom. As soon as this takes place, in a wild state the tadpole comes of age, so to speak, and creeps ashore to assume his new dignity of frog-hood. For a little while longer, however, he carries the evidence of his infancy about with him, in the shape of a short, stumpy tail; but in a very brief space the last remnant of this disappears, and now, save in size, he cannot be distinguished from his parents.
Common Frog, showing tongue in action.
There is a common belief that at a certain time the tail of the tadpole falls off. Nature is not so wasteful. This tail, when it has served its purpose as a swimming organ—that is to say, as soon as the hind legs have developed enough to take up their duties—is gradually absorbed.
And this fact recalls another. It will be remembered that it was pointed out that for some time after leaving the egg no food was taken at the mouth, because there was no mouth, but life was sustained by the reserve of yolk within the body, the remains of the egg, in short. Similarly, we have a second period when no food is taken, and this takes place while the tail is being used up, and the mouth is being transformed. Exactly how this using-up process is effected cannot be easily explained here; but it forms what is known as a reserve store of food. In a similar way, dormice, squirrels, and bears grow very fat before they retire to some snug hole to sleep out the long winter. The gradual waste of the body which goes on during the long sleep is made good by slowly using up the fat which was accumulated during the summer and autumn.
At last, then, the tail of the tadpole disappears, and with this several new features become apparent. These are the new breathing arrangements, a new mouth and system of catching food, and shorter intestines.
About this new breathing. In ourselves this is done by means of our ribs, which alternately rise, increasing the cavity of the chest and the capacity of the lungs, and fall, or rather are pulled down, decreasing the chest cavity, and pressing out the air from the lungs. The frog pumps in air by that curious movement of the throat which the ignorant suppose to be a preparation for poison-spitting. When the throat is depressed the mouth cavity is increased, and air rushes in through the nostrils and fills the chamber. When the floor of his mouth is raised again the cavity is reduced, and the air is forced down the windpipe into the lungs, beingunable to escape through the nostrils, because they are closed by special valves.
The mouth is now toothless, and of great size. The young frog feeds on living prey, which is generally caught by the tongue. For this purpose, the tongue in the frog and toad is fixed to the front of the floor of the mouth, so that the tip of the tongue pointsbackwardstowards the throat! In capturing, say a fly, the frog creeps as near his prey as he can manage, and then, with a lightning movement, darts the tongue forward on the unsuspecting victim. The tongue being covered with a sticky substance, the fly adheres to the trap and is drawn in a twinkling into the cavern, from which return is impossible. The working of the tongue may be seen in the illustration.
The shortening of the intestine follows in consequence of the change to more nutritious diet. In the young tadpole it is long and may be seen coiled up like a watch-spring through the skin of the abdomen; in the adult these coils disappear.
Such, then, is the brief outline of the life-history of one of Nature's water babies. We have traced it from the egg to the grown-up form: and here we must stop, though all that is of interest does not end here. I could tell you of the curious way in which the frog changes colour to suit his surroundings; of how he changes his skin; of his wonderful vocal powers, and a hundred other things. But meanwhile, try and discover it for yourselves by keeping a few frogs as pets, starting, as I did, with the spawn taken from a ditch in spring.
W. P. Pycraft, F.Z.S., A.L.S.
(Continued from page31.)
Estelle could scarcely believe her eyes at the sight of Thomas. Her cry made Marjorie and Georgie look round. Thomas there! How was it she had not seen him before? How was it he had not heard their calls to him? Had Alan had his dangerous climb for nothing?
With a sudden rush of anger, Marjorie was about to call to Thomas, when another amazing event stopped her. Alan appeared at the entrance of the cave, and signalling rapidly to her, put his fingers to his lips.
Puzzled and uncertain what he wanted her to do, she remained sitting near the sand castle, telling Georgie to be quiet till Alan could explain. Estelle meanwhile had dropped her stones, and, throwing herself down by her cousin, wanted to know what Alan was doing.
'He will be here in a second,' said Marjorie, trying not to speak impatiently in her anxiety, 'but he evidently does not wish us to look as if we saw him. Let us go on playing as if nothing had happened.'
'But why mayn't we meet Alan?' demanded Georgie, stooping that he might see under his sister's great hat.
'He doesn't want us to. I think he does not like Thomas to know he has not been with us all the time. But it is all guessing, really, for I don't know more than you do,' she added, as she saw both children were about to ply her with questions.
Meantime, Alan, having caught the spirit of the game over which the others were interested, took up the largest stones he could find, and came to join the party. It was more than likely that Thomas would imagine he had been helping with the castle the whole time.
'Well?' said Marjorie, looking up, and at the same time pointing to where she desired the stones to be placed.
They all began to help in arranging them while Alan spoke in low tones of his adventure.
'It is really true, Marjorie, that something is up. I don't understand it yet, and even if I did this is no place to tell you about what I heard. Just keep quiet about my climb, all of you. Do you hear, Georgie?' For his little brother was not good at keeping secrets, and Alan thought this a serious matter.
'Of course I do. I am not deaf.'
'Well, you are not to say a word to anybody, not even to Mother.'
'How did you get down?' asked Estelle, in a whisper.
'On my feet, having no wings,' he laughed. 'How have you all got on? This is a splendid castle. Let us fill the moat with water.'
Marjorie looked up in surprise. A look in Alan's eyes made her glance round, and she saw that Thomas was coming towards them over the sands, to tell them it was time to be going. She saw, too, that Alan did not wish to speak of his climb up the cliff in Thomas's presence.
Estelle and Georgie were the only talkative ones on their return to the boat. Marjorie was fully occupied with the difficulties of steering, and Alan and Thomas in pulling against the incoming tide. Georgie had crammed his pockets with shells, and now brought them out to show Estelle that there were real, live creatures in some of the closed ones. The idea horrified her, and she tried to get him to throw them into the sea.
'No, certainly not!' cried Georgie, with a teasing laugh. 'I shall ask Miss Leigh if we can't have them for tea.'
'To eat?' cried Estelle, shrinking with horror, and springing away from the dirty-looking black shells.
Her violent jump made the boat give a heavy lurch, and she nearly fell overboard.
'Hullo!' cried Alan, while Marjorie pulled her back to her seat, begging her to keep still.
'What's the matter? asked Georgie with a laugh, his eyes dancing with delight at having startled her. 'Why, they are only mussels. Lots of people eat them, and periwinkles too. You shall taste them yourself.'
'Oh, Georgie, do throw them into the sea! They are horrid!' she exclaimed, shuddering. 'I don't like this bay, or the dark cruel rocks, or the waiting for Thomas, with the tide coming in to drown us if he is late! And now those dirty shells—alive and horrid—which you want to eat!'
Georgie laughed with such shouts of merriment that Alan told him to shut up; he would have the boat over if he kicked about in that manner. But his laugh was so infectious that Estelle was forced into joining, especially when, to please her, he threw the shells into the waves as they landed.
The wood, dignified by the name of the Wilderness, led up to the rear of the Moat House. It was of great extent, reaching to the coastguard path on the cliffs, and stretching far across the coast-line. In the midst of it was the old ruined summer-house, in which the children delighted. It was not in the least like a summer-house, nor could anybody give a reason for its name. It was, in fact, all that remained of the ancient rampart which had once surrounded the Moat House. It was fifteen feet high, and was probably the last of many such three-cornered towers. Now the flanking walls had either disappeared altogether, or they had become little moss-covered mounds of stone. Trees and bushwood hid it from view on one side; broken steps went up a second, which led more or less perilously to the top, where a table, some rough wooden seats, and a rustic chair or two showed that it was used by the children, if not by their elders. On the third side, where the ivy had grown thick with age, and stood out from the wall like a tree, was a heavy oak door, clamped with iron and studded with large nails. In front of this spread a soft carpet of ground ivy and moss, just now starred with celandines and morning glories, while the bright, fresh green of the slender birches drooped over it, and cast trembling shadows.
The door had a special attraction for the children. They would often stand and gaze at it, making up long stories of what might be found inside. Each in turn had tried to induce the old gardener, Peet, to open it, but as yet no persuasions or arguments had had any effect upon him. He refused to let them have even one peep.
Great was Estelle's surprise, then, when passing it on their return from the boat, to find it open. She rubbed her eyes, and caught hold of Alan in her excitement, pointing with her other hand towards the little slit. There was an instant rush for the ruin. Alan, taking the lead, made the first attempt to push the door open a little wider, and catch a glimpse of what lay behind it, but he failed. The interior was too dark, and the door too heavy to move without help. Determined not to give in, however, he called the others to his assistance, but to their astonishment, it took the combined strength of the party to push it wide enough to gain even a glimpse of what was inside. It was amazingly weighty; but when at last it did move, it swung back quickly and unexpectedly, nearly knocking the children over. Struggling to their feet again, they gazed at each other in awe, delight, and wonder, till Alan, overcoming his amazement, went forward to inspect their discovery, the others following close at his heels.
Thomas had been left behind with the boat, and would not be up till they had had time to examine the inside to their hearts' content. That is what Alan counted upon, at all events. But he had reckoned without his host.
'I don't think there is much to see,' said Marjorie scornfully. 'It is very dark and dirty, and oh, do look at the snails!'
'And the mice!' cried Georgie, pointing to one scurrying off under their very noses.
'And the bats!' exclaimed Estelle, with a shudder 'do you see them up there? I wonder if they will come down and fasten in our hair if we go inside and look about?'
'Why should they?' asked Alan, lighting a match he had found in his pocket. 'They are asleep now, and won't wake at anything we do. Now come in, and I will have the lantern lighted in a jiffy. I saw one just close by.'
'I wonder what Aunt Betty or Father would say——,' began Marjorie, but Alan cut her short.
'You are not going to stop outside, surely!' he exclaimed, with surprised indignation. 'We shall never get such a chance again, and there can be no possible harm in it while I am here to take care of you.'
'Auntie would not like it,' said Estelle. 'She particularly told me I wasn't to go in at any time, and I don't think I ought.'
'Aunt Betty trusted us,' added Marjorie, decidedly. 'We can look, but not go in.'
'What rot!' returned Alan, wilfully, not in the best of humours. He had succeeded in lighting the lantern, and now began to insist on Estelle coming with him. 'There is no trust in a locked door,' he said. 'At least the trust is in the door keeping us out; not in us who can't get in. This is a chance in a thousand.'
'I wonder if I might?' said Estelle, looking at Marjorie.
It was a great temptation. It did seem such a pity to lose this opportunity; a chance, as Alan said, which might never occur again: though the children knew they were doing wrong, curiosity began to overcome them.
'I don't think it would be right,' answered Marjorie, with decision. 'We can see all we want from here.'
'I'm sure we can't,' said George, excitedly. 'Look at that dark corner. We don't know what is in there, but there is something, I'm sure.'
'Well, Marjorie,' said Alan, 'if you don't want to come in, don't. But you need not spoil sport for all the rest of us. You and I will go in, Estelle, and Marjorie can keep guard outside.'
'I wish I knew if I might!' cried Estelle, clasping her hands on the top of her head, and dancing up and down in despair. I really and truly believe Auntie only meant I was not to go in alone. Don't you think so, Marjorie?'
'No, I don't,' returned her cousin, quietly.
'What on earth does it matter?' cried Alan, impatiently. 'We are losing all our time and we shall have Peet or somebody down upon us in a minute. Come on, Estelle.'
But love for Aunt Betty still acted as a restraint, and though she put her foot on the threshold, she did not step over.
'I would like to—I would like to,' she exclaimed, torn between her conscience and her wishes, 'if—— '
She broke off, for Georgie was screaming in terror, 'The door—the door! Look at the door!'
(Continued on page47.)
"Alan made the first attempt to push the door open."