"'Throw your bad temper overboard.'""'Throw your bad temper overboard.'"
"'I say that he is a French spy!'""'I say that he is a French spy!'"
ECKINSKI was a young Polish soldier, who was chosen for a very dangerous mission when he was only eighteen years of age.
At that time Murat held military rule at Madrid. He desired to send important dispatches to Junot, then at Lisbon; but this was a matter of great difficulty, for all the roads to Lisbon were in the possession of Castagnos and his army of Spanish revolutionists. The dreaded guerillas also infested the way.
Murat, in his perplexity, confided in Baron Strogonoff, the Russian Ambassador at Madrid. Russia at this time was not the direct ally of France, but distinctly the friend. Strogonoff—though it was a rash and illegal act—offered help. He proposed that a Polish lancer, dressed in the Russian uniform, should be sent with dispatches fromhisCourt to Admiral Siniavin, then at the port of Lisbon, and that the messenger should at the same time convey verbal messages from Murat to Junot. It was improbable, said the Baron, that the insurgent army of Castagnos would interfere with a messenger of Russia, whose goodwill, to the extent of neutrality, at least, they were desirous to obtain. But this opinion, as we shall see, proved a mistaken one.
Murat was delighted with the plan, and Krasinski, the Polish commander, was immediately applied to for a suitable person. Leckinski volunteered for the task.
Murat, himself a brave man, thought it right to point out to Leckinski the perils of his mission.
The young Pole smiled. 'I owe your Imperial Highness a thousand thanks,' said he, 'for having so greatly honoured me as to entrust me with this duty. It shall be done to the best of my ability.'
Murat then gave him his secret instructions, and, dressed in the Russian uniform, and carrying the written dispatches for the Russian admiral, Leckinski started on his journey.
Just at first all went well, but on the third day Leckinski was surrounded and captured by a Spanish troop. His captors dragged him before their commanding officer, who chanced to be Castagnos himself. Leckinski saw that if he were recognised as an emissary of the French, his doom would be sealed. He therefore instantly determined to feign complete ignorance of the French language, and to speak only Russian or German, languages which he knew thoroughly.
In his determination he was strengthened by the terrible threats which he heard from the Spaniards around him. He recalled, too, the horrible fate of General René, who, a few weeks before, while executing a mission similar to his own, had been cruelly tortured to death. Brave though he was, Leckinski shrank from such a fate as that.
Castagnos, who had been educated at Sorrize, spoke French well. 'Who are you?' he asked in that language.
The prisoner made no answer, according to his plan. One of the staff then interrogated him in German, and his replies were made sometimes in German, sometimes in Russian. A word of French, or even a French accent, would have cost Leckinski his life.
An unfortunate incident increased the ferocity of the Spaniards. An aide-de-camp who felt assured that Leckinski was a French spy, rushed into the room, dragging with him a man attired in brown cloth, and wearing the peasant's high conical hat, adorned with a red feather. The officer, forcing his way through the crowd, placed this man face to face with Leckinski.
'Look!' he said; 'is this fellow a Russian or a German?Isay that he is a French spy!'
The peasant gazed steadily at the young Pole. 'Yes!' he exclaimed, 'this is a Frenchman. A few weeks ago I was at Madrid with some cut straw which had been demanded from our village; and it was this man who received my portion of forage, and gave me the receipt.'
This identification was correct. Castagnos indeed may have thought so; but there was a possibility that the peasant was mistaken, and the Spanish commander was more generous and humane than his followers. He saw that the youth was not a Russian, but he was by no means sure that he was a Frenchman—as, in fact, he was not. Leckinski's handsome face and courageous behaviour told in his favour. Castagnos decided to give him the benefit of the doubt; but he had hard work to restrain his savage followers. A hundred threatening voices arose as the General announced his decision, and the word 'traitor' was even applied to himself.
'You desire, then,' said Castagnos, 'to risk a quarrel with Russia?'
'No,' answered his officers; 'but let us at least prove the fellow.'
'So be it.'
Leckinski knew enough Spanish to understand this brief conversation, which put him more than ever on his guard. Out of the chamber he was led, and thrown into a dungeon. When its door closed upon him he had been eighteen hours without food. Nearly fainting, he fell on the wretched bed which occupied a corner of the room. Here he had ample leisure to contemplate his terrible position. At length, however, being young and healthy, he fell into a sound sleep.
(Concluded on page319.)
One bright morning in the spring-time, a green caterpillar, on the bough of a tree, was gazing at a ladybird and seemed bent upon making her acquaintance. However, the ladybird disdained the insect, and flew away among the flowers. Some time after, in the summer, the ladybird was earnestly admiring a beautiful butterfly which was fluttering about near her. She even approached the pretty creature and began a conversation, when the butterfly exclaimed, 'No, no, madam! I do not value compliments from turncoats. You were ashamed of my appearance when I was only a caterpillar; but now that I have risen in the world, doubtless you would be very glad to make my acquaintance.' The butterfly then spread out its light wings and flew away, leaving the ladybird to her own reflections.
N May 28th, 1759, there was born at the pretty little village of Hayes, in Middlesex, a puny babe, who in after years was to be one of the greatest statesmen of his time.
The year of his birth was one of many British successes, both by sea and land; it was the year of the victories of Minden, in Germany, and of Quebec, in America, and of triumphs both in India and Africa, so that Horace Walpole in a letter of that time says, 'One is forced to ask every morning what victory there is, for fear of missing one.'
Pitt was a most precocious child, and was fond of reading stiff books of history and poetry at an age when other children barely knew their letters. Even whilst in the nursery he would declare that 'when he was a man he would speak in the House like his father!'
Lord Chatham, his father (the elder Pitt, as he is often called), was proud of the intelligent little fellow, and took pains to fit him for a Parliamentary career by teaching him elocution, and making him recite every day a passage from Milton or Shakespeare. Lord Chatham seems to have taken more interest in the education of his five children than was usual among parents of his day. We are told by Bishop Tomline that 'he seldom suffered a day to pass without giving instruction of some sort to his children, and seldom without reading a chapter of the Bible with them.'
William was so delicate that he was never sent to school, and at one time it was feared he would not have been reared; but a doctor prescribed liberal doses of port wine, and this 'pleasant medicine,' we hear, pleased the child, and he drank a great deal of it daily. Though at the time it seemed to suit him, yet there is little doubt it planted the seeds of the disease which was to carry him off before middle age.
At fourteen, William's tutors said that he knew more than most lads at eighteen and was quite ready for College, so he was sent to Oxford, where he amazed his tutors by his wisdom and learning. At seventeen he left the University with the degree ofM.A., which was, at that time, unwisely given to the sons of peers without any examination.
He then studied for the Bar, and attended the Western Circuit, and at the age of twenty-one he put his foot on the first rung of Parliamentary fame, by becoming Member for Appleby. His success was almost instantaneous, and after his third speech, one of the Opposition remarked to Mr. Fox, who was Pitt's life-long rival, 'Mr. Pitt promises to be one of the first men in Parliament,' to which remark Fox answered generously, 'He is so already, sir!'
Pitt's voice was singularly clear and deep-toned, and he had been well trained as to the use to make of it, but his personal actions were too vehement, and one wag remarked, 'Mr. Fox, in speaking, saws the air with his hands, but Mr. Pitt saws with his whole body.'
At twenty-three Pitt became Chancellor of the Exchequer, and in the following year the young man became Prime Minister, the youngest Prime Minister who has ever sat in the House of Commons.
His administration was at first highly successful, but his genius was better fitted for peaceable and domestic government, than for the warlike policy which circumstances thrust upon him.
When in 1792 the French Revolution broke out and a war with France seemed inevitable, and when the power of Buonaparte became alarming to every government, Pitt succeeded in forming a coalition of Austria, Russia, and England, and felt perfectly confident of opposing a barrier to the ambition of 'the Corsican.'
But while the Russian troops were slowly coming up from Poland, Buonaparte swiftly assembled together a huge army, and defeated the Austrians at Ulm. The news of this defeat came to England in a roundabout way in a Dutch newspaper. Pitt received it on a Sunday, when all the public offices were closed. He knew no Dutch himself, and feverishly anxious to learn what had happened, he be-thought himself of Lord Malmesbury, who had been our Minister in Holland, and he took the paper to him to translate.
When Pitt was thus informed of the defeat of our ally, his grief was unbounded, and though a few days later he heard of the victory of Trafalgar, yet this was overshadowed later on by the French victory of Austerlitz, a disappointment which left Pitt a broken man.
His last public speech was at the Lord Mayor's banquet after the battle of Trafalgar, when the crowd, carried away with the victory, took the horses out of Pitt's carriage and drew him along in triumph to the Mansion House.
The Lord Mayor proposed Pitt's health and hailed him as the 'Saviour of Europe,' but Pitt in his answer made use of the following memorable words: 'I thank you for the honour you have done me; but England is not to be saved by a single man. England has saved herself by her exertions, and will, I trust, save Europe by her example.'
Pitt had now but a few more weeks to live. He died on January 23rd, 1806, the twenty-fifth anniversary of the day when he first took his seat inParliament, and his death was undoubtedly hastened by his distress at the state of affairs between France and England.
"The crowd drew him along in triumph.""The crowd drew him along in triumph."
He was awarded a public funeral, and on one of the monuments erected to his memory it is recorded that 'having for twenty years dispensed the favours of the Crown, yet he ever lived simply and died poor.'
It was Saturday afternoon when the boys of Wedderburn School went off as usual to swim their boats on a beautiful lake, only a quarter of a mile away. Fred Langton had a new boat, a regular beauty, which his grandfather had sent to him as a birthday present, and it must be admitted that many admiring eyes were directed to this boat, for it was a larger and better-constructed one than any of the others, and each boy was of course, anxious that his own boat should win the race. But although all the boys admired Fred's boat, and wished that they could have had one as good, still they felt no grudge towards Fred himself, for he was a general favourite in the school, being kind-hearted, unselfish, always willing to lend anything that he had to his companions, and never known to tell tales, or to do a mean action of any kind.
'I tell you,' said Bill Cowan to his own particular chum, Joe Morris, 'that boat of Fred's will beat ours all hollow! I wish I had one as good!'
'Well, suppose it does win,' replied Joe Morris, 'I shall not grudge it to him, for Fred is no sneak; he is out-and-out the jolliest fellow in Wedderburn School.'
'So he is,' said Bill Cowan, 'and no mistake about it. Well, here we are at the lake, and now for some fun.'
On this particular Saturday, however, Fred was destined to distinguish himself in quite another way, and to win the applause not only of his companions, but of the people who were walking up and down the border of the lake, enjoying the sunshine and the refreshing breeze. The little boats were all in full sail, and the schoolboys were shouting with glee at the fun, when quite suddenly a fine fox-terrier took it into his head to pursue the boats and show that he could swim as well as they could. Poor dog! It was quite true that he could swim; but unfortunately he got entangled among weeds, and after floundering about for a little and barking piteously for help, he gradually sank till his body was quite out of sight, only his head and neck being visible to the schoolboys, who looked on in horror, not knowing how they could save the poor animal.
'Oh, I say, I can't stand this!' cried Fred Langton; 'he will be drowned. I must go in and fetch him out!'
'No, no!' cried Bill Cowan; 'the lake is quite deep just at that place.'
'Yes, I know it's deep,' added Joe Morris, 'and, besides, you can't swim, Fred; don't be silly. Who cares for a dog being drowned?'
'I do, for one,' cried Fred, and dashing into the water he waded out to where the poor dog was half-standing, half-lying, among the choking weeds. Yes, the water was deep; but stretching out his arms he contrived to catch hold of the poor animal, and he quickly waded back to shore amid ringing cheers from all the people who had now gathered on the bank to watch the plucky lad. And whose was the dog? Nobody knew; it seemed, indeed, to have no owner and no home. But Fred and his companions carried it back with them to the school, and, after having told their tale, they begged the head master to keep it for himself; and as Dr. Williams could not discover anything about the dog's ownership, hedidkeep it. So Fred's brave deed not only saved the animal's life, but procured a good home for it as well.
OW small, of all that human hearts endure,That part which lords or kings can cause or cure;Still to ourselves, in every place consigned,Our own felicity we make or find.
These lines were added by Dr. Johnson to Goldsmith's poem, theTraveller, with Goldsmith's consent, and the lesson in them is well worth remembering.
HE wind against the window blows;The dustman comes along the street;The lamps are lit, the darkness grows;The dreams come in with noiseless feet.Oh, haste to bed: the dreams awaitThe children, with their sweetest song.Don't loiter; you may be too late,The best of dreams are never long.
(Continued from page299.)
Jack grew uneasy about leaving his home unless he had Estelle with him. Yet he found he could not combine his duties as a fisherman with his care of her. What was to be done? Fargis was quite willing to lend his boat, knowing full well that he would be no loser by the bargain; and both the doctor and M. le Préfet came forward with generous offers of assistance. There seemed nothing to wait for, therefore, but the weather.
April, always an uncertain month, could not be counted on for many fine days, even so far south as Tout-Petit. The sky did not look promising, and the fishermen shook their heads as they glanced at the clouds, and spoke of 'squalls.' Jack and Fargis agreed, though unwillingly that it would be wiser to delay the journey across the Channel till the threatened storm had blown itself out. It would be foolish to run unnecessary risks with their precious charge.
Meantime, Jack's anxiety communicated itself to those about him. They all appeared to realise there was cause for alarm while Thomas was at large, and his place of concealment unknown. Jack made Estelle accompany him wherever he might go in the village, and Mrs. Wright amused all her friends by keeping the pistols always within reach if by any chance Estelle was with her, and Jack absent. Very proud and happy was Julien, too, on being constituted her companion whenever the sailor was forced to go from home. Strict orders were left that he was not to risk any walks out of reach of friends, and Julien showed a praiseworthy obedience to his instructions. He and Estelle were quite happy together on the beach, or running in and out of the Treasure Caves.
One day, in Jack's absence, the two children, weary of games on the sands, had run down to the shore as far as the tide would let them, to watch for the return of the boats. Estelle began telling Julien of her visit to the Mermaid's Cave, and of the wonderful echoes which the sailor's voice had called forth. It had started to rain slightly, and the light fitful wind was capping the waves with froth, but the tide was coming in. Julien, therefore, proposed that they should go to the cave, and he would see if he could rouse the echoes as Jack had done. It would be better than standing in the rain and watching for Jack. No thought of the incoming tide troubled them.
Crouched behind the rocks, unseen by the children, knelt the ex-gardener, Thomas. He listened, with a pleased smile, to the conversation, which showed him his chance had come. The prize he had waited for so patiently was almost his: the little girl was walking into the best trap he could have laid for her. Only a boy was there to defend her. If only Jack remained away, the boy could be got rid of. No more hiding in holes and corners. No more intimate acquaintance with starvation.
Unconscious of any danger, Julien was making Estelle laugh at his witty sallies as he helped her over the rocks on their watery road to the ravine. They sobered down as they entered the high, gloomy caverns, and were glad to get on to the broad daylight of the Cave of the Silver Sand. Julien would have gone no further. The darkness and stillness overawed him, impressing him with a sense of danger and misgiving. But Estelle was greatly excited.
'I know just where Jack keeps some candles,' she exclaimed, eagerly, 'and I always put one or two bits in my pockets. Here they are, and some matches. Do come on to the Mermaid's Cave, Julien! We have managed to get through the Rift before.'
The boy agreed to anything she proposed, but his heart sank within him in a strange, unaccountable manner. Still, he made no remonstrance, and bravely concealed his fears.
Lighting a candle, Estelle scrambled on to a narrow ledge on one side of the Rift, and, with much laughter and fun, she managed, with Julien's help, to creep along without falling off till they reached the Mermaid s Cave. Julien got more wet than he liked, for the pool was deep and the ledge too narrow to help him as it did the much smaller Estelle. He had not time, however, to think of his soaked condition, for Estelle was running about, placing her candles here and there, and calling upon him to admire the beauties of the cave. She insisted on standing exactly where Jack had stood when he sang to her, and the boy, with a laugh, took up his place near her.
'Let us sing just a few notes together,' said Estelle, with some eagerness to join in raising those lovely echoes. 'We can sing the beginning of the—— Julien!'
Her voice suddenly ended in a scream of terror, while, with wide-open eyes, she stared towards the dark entrance to the Rift. Looking to see what had alarmed her, the boy's heart stood still. His instinct had not deceived him. He remembered Jack's caution all too late, and—Jack was away!
Paralysed, he watched Thomas emerge from the Rift, and advance towards them with a smile of satisfaction. In sudden panic Julien tried to think. What was he to do? Escape was impossible. He was but a boy—neither tall nor particularly strong. Thomas, on the other hand, was big and powerful. Any struggle between them could end but in one way. Whatwashe to do? Where should he go for help? How could he leave Estelle even for one moment?
Thomas was approaching with quiet deliberation.There was no need to hurry when his quarry was safe; and this Julien realised all too well. With the instinct of protection, he stepped in front of the little girl with a wild but silent prayer for the return of Jack—ofanybody—to protect them.
Clinging to him, trembling with the terror which Thomas always inspired, Estelle also was silent. That scream was the only one she uttered. She would try to be brave and help her boyish defender—at least, not hinder his efforts in her behalf.
'Allez-vous en' ('Go away'), called out Thomas, as he came nearer and nearer and glared at Julien. 'We don't want you. The little lady's right enough with me, who knows her aunts and uncle, and all the little cousins. It's downright audacious how they all try to keep you away from me, my lady. Why, I know more about you than all these Frenchies put together, now don't I?'
But Julien was no coward. He remained firmly in front of Estelle, though he did not understand Thomas's English. The little girl clung to his arm.
Thomas was not to be turned from his purpose, however. 'You come along of me, my lady,' he said, in determined tones, 'and I'll take care of you, and hand you safe to my Lady Coke.'
'Thomas,' said Estelle, desperation giving her the courage she had hitherto lacked, 'I am with kind friends, and I am sure Aunt Betty would like me to stay with them till Jack can take me home. Please go away.'
'Don't you believe it, my lady!' exclaimed the man, with an insolent grin. 'There's nobody here to lay down laws. I do as I thinks right, and I am sure that my Lady Coke will say so too. Now, if you come with me quiet, it will be all the better for everybody. If you don't, why it will be all the worse, for I mean to take you along with me. It's me as will restore you to your sorrowing family. Now, are you coming quietly, or not?'
'No!' said Estelle, her lips quivering, but her head held high.
Julien repeated the word after her more determinedly still. He did not know what was being said, but he meant to support hispetite amiein whatever she did. Throwing back his head and squaring his shoulders, he placed himself in an attitude of defence. Thomas, however, put him aside with ease. The boy was no match for him. Lifting Estelle in his arms in spite of her struggles and cries, he began striding across the cave towards the Rift. But though Julien was unable to fight with so big an opponent, he did not lose heart. Thomas found he was not able to dispose of him as comfortably as he had imagined. The sobs of his little friend went to the boy's brave heart. A red flush mounted into his sallow cheeks, and his eyes sparkled with fury at Thomas's action. With a bound like that of an angry tiger, he flung himself upon the ex-gardener, clinging to him with legs and arms in such a manner that Thomas felt as if a snake had hold of him. In vain he tried to shake the boy off. Julien gripped on him with all his might, straining every nerve to throw Thomas down. Hampered by the struggles of Estelle, the man could scarcely keep his feet; he could not get rid of his tormentor.
(Continued on page314.)
"'Are you coming quietly, or not?'""'Are you coming quietly, or not?'"
"It was Julien he held in his arms.""It was Julien he held in his arms."
(Continued from page311.)
Just at the critical moment another terror appeared on the scene. The sea, having reached the level of the beach, now entered the caves, and flowed smoothly but swiftly over the flat flooring of rock. In the excitement of conflict neither of the three struggling in the Mermaid's Cave had heard the sweep of the water in the outer caverns. It was not till it was swirling round their feet that they became aware of the danger.
Julien dropped to the ground at the exclamation of Thomas, while Estelle cried out in despair. They knew of no way out of the cave except through the Rift, and that was cut off by the deep water there and in the caves beyond. Dropping the little girl as he realised the danger, Thomas glanced round the cave, still lighted up by Estelle's candle-ends. His quick eye noted the high-water mark, and some projections of rocky wall which it would be quite possible for him to reach, and remain in safety till the tide went down. But what about the children? For Julien he cared nothing, but Estelle was of the utmost importance to him. It would be better to lose his own life than let harm come to her. She represented his gold-mine, without which he had no means of living. She must be saved at all costs, therefore.
'We can't get out of this,' he said, at last, as he turned to the two shivering children who were clinging to each other. Julien's face was raised, his eyes seeking some place above high-water mark to which he could take Estelle.
'I can save the little lady,' continued Thomas, 'but you, young master, must look to yourself. I suppose you were not born near these caves for nothing?'
'I will stay with Julien,' said Estelle, with great resolution. 'If you won't save him, you shall not save me.'
But Thomas was not in a temper to listen. He would not waste time in talk when the little girl was too small to offer any serious resistance. Without another word he seized her in his arms, tore her from the French boy's hold, and running towards the ledge he had noted, lifted her up towards it.
'Catch hold of the rock, my lady,' he urged, holding her as high as he could, 'and I'll help you up.'
Estelle, obeying instinctively, stretched up her hands, but the ledge was beyond her reach. With no intermediate projection to assist her, Thomas saw she could not get up to so great a height. There was nothing for it but to put her down, pull himself up to the ledge, and drag her up after him. Even this he could not do without the aid of Julien. The little girl must be lifted up to meet his outstretched hands. Before he could speak or conciliate Julien, however, the boy had rushed upon him. Another struggle was about to ensue when a stronger wave than usual washed half over them, wetting them to the skin.
'Why don't you help me to save her?' cried Thomas, angrily, pushing the boy from him with violence. 'Do that or save yourself. You will drown the lot of us if you don't show more sense.'
Julien fell into the surge of the water. Estelle screamed, and would have flung herself after him, but Thomas held her fast.
'No, no; none o' that!' he cried. 'Let him get out himself. The water is not deep enough to drown him yet, if he is not carried away by the backwash.'
'Julien! Julien!' screamed Estelle, making frantic efforts to free herself and go to him. 'You must save him, Thomas—you shall!'
But the boy had been swept beyond their reach by the under-current, and for the moment they thought he would indeed be lost. He was drawn into the whirl of waters, and sucked under. Beside herself with grief and terror, Estelle clasped her hands over her eyes that she might not see him drown. She was deaf to Thomas's urgent appeals that she would be quiet and let him save her. Julien was in danger, and it was Thomas's fault. If she could have broken away from that firm grip, she would have jumped into the surging flood after her brave defender.
Meantime, Mrs. Wright, weary with the toils of the day, and feeling comfortable and cosy in her big armchair by the lire, knitted peacefully till, drowsiness overtaking her, she laid back her head and closed her eyes. The wood crackled cheerily in the great chimney, the faint murmur of the sea made the old lady still more sleepy, and in a few minutes she was in dreamland.
And so Jack found her when he came home. The stillness of the whole place showed him the children must be absent, and a vague alarm seized upon him. His fears for Estelle were easily roused. Yet fear or danger seemed very far from that bright, cheerful kitchen. Putting down the armful of things he was carrying, he gazed tenderly at his mother as he warmed his fingers over the genial flames. He could not bear to awaken her, and surely it was not necessary. She would never be sleeping so peacefully unless their little girl were safe. Yet something tugged at his heart, making him stir uneasily. The movement, slight though it was, awoke his mother. She opened her eyes, gazed at him a few moments sleepily, and sat up with a laughing remark about her own laziness.
'Where's Missy?' asked Jack, as soon as he had answered all her questions about his fishing and the luck he had had.
'They were playing on the beach,' she said, putting her cap straight before taking up her knitting. 'M. Julien came to join her in watching for your return. Did you not see them on your way up? If they are not there, they must be in the caves,' she added hastily, seeing her son's face change, and instantly becoming a prey to all sorts of fears. 'Theymustbe there if they are not on the beach,' she repeated, turning pale.
Jack only stared at her, his eyes wild, unable to believe the extent of his mother's trust in so young a boy as Julien Matou. Recovering himself quickly he rushed off without a word to his own room, and presently reappeared with a long rope in his hand.
'What do you think has happened?' cried Mrs. Wright, rising quickly from her chair in her fright at his face and manner.
'The tide!' exclaimed Jack, seizing a pair of grappling irons he had laid upon the bench a few minutes before. 'If they are in the caves there is but one way of saving them—the Treasure Cave. Pray that I may be in time!'
He was gone almost before he had ceased speaking, his light step and long limbs carrying him swiftly down the sandy path, and round the corner of the spur of cliff. The tide had already reached the gorge. It must be well into the caverns then. With firm feet he scrambled along the rocks wherever they could help him, or took to the water when he thought the waves would serve him better. As he drew nearer, he found there was still time to gain the entrance to the outer cave before it was submerged. With the tide in his favour, he managed this with ease. His chief troubles would be with the strong under-tow and numerous currents among the rocks.
Half swimming, half clambering, he made his way to the Cave of the Silver Sand. Here the daylight was in his favour, but the whirl of waters was dangerous and strong. Anybody who did not know the rocks as well as Jack must have been sucked under to his destruction. Clinging to the rocks, he made his way towards the Rift. Awaiting his chance, he swam through this on the crest of a wave, and beheld the feeble light of one remaining candle glimmering in front of him.
With anxious eyes he surveyed the darkness around, and then the objects moving within the radius of that faint spark. Steadying himself against the rocks, he was about to plunge again into the water, in order to reach that point of light, when a heavy body was thrown against him.
Instinctively he grasped it, the surge of the water and the weight of the inanimate form making him almost lose his hold. A few moments more and his burden would have been sucked into the Rift, where his fate would have been sealed indeed. It did not take Jack long to discover it was Julien he held in his arms: Julien senseless, cold, drowning!
Then who was the second figure in that faint circle of light? One must be Estelle. But the other? Jack's heart filled with painful anxiety. Could it be Thomas? If so, what was he doing there? It was exasperating that Julien should require his services just when it was vitally urgent that he should save Estelle. His duty was clear, however. The boy must be placed in a position of safety before he could feel free to attend to the needs of the little girl, whose sole protector he was.
Happily, Estelle had not yet seen the sailor. The rapid rising of the tide, the urgent appeals of Thomas, and the agony of her distress about her playmate, had made her nearly frantic. It was with much difficulty that the ex-gardener managed to pull her up a little higher, out of the immediate wash of the waves. It was all he could do, for the ledge was too far above their heads for him to place her upon it, though he could save himself. He was making up his mind that the child must be sacrificed, that there was no way of saving her, when he became aware of a voice shouting above the thunder of the sea. Estelle's quick ear caught the sound, too, and with a start that nearly threw her off her perilous perch, she cried out in reply——
'Jack! Jack!'
(Continued on page322.)
HE life of a farmer in Syria and Palestine is very different from the life of a farmer in England. He does not live in an isolated farmhouse, in the midst of a number of enclosed fields, which he owns or rents, and which he cultivates at his own cost and for his own profit alone. The country is much too unsettled to permit families to dwell alone, and so they cluster in little villages for their common safety and defence. The cultivated lands of the villagers lie outside the village, and the most fertile ground is sometimes a mile or two away from the houses. The villagers are too poor to enclose each a farm for himself, and the farms are simply cultivated plots lying unenclosed in a great waste, which belongs, perhaps, to the Government, or to some great feudal lord.
Because each man is poor and defenceless, the villagers combine to cultivate these plots together, and they divide among themselves the produce which is raised by their labours. The Government, or the lord of the land, is paid with a certain share of all that is grown upon the land, and this share is collected from the villagers by an officer who is appointed for the purpose, or has bought the right to collect these corn-rents for himself. He is often guilty of great extortion, and even cruelty, in taking his share, or his master's share, of the produce.
How these Syrian villagers perform their farm labours in common we shall see best if we watch them ploughing the land, and sowing corn. They go forth in a band from the village, and make their way to the plot which is to be tilled. Every man is armed, for beyond the cultivated land there is a great waste, or desert, over which bands of robbers roam at will, or there are rocky mountains in which they may hide, and set all good government at defiance.
The ploughs used by these Syrian cultivators are little more than a bent wooden stock, having a long bar, by which it may be drawn. The lend of the stock is in shape somewhat like that which is formed by a human foot and leg, the foot being the 'share,' which scratches up the soil. That part which corresponds to the leg is prolonged upwards into a long handle, with the help of which the ploughman guides the plough. The bar by which the plough is drawn is attached to the inner or fore side of the bend, at the ankle, as it were. Two oxen of a small kind are, as a rule, attached to each plough.
With such a light kind of plough as this it is impossible to cut and turn over the soil as an Englishplough, drawn by two or three powerful horses, would do it. The ground is, in fact merely scratched, and, in order that the scratching may be a little more complete, a number of ploughs follow each other in single file over the ground. As many as from six to twelve, or more, ploughs will thus work together upon one plot, the ploughmen chatting with each other all the time. A sower sprinkles the seed before them, and the ploughs loosen and scatter the soil about it.
Ploughing in Syria.Ploughing in Syria.
Where the soil is too rocky for the ploughs to work, men with mattocks break it up. The Syrian plough does not turn over the soil always upon one side, as the English plough does, and so the Eastern ploughman can return along the same line, or close to it, without spoiling the regularity of his furrows.
In exceptionally dry seasons, when the ground is very hard, the English plough cannot be used to good effect. The Syrian plough, however, is worse; for it is so small and ill-planned that it will only do its work when the ground is thoroughly wet and soft. The ploughing has, therefore, to be done in the winter season: not, of course, in that clime a winter of frost and snow, but a time of cold winds and heavy rains, most trying to the poor labourers in the fields. If they had better ploughs they might break up the ground before the winter set in, and leave the ploughed land ready for the sower at the proper season. The Syrian plough, too, only does its work slowly, and the whole set of men working together will plough scarcely more than one-third as much as an English ploughman, with a pair of good horses, would do in the same time.
ARD working Birmingham was getting short of water, and it certainly looked as though the time would soon come when there would be none to quench its thirst with. The wells and streams in the countryside had served their purpose splendidly while the city did not demand too much, but as the number of people increased, the number of taps increased too, and water was getting short.
In this unpleasant state of affairs, Mr. Mansergh, a well-known civil engineer, said that he knew where to get the water from. Forty years before, when travelling in South Wales, he had been struck by the suitability of the country for storing water in. The rivers Elan and Claerwen, he said, flowed through valleys which would make splendid natural reservoirs if only they were crossed by the necessary dams. The distance, it was true, would be seventy-three miles from Birmingham, but then it would be all down-hill, and so the water would flow of its own accord. The rivers Elan and Claerwen, in Brecon and Radnor, collect their waters from mountain streams over an area of seventy-one square miles.If preserved in reservoirs, this would supply one hundred and two millions of gallons a day. A certain proportion of this would, of course, be allowed to escape, as it would never do to stop the river Elan altogether. It is an important tributary to the Wye, and the city of Hereford would have had cause for complaint if its water supply had been interfered with.