CHAPTER XXII.WE ENGAGE IN BATTLE, MURDER, SUDDEN DEATH, AND—FREEDOM.

You may be led to think, son Adoniah, that events followed each other in a succession more rapid than natural, and that my story is what might be called by people of moderation a very sensational one, but that would be a mild term to apply to the experiences of our stay in the island. Those were troublous times, and I can but give you a sketch of the crowded events of those terrible weeks. If ever any one whom you allow to peruse these memoirs, should pretend to doubt your father's word, take the book from him and close it, and let not his curiosity as to the "yarns" that I am spinning prevail upon you to deliver these pages again to his scrutiny. My sufferings and those of my companions were too great for me to tolerate for a moment that my word should be doubted.

The end of the last page left me in a cell of the citadel alone with a strange man, upon whom I had been unwillingly thrust. My situation was not a cheerful one, especially as I heard the stranger muttering to himself in unintelligible jargon. It sounded like an attempt at English, and rather familiar to me. The place was dark, except for a slight ray of reflected light that came from some angle where the moonlight struck, and then glanced in at the one small embrasure, making a narrow line across the floor of the cell. I could see, silhouetted against the opening, a human figure, and that was all. I watched it, spellbound. It stooped and began to crawl slowly toward me. Now I crouched and backed toa corner to elude it. It turned and came on again steadily toward my corner. As it reached the middle of the room, I saw the moonlight glance for a moment on the glittering blade. I shrank into myself with horror. The figure arose and stood as if to make a fresh start. There were more mutterings and the preparation for a dash at the intruder, but in the second that the head was raised to its natural height and the moonlight fell upon it I recognised a profile that I knew. It was the swollen cheek of the Bo's'n!

I called to him: "Bo's'n! Bo's'n! don't strike! It is I, the Mate!"

The Bo's'n stood for a moment in astonishment, and then dropped upon his knees. He gave a gasp and a gurgle. I saw something roll, a ball of light, along the ray-swept floor. I was on my knees also before he could rise. I seized upon the brilliant thing. It was so large that my fingers would hardly close over it. It was wet and cold, and I turned my eyes toward the spot where the Bo's'n stood again in the revealing ray. I saw that his toothache had left him as suddenly as it always had arisen.

"So this is the swelling from which you have suffered so long and so continuously," said I, with, I must confess, a sneer in my voice. I opened my fingers, and together we looked down upon the great diamond which he had found among the pirates' jewels, and which would have made two of the famous Koh-i-noor.

"You ridiculous old fool!" said I, "you might have killed me, do you know that?"

"You wouldn't have had my secret if I had, Mr. Jones, sir," snarled the Bo's'n.

"No, I shouldn't, and I suppose you think that you would have had an easy life of it. I should have haunted you as certainly as my name is Hiram Jones." The Bo's'n snatched the gem quickly from my hand and backed into the corner of the cell.

"I don't mean that you shall have it, Mr. Jones, sir. It's me that's carried it through all our troubles, pretending to have toothache and all. Sometimes it was in my mouth and sometimes under my armpit, and do you think, sir, that I intends to share and share alike after all the trouble I have had, Mr. Jones, sir?"

I was convinced that the Bo's'n must be subdued again. The time had come. I raised my hands and began in an incantatory manner:

"There was a serpent god," I said, in a dreamy tone, "with gleaming eyes. He twined and wound himself around in a slow, slow moving circle. He thrust out his forked red tongue. The head which he held within his own was the head of a goat!A goat without horns!He half swallowed the goat. He squirmed and stretched and pressed his body round it, he squeezed its bones, crushed them—crushed them——" I gazed fixedly at the Bo's'n. He was already shaking with horror. His eyes were glued to the wall behind me, he stood paralyzed and stiff. The diamond rolled from his hand and bounded to the corner of the cell. He shook as if in an ague, the cold drops stood upon his forehead, and then he fell to the floor, and his knife dropped from his hand. I seized upon the knife and turned to search for the jewel, when, to my horror, I beheld a real serpent gliding up the wall behind me. It had appeared to aid me at this critical moment. Having been assured by the Smith that most of the serpents in the island were harmless, I made a dash for it, and soon despatched it. I threw the hateful pieces out of the embrasure. The Bo's'n still lay limp and white.

"It's only what you deserve," said I to his deaf ears, "but I will provide myself with something now which will insure me safety while I sleep at least." I took the knife, and, kneeling on the floor, I pressed the point to the hem of my nether garment. I would rip the hem and disclose the symbol, but fate had been there before me. For the second time the ring had played me false. Cynthia's sewing had not been of the surest, hampered as she was by the want of light. I felt sick at heart when I discovered my loss. My only chance of getting at Christophe had flown. I tried to think where I could have lost the ring. Remembering my struggles under the mahogany tree with the body guard, my frantic kicks and wild slashing at my foes, I could only imagine that I had dropped it there in my violent efforts to tear myself from the grasp of the black men.

The Bo's'n still lay dazed and helpless on the floor. He had not spoken a word, and did not seem to see me. I went at once to the corner where the jewel had rolled. There seemed to be a small hole of about four inches in diameter close to the floor. It ran under the thick partition wall; I thought that it was meant for a drain in case that water should get into the cell, or if the floor should be washed, which, I am sure, is a thing which as yet had never happened. I took the knife and poked and pried within the hole. It seemed to be a long hole and far-reaching. It was close to the level of the floor, so that I could not get my eyes far enough down to see if the diamond were hidden there. I first drove the knife into the cavity very nervously, I realize now, and anxiously. I seemed to hear a faint click, and I thought that the point of the knife touched something; but the article, whatever it was, had retreated to a greater distance, and, as I tried again and again to secure the treasure, I pushed it only farther away. I finally relinquished the search in great despair. I looked up at the wall. I saw some slight cracks in the rough masonry. I felt sure when the Bo's'n came to he would not only demand the diamond, and accuse me of stealing it, but that he would again attack me with the knife. Being a much taller man than he, I jumped up against the wall and drove the knife into a crack as far as I could push it. When I landed again upon my feet, the Bo's'n was regardingme with glittering eye. I saw that the man was near losing his mind, and I feared that when he discovered that his jewel and his knife both were gone that I should find myself in a cell with a mad man. I retreated to a farthest corner of the room, and, with eyes that were dropping to with sleep, I sat myself down to watch the Bo's'n. After a long sigh he winked violently several times, and then opened his eyes in a natural manner. The faint morning light was finding its way in through the port or small window. It would grow lighter now with every succeeding moment.

"Come, now, Bo's'n," I said, "there is no use in our having any quarrel. I am as sorry for what has happened as you can be. I have managed to put myself out of danger from you." I pointed to where the knife stuck firmly between the two great stones. "I did not take your jewel. You dropped it yourself. It was when the serp——" I saw the Bo's'n begin to tremble again and his eyes to quiver. "I shall not revert to anything painful. The diamond rolled just in there." I pointed to the hole which I had unsuccessfully probed. "We may be able to get something later with which to secure it—the diamond, I mean. But just at present there is no hope at all of such a result. Now, wouldn't it be better for you and I to be friends? We are here alone together. We do not know where the Skipper and the Smith may be. I can not tell what will be the fate of——" I hesitated, and then boldly plumped out the words, "'my wife.' We are in about as doleful a plight as any two men in this world ever were, but I have often heard it said that 'while there's life there's hope.' Now listen to me, Bo's'n. You and I may as well be friends, for I can't see that at present we have any one else to depend on. I had no intention of taking your diamond, but it belongs to me as much as to you."

"As to that, Mr. Jones, sir, it belongs to the Minion as much as to either of us."

"Well, I don't know about that, but the Captain and the others have an interest in it equal with ours. Now, Bo's'n, we may save the lives of all the party if we can get at that gem and offer it to Christophe."

"I'd rather trust to keeping it in my cheek, sir," said the Bo's'n.

"Very well, that's your lookout, if you can get it."

So saying, I lay upon the floor and slept. When I awoke I saw the Bo's'n was sitting on the floor in the corner of the cell eating some coarse fare from a platter of metal which stood before him. I immediately demanded my share, and together we despatched all that the plate contained.

The day dragged slowly, oh, so slowly! The only thing in the cell beside the Bo's'n and myself was the knife. I had some slight thought of getting the knife down and playing a game by throwing the point at the cracks in the wall, but, after a scrutinizing look at the surly Bo's'n, I decided to let well enough alone. I was his superior as to strength, but, should he once succeed in obtaining that weapon, I was not at all sure what would follow. The prospect of wealth, or else the loss of it, had changed the Bo's'n's nature, and where once I had considered this man strange and queer, I had now come to the belief that he was really mad.

I raised my eyes to the small opening in the wall, and began to wonder how I could reach it. As it was, I could see only the deep blue, and the trade-wind clouds drifting, drifting, drifting across my vision. One sees that which he longs for in the clouds brought by the trade wind, and as I watched there passed before my eyes a long procession of ships, full-rigged ships, with swelling sails; ships, high up on whose stern and prow stood, marked against the background of blue, guns of enormous calibre. The bows of these vessels were all pointed toward the north. They meant life and freedom.

"Bo's'n," said I, "you will see that there is no furniture of any kind in this cell. I should like very much to look from that little window up there. I can reach it very well with my hands, but I can't see out. Would you mind letting me have the use of your back for a few minutes, Bo's'n?"

"Certainly not, sir," said the Bo's'n with the greatest politeness.

Whereupon he crouched down upon the floor and I stood upon his back. From the open port I had a splendid and extensive view. It was quite large enough for me to put my head out and look all about me, but I found, with regret, that my shoulders would not go through the opening. Of course, my jailers knew this before I was placed in the casemate. I looked abroad, I looked to right, to left, and then I looked downward. I found that we were in a sort of square tower or bastion, and that we were, so to speak, in the second story. And as I gazed beneath me I saw a hand protrude from another port, perhaps, or some other opening. It was a woman's hand, and on the wedding finger I saw the ring that I had given to Cynthia. The hand grasped a handkerchief, which it waved as if to attract attention. The hand, I saw, was Cynthia's own. So she was incarcerated below me! I called softly, "Cynthia! Cynthia!" and then getting no response, I called louder. There was no one near. Indeed, there was no esplanade or terrace surrounding our side of the fortress; only a sheer wall, which fell away to the depth of a hundred feet or more, until it reached the slope of the mountain where its foundation had been built. The fortress had been begun by the French upon the mountain-top called the "Bishop's Hat," and for the erection of the citadel they had selected the very crown and apex of the summit, where the land slopes steeply away on every side.

"Cynthia!" again I called. "Do speak to me. It is I—Hiram."

Whereupon the hand was withdrawn and Cynthia'shead emerged from the opening below. She turned her face to me as well as she could, and looked upward.

"Oh, is that you? How glad I am!" she exclaimed. "How strange that we should be so near each other!"

"Are you alone?" I asked anxiously.

"Yes, and likely to be. It seems that we were overheard last evening, and when I went back to speak to you for a moment I was seized upon. I did not dream that you were here. I thought that I was alone. Your presence gives me hope, Hiram."

"Dearest," said I, "it all seems rather hopeless to me, but there must be some way out of this."

"Zalee has returned," said Cynthia. "Lacelle told me after I left you. An American ship has started for Manzanillo Bay. It seems that is the name of the place where we were shipwrecked. It will wait there as long as possible, perhaps until we can make our escape."

"Our escape!" I echoed, "our escape from such walls as these!"

"It seems that Christophe takes the ground that we have come to start a revolution," said Cynthia.

"He is full of those excuses," said I. "Start a revolution! Three men, a young girl, and a boy!" I had wondered how he had dared throw Americans, natives of so powerful a country as ours, into prison. I knew that he was very little informed with regard to our country, but I had thought that our representative at Le Cap would have rescued us in a very short time.

"Zalee found great disturbances down at the coast," said Cynthia. "Some of the mobs are shouting 'A bas Christophe!' Others are crying, 'Vi' Boyer!' General Boyer is in town, and they are flocking to his standard. Zalee tried to find the 'consite,' as he calls him, but he was at Port au Prince. But he saw an American bark in the harbour, and he swam off to her. Her captain—Bartlett is his name—seemed very kind and much interested in us. He told Zalee that we could comedown from the plateau to the shore when we saw the sails coming into the harbour, and that he would train his guns on the beach to protect his long boat, which he would send in for us. He thinks we are down there at the plateau now. He does not dream that we are up here on this terrible height, imprisoned by Christophe. When Zalee returned and found us gone, he understood at once what had happened, and came up to the palace, trusting to the torch bearer and the kitchen maid to protect him. Zalee happened to know the cook on board the Jenny Bartlett. He is a Haïtien, and through him Zalee told the captain about our being secreted at the plateau. He is getting a cargo of sugar on board—the captain, I mean—and as soon as he is ready he will sail for the bay. He says that we must come as soon as we sight his vessel. He may be there in a day or two. O Hiram! do you suppose that we can get away, and that if we do that we can get to the coast in time?"

"You have given me a new hope," said I. "There must be some way found."

"And, O Hiram! I have such a strange thing to tell you——"

Bump! I fell to the floor of my cell.

"You're getting pretty heavy, Mr. Jones, sir," said the Bo's'n; "besides which, I hear footsteps coming along the corridor." I heard them myself, and arose and stood straight against the wall as the door was rudely opened and a small parcel was flung into the room. I recognised my handkerchief, and felt, as I picked the parcel up from the floor, that the lamp, blowpipe, and materials for making the ring had been sent after me. The soldier who looked in at the door said something in his mongrel tongue which I did not comprehend. Then some food, consisting of cassava bread and coffee, was pushed in at the crack which was made by the opening, the door was closed, and we were alone again.

I can not tell you how the days passed. Suspense andmisery were my portion. I wondered each day what the next would have in store for me, and each night what another night would bring. I feared, above all, for Cynthia, and dreaded that those brutal soldiers would force some insult upon her or cause her some injury. My only happiness was in talking with her, and, as often as I could persuade him to do so, I stood upon the Bo's'n's shoulders and conversed with her. I paid for this privilege by making over to the Bo's'n each time a small share of my part in the great diamond. And I paid also in many a bump and bruise, for just as Cynthia and I had come to the most interesting part of our conversation, and she had said to me, "O Hiram! I always forget to tell you——" the Bo's'n would let me fall, and would under no persuasion whatsoever allow me to remount his unwilling back. This, however, I took as a matter of course, and I would have gone through with much more than that to get speech, even once a day, with Cynthia. You can imagine what a welcome diversion it made in the monotonous hours which comprised the days of our wretched existence.

After some days of imprisonment, I asked to be allowed to take a bath. To a man who has had his plunge in the lovely rivers of the North or the salt waves of the sea every day of his life, the close confinement, with but a teacupful of water to bathe in, becomes unendurable. My jailer looked at me with surprise when I asked this favour, and, as he could speak a little English, he informed me that he could not understand my wishing to put my whole body into water; that for him it made him ill! However, he went off to proffer my request to the proper authorities, and, to my great joy, I was allowed the privilege that I asked—probably because it was thought that such an unusual method of procedure would end my life, and that they might as well get rid of me in that way as any other. Imagine my joy when my guide informed me that I was to beallowed to bathe myself in the horse trough! He looked upon me as quite insane, but seemed to think that such mental failure was common to all English-speaking people, which I assured him was true. In his broken English he informed me that once an English admiral had come up from the coast to the palace to remain over night, and that he had brought his bath-tub with him. This was looked upon as a strange piece of infatuation. Imagine my delight and pleasure when the guide opened my cell door and conducted me to the stable yard! I can not describe the numberless passages, corridors, apartments, and barracks through and by which we passed. It seemed to me to be the journey of a half hour. It would have been most interesting had I not been brimming over all the time with my plans for escape and wondering how we could manage to get to the sea. How often I regretted the leaving of the cave. The American captain could have taken us off in a half hour's time, and now, perhaps, when we reached the shore, he would have gone away. I suppose that I was ten minutes walking through the different hallways, but at last we came out into a rough, uneven yard, where there were mules, horses, hay in abundance under cover and in the open, and in the centre of the inclosure was a great trough of water, where I saw that the horses were allowed to drink. The stable yard was some distance below the crest of the hill, and I recalled that we had descended several flights of steps. I threw off my slight clothing and plunged into the trough, the soldiers looking on with astonishment, as much, perhaps, at my white skin as at my evident enjoyment of the delicious bath. They were, for the most part, dirty and ill dressed in soiled white linen, and I recommended to them in choice English not only a bath for themselves, but for their clothes as well. I dried myself in the sun, and then dressed again. As we mounted a flight of steps in the wall, before entering the fortress—or perhaps, I shouldsay, its inclosed portion—I turned for a moment to look once again down into the smiling valley which stretched between me and liberty. Below me, almost embowered in trees, lay the palace of Sans Souci, and winding along, with curves and turnings, ran the white and dusty road which led to Le Cap. As I stopped for a moment to breathe God's air, for perhaps the last time, I was surprised to see flames far below there in the fields, and now I found that the plains were ablaze, cotton as well as sugar fields. The cane sent up a thick smoke, and there came to us on a desultory breeze the rich, odourous smell of the burning sugar. I pointed this out to the guard who had brought me down to the stable yard. He nodded his head, and told me, as well as I could understand, that the fields had been burning for some days, that the rebels were encroaching from the coast, and that if they succeeded in reaching the citadel we should all be burned or shot. So this was the death reserved for us. Capture by rebels no better than Christophe himself! I took my last look at the melancholy but beautiful sight, and turned again toward what I now felt was to be my tomb. I had kept up my courage until that moment, but now, alas! it had flown in a breath. We walked again through many dark corridors, and I saw that we took this time a different turning. I was about to remonstrate with my guard as to this, when there was a sudden beating of a drum and a call to arms. He quickly opened a door and pushed me hurriedly into a room, the door slammed, and I looked up to find that I was confronting Cynthia. I met her with a most disheartening sentence.

"We can at least die together," said I.

"Why should we die at all?" asked Cynthia, running to me with a little cry of joy.

"The rebels are attacking Christophe, and they will treat us even worse than he has."

"How do you know?" asked Cynthia.

"I have just heard so from the guard who put me in here. Of course, my being here is a mistake. He has brought me a story too low, but it is all the same now. We can die together."

"I don't believe we shall die at all," said Cynthia. "I'm dreadfully sorry now that I sent that diamond to the King."

"What diamond?" asked I, almost knowing what she would say.

"Why, the morning that they brought me here I was kneeling there in the corner, praying that we might be saved if it was God's will. I had prayed long and earnestly, and was just rising from my knees, when I heard a curious little chick and rattle, and the most wonderful jewel that I ever imagined rolled out from that crack in the ceiling. It dropped almost into my hands. I have wanted to tell you every day, but you have always gone away so suddenly——"

"So the Bo's'n is doubly paid for his weak, unwilling back!" said I. Cynthia, of course, did not understand these words, but continued:

"I looked upon this as a special interposition of Providence in my behalf, and when the young Prince Geffroy came up here two days ago I sent the diamond to the King, hoping that he would save us in exchange for it."

I gasped in distress.

"I don't believe he would keep his written pledge," said I, "and certainly if he had not promised you he would not save your life on account of the jewel if he wished to take it. Why did Geffroy come up here?"

"He came to collect all the troops that could be spared. There has been an uprising——"

"Yes, yes, I know," said I. While I had been talking I heard distant sounds of firing, the sounds of shouts were borne upon the breeze, and then suddenly the boom of one of the guns of the citadel itself spoke out to remind those in the valley below, perhaps, that the stupendous fortress was still there, still faithful, still impregnable. I climbed up on the low seat which had been given Cynthia, and found that I could just look over the ledge of the port.

"How did you get up so high as to put your head out of the window?" asked I.

"Turned the bench on one end, of course," said Cynthia. Woman's wit again! I set the bench on end and looked out with ease. The valley was all aflame now. I should not have thought that the fires would spread so rapidly. At that very moment, had I but known it, Christophe was seated under the great camaito tree, and as all the troops who remained faithful defiled before him he gave to each one a piece of money, and told them to go and fight the rebels for God and for King Henry of the North. We spent the day thus and the long watches of the night. I watched while Cynthia slept, and she watched while I took some rest.

It was early morning when our cell door was thrown open and we were told to come out at once. We ran along the black and dingy halls, and, following the faint light which showed itself, as well as the sound of voices, we at last found ourselves upon the great esplanade. Even though all was excitement and anxiety, I could not help taking in the wondrous beauty of the view. I seemed all at once to be perched in midair. I know now that I saw that grand body of water, Manzanillo Bay, stretching to the northward. To the right, in the dim distance, were La Grange and Monte Cristo in their infancy; to the left, the stretch of land that led toward Le Cap. Below us the fires were raging, and beyond the gate I saw a body of men advancing, not by the perilous path over which I had come, but along a fine road, which led winding down through the woods to Sans Souci itself. These soldiers had just emerged from the forest. They were of the rebel party. They swarmed up the hill andbegan their attack on the great gates of the fortress. It seemed hopeless to me, but I had no time to surmise anything, for I was there to aid, and I asked for instructions at once. All was excitement on the terrace. All the great cannon which could be moved had been wheeled across the esplanade, and their muzzles turned downward upon the advancing enemy. I now understood why we had been released. Many of the soldiery had been called away to protect Sans Souci and the towns of the valley, so that every man in the fortress was needed to load and fire those eighteen- and twenty-four-pounders. They stood upon their mahogany carriages as firmly as if those carriages were made of iron. And here, among the defenders of the place, I came upon the Skipper, the Smith, and the Bo's'n. Cynthia rushed to her Uncle's arms, and for a moment the two could not speak. Then the old man said:

"You must hide yourself, Cynthy, girl."

"No, Uncle," she answered, "I can bring fire, or do anything that a man can, and so save you the time of a soldier. Perhaps if we fight for Christophe he will let us go."

Poor girl! The cry of the captive since the days of Pharaoh, no greater tyrant than Christophe himself!

How shall I describe the confusion which reigned in the fortress? The wheeling of the guns into place, the belching forth of their loads of shot and shell, the shrieks of the wounded below the gate and under the walls, the hammering upon the masonry from the outside, the shouts of "They are here!" or, "They are attacking that sally port!" The rush of our handful of men to aid in the repulse, then the surging back as the attack came from another quarter. Can you imagine anything so strange as the sight of a young girl among those rough soldiers of all shades, running here and there, bringing water to the overheated gunners, carrying fire to light the powder at the vent, encouraging her friends by wordsof cheer, even jumping upon the parapet in sight of all on both sides, and calling in her clear voice, "They are making a rush toward the southern gate, Uncle!" or, "Hiram, they are falling back! Fire down the hill, and you will have them on this side!"

All day long the sound of battle came to us. It rose from those plains of Paradise which were being turned from gardens into shambles. Gardens where in the past, the rose and the Sangre de Cristo lily had borrowed from the soil, watered with the blood of Christophe's enemies, a colour as vivid as that of the streams which ran again to-day in crimson rivers adown the plain.

Sometimes the shriek of the great cannon ball sounded near to us, then again farther away; sometimes the clouds of smoke arose so that we could not see the plain, and anon the sweet trade wind, made only to send the good ship flying on her course, or in its baby breeze to caress the cheek of a gentle maid, parted the columns of smoke, and we saw flames bursting through the roofs of the dwellings of the valley, and caught a glimpse of contending armies as they advanced or retreated, won victory or succumbed to defeat.

We fought there all the morning, but at last we found ourselves the victors, although with some loss on our side. Our victory was owing to the small numbers of the attacking force, as well as to the impregnability of the fortress. The Smith had been killed. He did not die at once, and Cynthia sat with his head in her lap and gave him water until his lips stiffened, so that he could speak no more. He gave her messages for "the misses," and you have heard, son Adoniah, how well she delivered them, going to England herself in '29, and to Cornwall, where she saw young Trevelyan again. But I am getting ahead of my story. The Bo's'n, too, was wounded, and Cynthia was bending toward him when suddenly he rolled over, helpless as he was, and away as far as he could get from his kind nurse.

"Is the Bo's'n mad?" asked Cynthia of me. I had gone to get them both some water, and was returning along the esplanade when I saw this motion of the Bo's'n.

"Yes, on a certain subject," said I, and I laid my finger on the magic symbol, which I saw dangling from the opening at the throat of her dress. It was hanging upon the baby chain in company again with my portrait. But the eyes, those wondrous orbs of flame, were gone! It was upon that eyeless bit of mystery that you cut your teeth, Adoniah, and all of your children after you.

"I found it," said Cynthia, "when I went back to the mahogany tree that evening. It was lying in the gravel. My foot struck something, and I stooped to pick it up, and found that it was that serpent ring."

"That ring has had a strange history," said I. "Hide it now, or the Bo's'n will let you do nothing for him."

"We can escape now, Jones," said the Skipper. "At least the enemy are dying or running away, and our captors seem to have followed suit. Let us start at once."

"We can't leave this poor man, Uncle," said Cynthia, pointing to the Bo's'n. Of course, we could not leave him! The dear girl was, as ever, right.

I saw the disappointment of the Skipper's face.

"Staying may imperil all our lives," he said; "but I suppose it's human to stay."

"I think he'll be able to walk after a night's rest," said Cynthia.

"It's getting late now to make a start," said I. "The early morning will be better."

"I shall have to start quite early," said Cynthia. "I want to stop at the beach and get that palm for Aunt Mary 'Zekel."

We were almost alone on the esplanade. The soldiers had disappeared with their officers into the interior of the building. They seemed to have forgotten us, and we were left free to follow our own devices.

It seemed so strange to be free once again, for habitsare quickly formed, and not so quickly broken. I could not get accustomed to the fact that I was free as God's air, and that there was none to molest or to make me afraid.

Cynthia had not mentioned William Brown to me now for some time, and I felt quite sure that whether he was glued to the dock in anticipation of her coming, or whether he had given up all hope, that the latter course would be wisest and best for William himself.

"You mustn't forget the palm tree for Aunt Mary 'Zekel," said Cynthia. "There is the dearest little one down by the cave. I wonder if we shall go that way?"

"Whichever way we go, we must be cautious," said I. "I think that General Boyer would protect us if we could find him, but the opposing parties will fight to-morrow as they did to-day, and they are between us and him. Fortunately for us, the battle is waged at a distance back from the coast, and in front of Sans Souci."

"Mr. Jones, sir," said the Bo's'n, "Zalee says we'll have to slip down to the right, sir. All the natives have rushed up to the different palaces for their share of the plunder, and the coast line is left almost deserted."

"Then I can certainly get the palm," said Cynthia, sticking persistently to her point, as women will.

"Well, well, Cynthy, girl," said the Skipper impatiently, "if you want to try it, I'll see what we can do for you, but I reely can't see how you can bear to look at anything from this damn black kingdom ever again. If Mary 'Zekel so much as carries a palm-leaf fan to church along with her bunch of fennel, darn me if I don't throw it into the aisle!"

As we were thus talking, some of the soldiers came hurrying from the interior of the fortress. Their arms were heaped with loads of treasure. So greedy had they been that gold, silver, jewels, and glittering napoleons spilled from their clutches as they ran.

Following them came officers, themselves laden withbooty. They fired upon the soldiers as they ran in front of them, calling to them to drop these treasures of Christophe's, which they themselves were taking only to restore to the King. Some of the plunderers dropped dead at our very feet. Some turned and fired on their officers, saying that the game was over, and that they might as well have the spoil as Boyer's men. They ran to the stable yard, and, mounting mules and horses, rode away, many of them with hands and sashes full of treasure. The officers returned again and again, each one carrying all that he could hold in his arms. They made bundles of the stuff and piled it upon the mules in the courtyard. They seemed to have forgotten us, and when they had seized all that they could find by breaking in, they, too, rode away down the mountain side, leaving us the sole inhabitants of that impregnable fortress, which, properly invested with men and munitions of war, would have withstood siege for a lifetime.

We moved the Bo's'n into the shade, and searched the place for food and drink. This we found in plenty. We washed our faces and hands clean from the grime of battle, and retreated to a far corner of the esplanade, which overlooked the palace, but where we were out of sight of the dreadful results of the carnage. There we rested in the cool, sweet air of evening. Far, far away I could see a little fleck of white on the waters of the bay, which I thought might be the American ship waiting to take us back to Belleville. But we could not go to-night. We could only watch and wait. The sun was sinking fast in the west, the night coming on apace.

And now a strange and distant sound like the wail of the mourner broke the stillness of this peaceful evening hour. What new event this betokened I could not forecast. So much had come and gone that nothing out of heaven or hell would have caused me surprise. The moaning continued, and I went to the edge of the parapet to see what more there was of the unexpected. Cynthia trembled and begged me not to go. The poor girl, so brave when courage was needed, was now nervous and anxious, and said many times, "Oh, if we were only at the coast!"

I stood at the edge of the parapet and looked downward. There came, winding along up through the forest, a funeral procession. So I could not help but judge, for four persons were carrying a hammock containing a heavy load between them, and several others walked behind. Of those who followed, four were women and one was a man. There was an incongruousness about the procession, for behind the mourners lounged a small figure, who apparently was not at all interested in the sad group which preceded him. He halted and looked upward at the trees, and threw stones at the birds. I could but smile. It was total depravity exemplified in the person of the Minion. I could not but feel a disappointment that he had not been captured, or slaughtered, or left behind in some way, but here he was, and we must make the best of him, which, indeed, was very little.

The Skipper had joined me, and was gazing curiously at the small procession as it wound upward toward the summit.

"You might know it," said the Skipper, looking wearily at the ubiquitous Minion. "As usual, in everybody's mess and nobody's watch."

As the mourners approached the great gates, which had been left open by the retreating soldiery, the wailing became louder, the women moaned and beat their bodies, raised their hands to Heaven, as if calling maledictions down upon an enemy, and then again beat their breasts and wailed in long and solemn cadence, as if for a loved one gone. The procession entered the courtyard at a slow pace. The bearers rested their load, as if they must have a breathing spell; but almost at once, at an imperious signal from the foremost figure of the group, they again lifted their burden and walked upward until theycame out upon the open esplanade. I saw now that Zalee was among the carriers, and I also perceived that the burden which he aided in carrying was a very ponderous one. When the bearers had reached the centre of the esplanade, she who led, one of tall stature and graceful mien, ordered them with a gesture that was regal in its command, to rest their burden upon the ground. When this was done, and the bearers had withdrawn to a little distance, the four mourners surrounded the giant form and, bending low above it, wailed in despairing monotony. So he had come to this! That great King! For it was our enemy Christophe himself thus come to an end of all his power! I saw Lacelle among the few faithful who surrounded the family of the King, and as they withdrew at a respectful distance she and Zalee caught sight of us. They came eagerly forward to greet us. They told us how Christophe, finding that his enemies were upon him, had retired to his chamber, and almost within sight of the valley of dry bones, where thirty thousand of his victims lay, he had had the courage to take his own life, as ruthlessly as he had taken the lives of thousands.

The interpreter was there, as well as Lacelle's relatives—a poor little remnant of those who had served Christophe while he was all-powerful. Lacelle ran to Cynthia and begged her not to leave her here; if she were going away, to take her with her. Zalee pointed to the distant bay, and told us, through the interpreter, that the ship would be there, he thought, on the morrow; that the Captain dared not tarry long for fear of a dash at his vessel by some of the pirates who infested the Isle of Pines.

It was growing quite dark now. I had been conscious for some time that a figure was lingering in one of the angles of the wall looking our way. I spoke to Cynthia.

"I think that is your friend," said I. I motioned toward the shadow. Cynthia uttered an exclamation and started toward the place. The girl stepped forth to meether, and I recognised at once the young daughter of the King.

"I wanted to see you once more," she whispered. "Our lives are finished, but I wanted to say good-bye. Oh, if I could but live in a country such as yours, where you are a princess, where there is no killing, no bloodshed! I remember nothing else in all my life!" And now the other sister approached. She opened her hand, and disclosed to Cynthia's astonished eyes the diamond which she had sent as a gift to Christophe but a few days before.

"His last gift to my dear mother," she said. "He was a King, a great, great King, a powerful warrior, but his last thought was of her."

Cynthia closed the girl's fingers over the glittering gem.

"It was God-given, after all," she said to me, "since it will be the fortune of those who would have saved us."

The Bo's'n, overhearing part of our conversation, expressed it as his opinion that we should at once demand the jewel from the daughter of the dead King.

"O Bo's'n!" said Cynthia, "don't talk about money! That has brought much of this trouble upon us. Let us once get home, and I care not if I live on a crust a day. Let us get home, to free, God-fearing America!"

"I'll see how I feel to-morrow, Mrs. Jones, ma'm," said the Bo's'n stubbornly.

The citadel was ours! The grand, great fortress, with its multitude of apartments and secret interiors, was as absolutely given over to us as if we had fought for its possession with the army who held it, and had vanquished its occupants.

After the last one of the guard had disappeared, with all the booty that he could carry, we left the little band of mourners upon the terrace and went with the Skipper in search of a comfortable shelter for Cynthia. I found one apartment well secluded from the others,which seemed as if provided to withstand a siege—something which Christophe had always apprehended. These rooms were designated as "the Queen's chambers," and here we brought Cynthia and Lacelle, and for the first time in many long weeks the two were together in absolute comfort and safety, wrapped, I hoped, in dreamless sleep. The Skipper ensconced himself in the sacred bed of the King, and the others of our party found lodgment both commodious and magnificent. As for me, the excitement of the day had told upon me. I felt smothered inside the walls, and could not forget so soon the hurried march of events. Nor could I prevent myself from dwelling on the thought that we at last were free to go as we listed. It had all come about in a moment, as it were, by means which no man could have foreseen, and I mused upon this fact, and the evolving of what I had considered my wise and wily plans, and their defeat and overthrow by that Providence who had but to say, "Go! thou art bound no more." I sat myself down outside upon the terrace and leaned against the great stone wall, where from an angle I could overlook the palace of Sans Souci and the little town of Millot, now black and smoke-stained, or charred and burned by fire. My eyes endeavoured to penetrate the cloud of war that overhung that valley, which smiled but yesterday, but beyond an occasional flame which shot upward from a still burning sugar house or the villa of some one of Christophe's court, all was still. There was no clash of arms. The opposing warriors were resting from their days of slaughter, to begin afresh on the morrow.

To me, as I sat, came Zalee, and with many halting words, broken speech, and explanatory signs, he conveyed to me an astounding piece of news.

If you will go back with me to the night of the burial of the skeletons, you will recall that the Skipper had said to me, as we were carrying our grewsome burdens down the hillside, that there was a tall figure walkingbetween us. I had felt unpleasantly over his words, but I found from what Zalee told me that the Skipper's eyesight had not been so uncertain as at the time I hoped it was. There had been a third person present with us, and that person was Zalee himself. From a coign of vantage in the cavern, of which we were ignorant, he had observed the secreting of the jewels by the Bo's'n. And surmising from the Skipper's actions what his intentions were, he had joined us in the dark to render us another of those remarkable and generous services of which he had ever been so prodigal. As we left each poor bundle of bones upon the shore to return after another, Zalee had busied himself in extricating the parcels of jewels from the interiors of the skeletons. Three of these he rifled. The fourth naturally, as it was the last, and we did not return to the cavern, he could not secure. But, after all, there was a large part of the treasure—three quarters, at the very least—intact, and in some place of safe keeping, of which Zalee knew. But to say that I scarce listened, is to tell the exact and unvarnished truth. Our troubles and sorrows had been so great, our fears so overwhelming, that the one great possession of freedom was the only thing for which I cared. We were going home, safe as when we started, all but the poor Smith, who, though not of our kith, kin, or people, had shared our hardships and had aided us with his knowledge and advice.

I shook my head sadly, but with a well spring of hope rising in my breast.

"Let us talk no more of riches, or wealth, or gems, or jewels," I said. "All that we desire now is to get away from this savage land, to tread once more the deck of an American ship, to breathe the air of our free country, and see Belleville once again."

I lay all night out under the stars, scarce sleeping, scarce waking, in that strange, glad state which the sudden certainty of relief from anxiety brings. The morning was yet dark when I called the others. They came out one by one, with strange, dazed faces, but looking refreshed from their long hours' sleep. As we sat there waiting for day, we talked of home and the prospect of our soon seeing Aunt Mary 'Zekel and Belleville.

Zalee had said that he would guide us by a near way; he had begged that he and Lacelle might accompany us to our country. They had found us better than their own country folk; he hoped to find our native land the same, and make it his. You know how they did accompany us, Adoniah, and what faithful creatures they have proved themselves to us and to our children and our children's children.

The grey was in the east when we arose and started for the coast. As we came out upon the esplanade, one was there before us—one whose devoted watch had not ceased the long night through. Her tall and regal figure was draped in sombre weeds. Her face was covered, her hands were clasped upon her breast, her whole attitude an embodiment of uttermost despair. Our faces, set toward home and happiness and love and life, were turned for one backward pitying glance, then faced our joy again. As we descended those shining slopes of verdure, which owned her Queen but yesterday, we left her in the grandeur of that solitary mountain top to mourn over him who, in erecting his citadel, had, all-unknowing, builded for himself, tyrant though he was, a splendid and a lasting sepulchre.

NOVELS BY MAARTEN MAARTENS.

THE GREATER GLORY. A Story of High Life.ByMaarten Maartens, author of "God's Fool," "Joost Avelingh," etc. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

"Until the Appletons discovered the merits of Maarten Maartens, the foremost of Dutch novelists, it is doubtful if many American readers knew that there were Dutch novelists. His 'God's Fool' and 'Joost Avelingh' made for him an American reputation. To our mind this just published work of his is his best.... He is a master of epigram, an artist in description, a prophet in insight."—Boston Advertiser.

"It would take several columns to give any adequate idea of the superb way in which the Dutch novelist has developed his theme and wrought out one of the most impressive stories of the period.... It belongs to the small class of novels which one can not afford to neglect."—San Francisco Chronicle.

"Maarten Maartens stands head and shoulders above the average novelist of the day in intellectual subtlety and imaginative power."—Boston Beacon.

GOD'S FOOL.ByMaarten Maartens. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

"Throughout there is an epigrammatic force which would make palatable a less interesting story of human lives or one less deftly told."—London Saturday Review.

"Perfectly easy, graceful, humorous.... The author's skill in character-drawing is undeniable."—London Chronicle.

"A remarkable work."—New York Times.

"Maarten Maartens has secured a firm footing in the eddies of current literature.... Pathos deepens into tragedy in the thrilling story of 'God's Fool.'"—Philadelphia Ledger.

"Its preface alone stamps the author as one of the leading English novelists of to-day."—Boston Daily Advertiser.

"The story is wonderfully brilliant.... The interest never lags; the style is realistic and intense; and there is a constantly underlying current of subtle humor.... It is, in short, a book which no student of modern literature should fail to read."—Boston Times.

"A story of remarkable interest and point."—New York Observer.

JOOST AVELINGH.ByMaarten Maartens. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

"So unmistakably good as to induce the hope that an acquaintance with the Dutch literature of fiction may soon become more general among us."—London Morning Post.

"In scarcely any of the sensational novels of the day will the reader find more nature or more human nature."—LondonStandard.

"A novel of a very high type. At once strongly realistic and powerfully idealistic."—London Literary World.

"Full of local color and rich in quaint phraseology and suggestion."—London Telegraph.

"Maarten Maartens is a capital story-teller."—Pall MallGazette.

"Our English writers of fiction will have to look to their laurels."—Birmingham Daily Post.

NOVELS BY HALL CAINE.UNIFORM EDITION.

THE CHRISTIAN.$1.50.

"Must be regarded as the greatest work that has yet come from the pen of this strong writer.... A book of wonderful power and force."—Brooklyn Eagle.

"The public is hardly prepared for so remarkable a performance as 'The Christian.'... A permanent addition to English literature.... Above and beyond any popularity that is merely temporary."—Boston Herald.

"A book that has assuredly placed its maker upon a pedestal which will last well-nigh forever.... Powerful, thrilling, dramatic, and, best of all, intensely honest in its every line.... A truly wonderful achievement."—Cincinnati Commercial Tribune.

THE MANXMAN.$1.50.

"The book, as a whole, is on a rare level of excellence—a level which we venture to predict will always be rare."—London Daily Chronicle.

"The most powerful story that has been written in the present generation."—The Scotsman.

"A singularly powerful and picturesque piece of work, extraordinarily dramatic.... A most powerful book."—LondonStandard.

THE DEEMSTER.$1.50.

"Hall Caine has already given us some very strong and fine work, and 'The Deemster' is a story of unusual power.... Certain passages and chapters have an intensely dramatic grasp, and hold the fascinated reader with a force rarely excited nowadays in literature."—The Critic.

"Fascinates the mind like the gathering and bursting of a storm."—Illustrated London News.

THE BONDMAN.New edition. $1.50.

"The welcome given to this story has cheered and touched me, but I am conscious that to win a reception so warm, such a book must have had readers who brought to it as much as they took away.... I have called my story a saga, merely because it follows the epic method, and I must not claim for it at any point the weighty responsibility of history, or serious obligations to the world of fact. But it matters not to me what Icelanders may call 'The Bondman,' if they will honor me by reading it in the open-hearted spirit and with the free mind with which they are content to read of Grettir and of his fights with the Troll."—From the Author'sPreface.

CAPT'N DAVY'S HONEYMOON.$1.00.

"A new departure by this author. Unlike his previous works, this little tale is almost wholly humorous, with, however, a current of pathos underneath. It is not always that an author can succeed equally well in tragedy and in comedy, but it looks as though Mr. Hall Caine would be one of the exceptions."—London LiteraryWorld.

"It is pleasant to meet the author of 'The Deemster' in a brightly humorous little story like this.... It shows the same observation of Manx character, and much of the same artistic skill."—Philadelphia Times.

ByS. R. CROCKETT.Uniform edition. Each, 12mo, cloth, $1.50.

THE STANDARD BEARER.An Historical Romance.

"Mr. Crockett's book is distinctly one ofthebooks of the year. Five months of 1898 have passed without bringing to the reviewers' desk anything to be compared with it in beauty of description, convincing characterization, absorbing plot and humorous appeal. The freshness and sweet sincerity of the tale are most invigorating, and that the book will be very much read there is no possible doubt."—Boston Budget.

"The book will move to tears, provoke to laughter, stir the blood, and evoke heroisms of history, making the reading of it a delight and the memory of it a stimulus and a joy."—New YorkEvangelist.

LADS' LOVE.Illustrated.

"It seems to us that there is in this latest product much of the realism of personal experience. However modified and disguised, it is hardly possible to think that the writer's personality does not present itself in Saunders McQuhirr.... Rarely has the author drawn more truly from life than in the cases of Nance and 'the Hempie'; never more typical Scotsman of the humble sort than the farmer Peter Chrystie."—London Athenæum.

CLEG KELLY, ARAB OF THE CITY.His Progress and Adventures.Illustrated.

"A masterpiece which Mark Twain himself has never rivaled.... If there ever was an ideal character in fiction it is this heroic ragamuffin."—London Daily Chronicle.

"In no one of his books does Mr. Crockett give us a brighter or more graphic picture of contemporary Scotch life than in 'Cleg Kelly.'... It is one of the great books."—Boston DailyAdvertiser.

BOG-MYRTLE AND PEAT.Third edition.

"Here are idyls, epics, dramas of human life, written in words that thrill and burn.... Each is a poem that has an immortal flavor. They are fragments of the author's early dreams, too bright, too gorgeous, too full of the blood of rubies and the life of diamonds to be caught and held palpitating in expression's grasp."—Boston Courier.

"Hardly a sketch among them all that will not afford pleasure to the reader for its genial humor, artistic local coloring, and admirable portrayal of character."—Boston Home Journal.

THE LILAC SUNBONNET.Eighth edition.

"A love story, pure and simple, one of the old fashioned, wholesome, sunshiny kind, with a pure-minded, sound-hearted hero, and a heroine who is merely a good and beautiful woman; and if any other love story half so sweet has been written this year it has escaped our notice."—New York Times.

"The general conception of the story, the motive of which is the growth of love between the young chief and heroine, is delineated with a sweetness and a freshness, a naturalness and a certainty, which places 'The Lilac Sunbonnet' among the best stories of the time."—New York Mail and Express.

GILBERT PARKER'S BEST BOOKS.Uniform Edition.

THE SEATS OF THE MIGHTY.Being the Memoirs of CaptainRobert Moray, sometime an Officer in the Virginia Regiment, and afterwards of Amherst's Regiment. Illustrated, $1.50.

"Another historical romance of the vividness and intensity of 'The Seats of the Mighty' has never come from the pen of an American. Mr. Parker's latest work may without hesitation be set down as the best he has done. From the first chapter to the last word interest in the book never wanes; one finds it difficult to interrupt the narrative with breathing space. It whirls with excitement and strange adventure.... All of the scenes do homage to the genius of Mr. Parker, and make 'The Seats of the Mighty' one of the books of the year."—Chicago Record.

"Mr. Gilbert Parker is to be congratulated on the excellence of his latest story, 'The Seats of the Mighty,' and his readers are to be congratulated on the direction which his talents have taken therein.... It is so good that we do not stop to think of its literature, and the personality of Doltaire is a masterpiece of creative art."—New York Mail and Express.

THE TRAIL OF THE SWORD.A Novel. $1.25.

"Mr. Parker here adds to a reputation already wide, and anew demonstrates his power of pictorial portrayal and of strong dramatic situation and climax."—Philadelphia Bulletin.

"The tale holds the reader's interest from first to last, for it is full of fire and spirit, abounding in incident, and marked by good character drawing."—Pittsburg Times.

THE TRESPASSER.$1.25.

"Interest.... Almost bare of synthetical decoration, his paragraphs are stirring because they are real. We read at times—as we have read the great masters of romance—breathlessly."—The Critic.

"Gilbert Parker writes a strong novel, but thus far this is his masterpiece.... It is one of the great novels of the year."—Boston Advertiser.

THE TRANSLATION OF A SAVAGE.$1.25.

"A book which no one will be satisfied to put down until the end has been matter of certainty and assurance."—The Nation.

"A story of remarkable interest, originality, and ingenuity of construction."—Boston Home Journal.

MRS. FALCHION.$1.25.

"A well-knit story, told in an exceedingly interesting way, and holding the reader's attention to the end."

SOME CHOICE FICTION.

EVELYN INNES.A Story. ByGeorge Moore, author of "Esther Waters," etc. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

"The marvelously artistic analysis of the inner life of this remarkable woman exercises a peculiar fascination for cultivated people.... There are splendid interpretations of Wagner's best works, of the differences between ancient and modern music, of the weaknesses of agnosticism, and of the impossibility of finding happiness and freedom from misery in a life of sin. The manner of the doing is wonderfully fine. Mr. Moore's artistic treatment provokes one's admiration again and again.... It seems as if one could pass over no single sentence without losing something.... The appeal of the book is to the class of people best worth writing for, cultivated, intellectual people, who can appreciate something better than the commonplace stories which invariably come out right. Its literary quality is high; there are very fine things about it, and one feels that 'Evelyn Innes' is the work of a master."—Boston Herald.

In 'Evelyn Innes' Mr. Moore joins to microscopic subtlety of analysis a sense of the profound and permanent things in human life which is rarely to be encountered anywhere save in works of great breadth.... The method is with Mr. Moore an affair of piercing and yet tender insight, of sympathy as well as science.... 'Evelyn Innes' will greatly strengthen the author's position. It speaks of a powerful imagination, and, even more, of a sane and hopeful view of human life."—New York Tribune.

"The book is one which, while in no respect dramatic, is still profoundly interesting.... It is bound to be read with ever wider attention being drawn to its merits as an elaborate mosaic of literary art, a deep study of human nature, a noble defense of the antiques of music, and altogether a praiseworthy contribution to the best works of the modern English realistic school."—Philadelphia Item.

"Assuredly to be accounted a work of art in an exacting field."—London Morning Post.

"Space is left us for almost unadulterated praise. This is the sanest, the most solid, the most accomplished book which Mr. Moore has written."—London Saturday Review.

"Virile and vivid. It has distinction and grace."—San FranciscoCall.

"Sure to be widely read."—Brooklyn Standard-Union.

"Fascinatingly written."—Cleveland Plain Dealer.

KRONSTADT.A Romance. ByMax Pemberton. Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

"'Kronstadt' is beyond measure superior in all respects to anything Mr. Pemberton has hitherto done. Singularly original in its conception, the story is most cunningly and cleverly told. It grips the attention in the first paragraph, and whirls one irresistibly along through all the stirring incidents of its skillfully devised plot, giving one not an instant's rest until the splendid dramatic climax gives sudden relief."—London DailyMail.

"It is a profoundly interesting and exciting story.... The book has no dull pages in it."—Chicago Inter-Ocean.

"An exceedingly well-written story of adventure, original in plot, skillful in character drawing, and full of movement and color."—Washington Times.

"There is a breathless interest about the tale which will not permit you to lay it aside until the whole adventure is mastered."—Brooklyn Eagle.

FÉLIX GRAS'S ROMANCES.

THE TERROR.A Romance of the French Revolution. ByFélix Gras, author of "The Reds of the Midi." Uniform with "The Reds of the Midi." Translated by Mrs. Catharine A. Janvier, 16mo. Cloth, $1.50.

"If Félix Gras had never done any other work than this novel, it would at once give him a place in the front rank of the writers of to day.... 'The Terror' is a story that deserves to be widely read, for, while it is of thrilling interest, holding the reader's attention closely, there is about it a literary quality that makes it worthy of something more than a careless perusal."—Brooklyn Eagle.

"Romantic conditions could hardly be better presented than in a book of this kind, and above all, in a book by Félix Gras.... The romance is replete with interest."—New York Times.

"There is genius in the book. The narrative throbs with a palpitation of virile force and nervous vigor. Read it as a mere story, and it is absorbing beyond description. Consider it as a historical picture, ... and its extraordinary power and significance are apparent."—Philadelphia Press.

"The book may be recommended to those who like strong, artistic, and exciting romances."—Boston Saturday Evening Gazette.

"Many as have been the novels which have the Revolution as their scene, not one surpasses, if equals, in thrilling interest."—Cleveland Plain Dealer.

THE REDS OF THE MIDI.An Episode of the French Revolution. ByFélix Gras. Translated from the Provençal by Mrs. Catharine A. Janvier. With an Introduction by Thomas A. Janvier. With Frontispiece, 16mo. Cloth, $1.50.

"I have read with great and sustained interest 'The Reds of the South,' which you were good enough to present to me. Though a work of fiction, it aims at painting the historical features, and such works if faithfully executed throw more light than many so called histories on the true roots and causes of the Revolution, which are so widely and so gravely misunderstood. As a novel it seems to me to be written with great skill."—William E.Gladstone.

"Patriotism, a profound and sympathetic insight into the history of a great epoch, and a poet's delicate sensitiveness to the beauties of form and expression have combined to make M Félix Gras's 'The Reds of the Midi' a work of real literary value. It is as far as possible removed from sensationalism; it is, on the contrary, subdued, simple, unassuming, profoundly sincere. Such artifice as the author has found it necessary to employ has been carefully concealed, and if we feel its presence, it is only because experience has taught that the quality is indispensable to a work which affects the imagination so promptly and with such force as does this quiet narrative of the French Revolution."—New York Tribune.

"It is doubtful whether in the English language we have had a more powerful, impressive, artistic picture of the French Revolution, from the revolutionist's point of view, than that presented in Félix Gras's 'The Reds of the Midi.'... Adventures follow one another rapidly; splendid, brilliant pictures are frequent, and the thread of a tender, beautiful love story winds in and out of its pages."—New York Mail and Express.

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.

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