Chapter Five.

Chapter Five.Santina.“From the Contéssa, signore.”A tall liveried servant handed me a coroneted missive, and, bowing stiffly, withdrew. Taking the letter mechanically, I sat puffing at my cigarette and dreaming.The sultry day was over, and the full moon was shining down clear and cool. Genoa had drawn breath again; its streets and piazzas had grown alive with the stir of manifold movement; the broad Via Roma, with its fine shops and garishcafés, echoed with increasing confusion of voices and jest and laughter and song; while the flower-sellers were everywhere, and the newsboys in strident tones cried theSecoloand theGazzetta. My small and rather shabby room was on the top floor of a great old palazzo in the Via Balbi. The jalousies, wide-open, admitted little gusts of fresh air that blew up from the sea, while the ceaseless babel of tongues, the clip-clap of horses’ hoofs, and the indescribable odour of garlic, fried oil, and the cheap cigars characteristic of an Italian street, was borne in upon me.Two candles in the sconces of a small Venetian mirror shed their light over the pedestal, upon which was a statue almost finished. It was a representation of a lovely woman in carnival dress, that I had chiselled in marble.The face was absolutely beautiful, not only because of its perfect harmony, not only winsome in the gentleness of its contour, but it was also masterful by virtue of the freedom and force expressed in all its firmness.Lazily I opened the letter, and prepared to feast upon its contents. But the few brief words penned in a woman’s hand caused me to start to my feet in anger and dismay; and, holding my breath, I crushed the missive and cast it under my foot. She who had written to me was the original of this statue, which was considered my masterpiece.The note was cold and formal, unlike her usual graceful letters. It stated that she was leaving Italy that evening; and expressed regret she could not sit again to me. She also enclosed a bank-note for two thousand lire, which she apparently believed would repay me for my trouble.My trouble!Dio mio! Had it not been a labour of love, when I adored—nay, worshipped her; and she, in her turn, had bestowed smiles and kisses upon me?Yet she had written and sent me money, as if I were a mere tradesman; and from the tone of her note, it seemed as if our friendship existed no longer. Every day she had come to my studio, bringing with her that breath of stephanotis that always pervaded her; and because she was not averse to a mild flirtation, I had believed she loved me! Bah! I had been fooled! The iron of a wasted love, of a useless sacrifice, was in my heart.This sudden awakening had crushed me; and I stood gazing aimlessly out of the window, unaware of the presence of a visitor, until I felt a hearty slap on the shoulder, and, turning quickly, faced my old friend, Pietro Barolini.“Chi vide mái tanto!” he cried cheerily. “Why, my dear fellow, you look as if you’ve got a very bad attack of melancholia. What’s the matter?”“Read that,” I said, pointing to the crumpled letter on the floor. “Tell me, what am I to do?”Picking up the note, he read it through, drew a heavy breath, and remained silent and thoughtful.Pietro and I had been companions ever since our childhood days, when, as bare-legged urchins, sons of honest fishermen, we had played on the beach at our quiet home in rural Tuscany. When we set out together to seek our fortunes, Fate directed us to Genoa; and in “La Superba” we still lived, Pietro having become a well-known musician; while I, Gasparo Corazzini, had, by a vagary of chance, attracted the notice of the greatmaestroVerga, under whose tuition I had developed into a successful sculptor.“It is unfortunate,” my friend said at last, twisting his pointed black moustache; “yet she is not of our world, and, after all, perhaps it is best that you should part.”“Ah!” I said. “Your words are well meant, Pietro; but I love her too passionately to cast aside her memory so lightly. I must see her. She must tell me from her own lips that she no longer cares for me!” I cried, starting up impetuously.“Very well—go. Take her back the money with which she has insulted you, and bid adieu to her forever. You will soon forget.”“Yes,” I said; “I will.”Snatching up my hat, and crushing the letter into the pocket of my blouse, I rushed out and down the stairs into the street, without a thought of personal appearance, my only desire being to catch her before she departed.Blindly I hurried across the Piazza del Principe, then out of the town into the open country, never slackening my pace for a moment until I entered the grounds of a great white villa that stood on the hillside at Comigliano, overlooking the moonlit sea. Then, with a firm determination to be calm, I advanced towards the house cautiously, and, swinging myself upon the low verandah, peered in at a glass door that stood open.Noiselessly I entered. The room was dazzling in its magnificence, notwithstanding that the lamps were shaded by soft lace and tinted silk. The gilt furniture, the great mirrors, the statuary—genuine works by Leopardi and Sansovino—the Persian rugs and rich silken hangings, all betokened wealth, taste, and refinement.Reclining on a couch with languid grace, clad in a loose wrapper of dove-grey silk, with her hairen déshabille, was the woman I loved.“Santina!” I whispered, bending over her, uttering a pet name I had bestowed upon her.She started, and jumped up quickly, half-frightened, exclaiming—“Cièlo! You, Gasparo—youhere?”“Yes,” I replied, catching her white bejewelled hand and kissing it. “Yes. Why not?”She snatched away her hand quickly, and passed it wearily across her brow. Her beauty shone with marvellous radiance, for she was only twenty-four—fair-haired, blue-eyed, and with a slim, graceful figure that gave her an almost girlish appearance. I own myself entranced by her loveliness.“I thought,” she said, after a moment’s hesitation—“I thought my note explained everything. The statue is practically finished, and—”“No—no!” I cried. “It is still incomplete. You cannot—you shall not leave me, Santina!”“Pray, why?” she asked indignantly, raising her eyebrows.“Because—because I love you,” I stammered.“Love!” she exclaimed, with a light laugh. “Bah! How foolish! Love! It is only plebeians and fools who love. There is no such word in our vocabulary.”“Yes, yes,” I said quickly. “I know the insurmountable barrier that lies between us, Santina. But do you intend to leave Italy—to leave me alone—now?”“Of course. It is not my intention to return for several years; perhaps never. We have spent many pleasant hours together; but you have become infatuated, therefore we must part.”“No!” I cried; “I cannot—I will not let you go! Only a week ago you confessed that you loved me. What have I done that you should treat me so?”She made no immediate answer; and as she stood with bowed head and somewhat pale, thoughtful face, I wondered what mystery veiled and troubled her clear, resolute nature.Placing my arm around her waist, I bent and kissed her lips; but she struggled to free herself.“Dio!” she cried hoarsely. “Why have you come here, Gasparo? Think of my reputation—my honour! If any one found you here alone with me, and I indéshabillé.”“Tell me, Santina, do you still love me?” I asked earnestly, looking into her eyes.“I—I hardly know,” she replied, with a strange, preoccupied air.“Why are you leaving so suddenly?”“Because it is imperative,” she replied. “But hush! listen! a voice!Dio! it is my husband!”“Your husband!” I gasped. “What do you mean? I thought the Count died in Buenos Ayres two years ago, and that you were free?”“So did I. But that was his voice.Cièlo! I know it, alas! too well,” she said, turning deathly pale.Rushing suddenly across the room, she snatched something from a small niche in the wall and brought it over to me. It was a curious little ivory idol, about six inches long, representing Amida, the eternal Buddha. Kissing it, she handed it to me, saying—“Quick! take this as a souvenir. It has been my talisman; may it be yours. When I am absent, look upon it sometimes, Gasparo, and think of me.”“You do love me, then, Santina?” I cried joyously; for answer she placed her lips to mine.“Hide! hide at once!” she implored. “Kneel behind that screen, or we are lost. Remain there until we have left the house, and tell no one that you have seen the Count.A rivederci!”I slipped into the place she indicated, and not a moment too soon, for as I did so, a short, stout man of about sixty years of age entered. His face wore a strange, fixed expression, and as he strode in, he betrayed no astonishment at meeting his wife, although she, terrified and trembling, shrank from him.“I thought you were ready,” he exclaimed roughly. “Be quick and put on your travelling dress. The carriage is on its way round, and we haven’t a moment to spare if we mean to leave to-night.”“I shall not keep you long,” she sighed, and a few moments later they both turned and left the room.The reappearance of the Count di Pallanzeno, whom every one believed had died, was puzzling, and the manner in which husband and wife conversed showed there was but little affection between them.Suddenly I remembered that I had forgotten to return the bank-note, but I saw it was useless to attempt to do so now, therefore I decided to keep it until we met again. Obeying the Contéssa’s instructions, I remained in my hiding-place for half an hour, until I heard the carriage drive away down the road, then I stole out upon the verandah and let myself down noiselessly into the garden.The moon was shining brilliantly on the white blossoms and the pale marbles, and in order to escape the observation of any of the servants who might be about, I crept along under the dark shadow of the ilex-trees in the direction of the road. I had not gone very far when suddenly I caught my foot in an obstruction, and, stumbling, fell over some object that lay in my path. Regaining my feet, I bent to ascertain the cause of my fall, when, to my amazement, I discovered it was a man.I touched the face, and drew back in horror.The man was dead!Everything was quiet, not a leaf stirred, so, taking the body under the arms, I dragged it out into the light. The silver moonbeam that fell across the white face of the corpse gave it a ghastly appearance, revealing the features of a well-dressed man of middle age, totally unknown to me.Closer examination disclosed that a murder had been committed. The man had been shot in the back.Searching about the spot, I was not long before I discovered the weapon with which the crime had evidently been committed. It was a five-chambered plated revolver, one cartridge of which had been discharged. As I inspected it in the cold, bright light, eager to find a clue to the murderer, my eyes fell upon two words engraved on the barrel.Breathlessly I deciphered them, and then stood dumb with awe and dismay.The name engraved upon it was my own!In a moment a terrible thought flashed across me. Was not my presence there, and the discovery of a revolver bearing my name, direct circumstantial evidence against me? Thus recognising my danger, I put the weapon in my pocket, cast a final glance at the dead man’s face, and, creeping noiselessly away under the high hedge of rhododendron and jessamine, I at length gained the road and returned to the noisy city.In the Bourse, in the Galleria Mazzini, in the streets, in thecafés, everywhere, one topic only was discussed next day. A startling tragedy had been enacted, for, according to the newspapers, Colonel Rossano had been discovered mysteriously murdered in the gardens of the Villa Pallanzeno.No motive for the assassination could be assigned, for the colonel, who had only arrived on the previous day from Milan, was a most popular and distinguished officer. The police, it was stated, had received instructions from the Ministry of the Interior at Rome to spare no effort to discover the assassin, and the King himself had offered a reward of ten thousand lire for any information which would lead to the arrest of the murderer.During the hour of the siesta, I had stretched myself in an old armchair in the studio, smoking, when Pietro burst into the room, greeting me with that buoyancy habitual to him. I asked him if he had heard of the tragedy, and gave him the papers to read. Having eagerly scanned them, he expressed surprise that the shot was not heard.“I suppose the Contéssa does not know anything of it,” I said. “The body was not discovered until after midnight, whereas she left by the mail for Turin at ten o’clock.”“And what was the result of your interview?” he asked, seating himself on the edge of the table, and carelessly swinging his legs.“She has gone, but she will return,” I replied briefly.“And she still loves you—eh?”“Yes; you guess correctly,” I laughed.“So goes the world! How happy you should be—you, the accepted lover of the girl-widow of a millionaire! One of these days you’ll marry, and thenper Bacco! you’ll throw over your old companion, the humble fiddler of the Politeama.”His jesting words reminded me of the reappearance of the Count, that Santina was not free, and that our love was illicit.“No,” I said sorrowfully; “I may love, but I shall never marry her.”Three years passed, long, weary years, during which I had waited patiently for Santina’s return.Ahi sòrte avvèrsa!The villa remained in just the same condition, but none of the servants knew the whereabouts of their mistress, and it had been whispered that the police, in order to learn something of events on the night of the murder, had vainly endeavoured to trace her.With me things went badly. True, the statue of the Countess, that I had christened “Folly,” had gained a medal at the International Exhibition at Turin, but my later works had proved ignominious failures. I thought nothing of Art, only of the woman who had entranced me, and my hand had somehow lost its cunning. The carved Amida had brought me ill-fortune, it seemed, for I was now at the end of my resources.Pietro had long ago accepted a lucrative post in the orchestra at La Scala, at Milan, and I lived alone and friendless in the old palazzo.One evening, when Genoa was infesta, I had starved all day, and in desperation I at last resolved to change the bank-note Santina had sent me. Putting on my hat, I descended the stairs into the gaily-decked street, and pushed my way through the laughing crowd in the Via Nouvissima, at last turning into the narrow Via degli Orefici in search of a money-changer’s. A group of children were playing under a dark, ancient archway. How happy they seemed, with their bright chubby faces, like the carved cupids and cherubs in San Lorenzo!All the world was gay, and I alone was desolate. The little office I entered was kept by a hook-nosed Jew, who, when I asked for gold in exchange for the limp piece of paper, took it and examined it carefully through his hornrimmed spectacles. Taking a book from a shelf, he consulted it, started, and then looked sharply up at me.“This note,” he said, “does not belong to you.”“It does,” I answered indignantly.“Can you tell me whence you obtained it?”“It is no business of yours!” I cried.“Corpo di Bacco, signore! It were best for you to answer such a simple and necessary question with at least a semblance of civility.”“Why should I, when you roundly accuse me of possessing stolen property? What grounds have you for saying the note does not belong to me?”“I did but speak the truth. This note is not rightfully yours.”“You waste my time. Give me back the note; I will change it elsewhere.”“Signore, Idare notreturn you the note.”“And why, pray?” I asked, suppressing my angry indignation.“Avvertite! It was stolen.”“Stolen?” I cried.“Yes. Stolen from the man who was murdered at the Villa Pallanzeno three years ago. There is a big reward. I must inform the police.”I was dumbfounded. The note Santina had sent me had been filched from a murdered man? Impossible!The old Jew was hobbling round the counter, intending to give the alarm, so, seeing my danger, I snatched the note from him, and ran away through many intricate byways until I reached my studio. Cramming a number of things I valued into my pockets, I tied up a few other necessaries in a handkerchief, and then sped downstairs again and out into the open country.In the east, the great arc of the sky, the distant mountains and the plains, were rose-coloured with the flush of dawn, for it was the hour when night and morning met and parted. My soul was mad with baffled hope, and I was mentally and physically ill.The softening influences of the glorious morning awoke no responsive echoes in my troubled brain, for I had walked the whole night through, and now, worn out, footsore, hungry, and altogether hopeless, I was resting beside a little wayside shrine of Our Lady of Good Counsels, and in the hazy distance could see the gold cross, red roofs, and the gleaming white towers of Florence.For many months I had been a homeless wanderer, a mere tramp, picking up a living as best as I could, but always moving from place to place over the smiling plains of Lombardy, or among the peaceful Tuscan vineyards, fearing that the police would pounce upon me and charge me with a crime of which I was innocent.I had tramped to Milan in search of Pietro, but he had left—gone to Naples, they thought.I think you, in English, have something like our old Tuscan saying, “Le sciagúre e le alle-grézze non vèngono mai sóle.”Ah me! There is bitter truth in it. Misfortunes always come in overwhelming numbers, and those who are not favourites of the jade might as well be in their graves.The more I reflected upon the strange tragedy, the more puzzling was the mystery.Where was Santina? If she were innocent, why should she hide herself?For two hours I tramped on over the dusty road to the city of Dante and Michael Angelo, at last entering the Porte Romano; and then wandering down the long street and around the Palazzo Pitti, I crossed the Vecchio Bridge, and passed on towards the great Duomo, with Brunelleschi’s wondrous dome.I had taken a drink of water at the old Renaissance fountain in the Piazza del Mercato, and was strolling quietly on, gazing in wonderment at the grand old Gothic cathedral, when suddenly a heavy hand was laid upon my shoulder, and a stern voice said—“Gasparo Corazzini, I arrest you.”Almost before I was aware of it, two gendarmes, who had accompanied a little, shabbily-dressed police agent, seized me.“For what crime do you lay your hands upon me?” I cried indignantly.“You are accused of the murder of Colonel Rossano in Genoa,” the detective replied.My heart sank within me. I was spellbound by the appalling charge.The gloomy old Assize Court at Genoa was crowded; the afternoon heat was intense; the ray of sunlight slanting through the high window lit up the time-dimmed picture of Gesu, and fell upon the great gold crucifix that hung over the head of the grave-looking President. My trial had excited the greatest interest, for the police had, with extraordinary ingenuity, pieced together a truly wonderful chain of circumstantial evidence against me; and it was remarkable how ready people were to swear my life away. I stood like one in a dream, for I had at last become convinced of Santina’s treachery, and, having relinquished hope, had grown callous to everything.I had no defence, for I had admitted being at the Villa on the night in question, and in the revolver found upon me remained some of the cartridges, the bullets of which exactly corresponded with that which caused the colonel’s death.The Prosecutor had concluded, and without heeding the words the President was addressing to me, I stood with bent head and eyes fixed upon the floor. They might do their worst; they could not heap upon me greater agony than I had already suffered.Suddenly there was a stir in court, as a servant in the Pallanzeno livery pushed his way forward and handed a large envelope to the judge. There were two legal-looking papers inside, and the President, having read them through twice, handed them to his two colleagues with an expression of profound surprise. A witness was called, and gabbled a statement in English which I could not understand. Then the judges retired to an ante-room, and remained absent for nearly half an hour.Presently they returned and reseated themselves. A moment later, with startling suddenness, the words fell upon my ears—“The prisoner, Gasparo Corazzini, is free. The murderer has confessed.”Confessed? Was it Santina or her husband who had admitted their guilt? From my guards I endeavoured to ascertain the name of the assassin. But I was told that the President had decided for the present to keep it secret, and as the Contéssa’s servant had disappeared, I turned and left the court.Walking through the white sunlit streets to the Via Balbi, I mounted the stairs to my studio. The dust of months was over everything, but some one had been there during my absence.The image of the Contéssa still stood where I had left it, but its hideous appearance startled me. An arm had been broken off, and the face had been disfigured, battered beyond recognition with a heavy iron mallet that lay upon the floor.An enemy had maliciously wrecked my masterpiece.Sinking into a chair, I covered my face with my hands in blank despair. My reputation as a sculptor had gone, my skill with the chisel had departed. My kind master, the great Verga, had died, and I, lonely, forsaken, and forgotten, had no means of livelihood left to me.How long I sat plunged in grim, melancholy thoughts I know not. When I returned to consciousness, the bright moon was shining full into the room, and the broken statue looked pale and ghostly in the deep shadow.I had risen, and was standing before the window with my head sunk on my breast, when suddenly I felt a warm arm slowly entwine itself about my neck. Starting with a cry of surprise, I turned, and found to my amazement that Santina stood beside me.“Gasparo!” she whispered softly, drawing my head down and kissing my lips.“Santina!” I exclaimed joyfully. “You have at last returned?”“Yes,” she replied. “I—I told you we should meet again, and I have kept my promise.”She was very handsomely dressed in an evening gown of pale blue, her velvet cape was edged with sable, and, unloosened, displayed around her throat a diamond necklet that shone in the bright moonbeams a narrow line of white brilliancy.For a few moments we stood in silence, clasped in each other’s arms.Then I commenced to question her, and she told me how she had been living far away in London, adding—“But I have come back to you, Gasparo. You still love me, do you not?”“Love you?” I cried. “I would give half the years of my life if you were mine.”“I am yours,” she said, gazing earnestly into my eyes.“But—but your husband?” I exclaimed.She shrugged her shoulders carelessly and laughed. Her eyes travelled round the studio, until they fell upon the mutilated statue.“Ah!” she cried hoarsely; “your enemy’s handiwork. Then that was part of the revenge!”“What revenge? Tell me about it!”“A—a shadow came between us, Gasparo,” she sighed. “You had a rival, although you were unaware of it, and I was afraid to tell you, because I feared you would act desperately and create a scene. The man pestered me with his attentions, but I loved you, and turned a deaf ear to him. On the evening of the tragedy he came to me surreptitiously, and, with passionate declarations, begged me to accept him, but I refused, and left the room, vowing to leave Italy, never to return. I knew not what to do, for I was afraid to confess I loved you, as I saw that afracasand scandal would ensue, but at length I came to the conclusion that it would be best for both of us if we parted at least for a time, therefore I wrote you that cruel letter, in order to make you think my flirtation was at an end.”“Yes; yes,” I said, eagerly drinking in every word.“The conspiracy against us both was one of extraordinary cunning and daring. Your rival was, I have since ascertained, a French spy. On the evening in question, Colonel Rossano, who was an old friend of my father’s, arrived from Milan, having been entrusted with some plans of fortifications and other important and secret documents to take to the Ministry of War at Rome. The colonel intended to remain the night with us, but your rival, by some means, knew that the documents were in his possession, and resolved to secure them. Therefore he secreted himself, and when the officer entered the garden, he shot him, afterwards taking from his pockets the plans, together with a large sum in bank-notes. It was after committing this terrible deed that he sought me; and then, when I refused him, he plotted a desperate vengeance that he intended should fall upon us both. With villainous cunning he had already caused your name to be engraved on the revolver with which he took the colonel’s life, and placed the weapon beside the body. Afterwards he proceeded to carry out the other portion of the foul plot that was so nearly successful.”“What was that?” I asked, amazed at her story.“He followed my servant Guiseppe, bribed him to give him the letter I addressed to you, and, having read its contents, enclosed one of the bank-notes he had stolen from the murdered man. He intended that when the charge of assassination was made against you owing to the revolver, corroborative evidence would be furnished by the stolen note in your possession. Towards me he acted differently. You still have that little souvenir I gave you, I suppose? Strike a light, and I will show you something.”I obeyed, and lit one of the candles, afterwards taking from my pocket the quaint little carved Amida, which I had kept carefully wrapped in a piece of chamois leather.“See! Look at this!” she said, as she screwed off the head of the idol.And then, holding out my hand, she emptied into my palm a piece of thin paper screwed up into the size of a nut. I spread it out, and found it was a plan of the submarine mines in Genoa harbour!“I had only a few days previously showed him this little image, and had quite innocently told him that it was hollow, and the head could be removed,” she continued. “Therefore, during my absence from the room, he must have secreted the paper there for two reasons: firstly, to get rid of it for a time; and secondly, so that he could, if so desired, throw a terrible suspicion upon me as your friend and alleged accomplice.”“But how do you know all this?” I inquired.“For some time after I left Italy I neither saw nor heard of him. When, however, I was told of the tragedy, I admit that I felt convinced that the colonel had fallen by your hand, for I knew you were desperate that night, and knew also that you frequently carried a revolver. It was the horrible suspicion of your guilt that prevented me from returning or communicating with you. Nevertheless, a year ago, while I was living in London, this man, who had followed me, recommenced his hateful attentions. His actions throughout werebèlle paròle e cattivi fatti. Apparently he refrained from denouncing you because he believed he would eventually prevail upon me to marry him. For six months he shadowed me, and I humoured him until at last I again lost sight of him. One night, while still in London, I received a telegram stating that he had met with an accident, that he was dying, and that he must see me. I went, and found him in a wretched, squalid garret in a gloomy quarter they call Saffron Hill. It was there, before he died, that he made, in the presence of a notary I called in, the confession which I sent to the President of the Assize Court to-day. In an English newspaper I read the grave charge made against you, and hastened here without losing a moment.”“You have not explained,” I said quickly. “You have not told me the name of my unknown rival.”“He was your friend.His name was Pietro Barolini!”“Pietro!” I gasped. “Why, I considered him my warmest friend. But what of your husband? Where is he?”“Ah, I deceived you, Gasparo!” she said, laying her hand upon my arm. “I knew you would allow me to go in peace if you believed my husband still lived, therefore I practised a ruse upon you. The man from whom you hid was my father, to whose exertions the elucidation of the mystery is in a great measure due. He has returned with me to the Villa, and I will introduce you to him this evening.”“Then the Count is not living?”“No, Gasparo,” Santina whispered softly. “He died in Buenos Ayres, as you are aware, six months after our marriage. There is no barrier now between us; the grim shadow that darkened my life has passed away, and we are free—free to love each other, and to marry.”

“From the Contéssa, signore.”

A tall liveried servant handed me a coroneted missive, and, bowing stiffly, withdrew. Taking the letter mechanically, I sat puffing at my cigarette and dreaming.

The sultry day was over, and the full moon was shining down clear and cool. Genoa had drawn breath again; its streets and piazzas had grown alive with the stir of manifold movement; the broad Via Roma, with its fine shops and garishcafés, echoed with increasing confusion of voices and jest and laughter and song; while the flower-sellers were everywhere, and the newsboys in strident tones cried theSecoloand theGazzetta. My small and rather shabby room was on the top floor of a great old palazzo in the Via Balbi. The jalousies, wide-open, admitted little gusts of fresh air that blew up from the sea, while the ceaseless babel of tongues, the clip-clap of horses’ hoofs, and the indescribable odour of garlic, fried oil, and the cheap cigars characteristic of an Italian street, was borne in upon me.

Two candles in the sconces of a small Venetian mirror shed their light over the pedestal, upon which was a statue almost finished. It was a representation of a lovely woman in carnival dress, that I had chiselled in marble.

The face was absolutely beautiful, not only because of its perfect harmony, not only winsome in the gentleness of its contour, but it was also masterful by virtue of the freedom and force expressed in all its firmness.

Lazily I opened the letter, and prepared to feast upon its contents. But the few brief words penned in a woman’s hand caused me to start to my feet in anger and dismay; and, holding my breath, I crushed the missive and cast it under my foot. She who had written to me was the original of this statue, which was considered my masterpiece.

The note was cold and formal, unlike her usual graceful letters. It stated that she was leaving Italy that evening; and expressed regret she could not sit again to me. She also enclosed a bank-note for two thousand lire, which she apparently believed would repay me for my trouble.

My trouble!Dio mio! Had it not been a labour of love, when I adored—nay, worshipped her; and she, in her turn, had bestowed smiles and kisses upon me?

Yet she had written and sent me money, as if I were a mere tradesman; and from the tone of her note, it seemed as if our friendship existed no longer. Every day she had come to my studio, bringing with her that breath of stephanotis that always pervaded her; and because she was not averse to a mild flirtation, I had believed she loved me! Bah! I had been fooled! The iron of a wasted love, of a useless sacrifice, was in my heart.

This sudden awakening had crushed me; and I stood gazing aimlessly out of the window, unaware of the presence of a visitor, until I felt a hearty slap on the shoulder, and, turning quickly, faced my old friend, Pietro Barolini.

“Chi vide mái tanto!” he cried cheerily. “Why, my dear fellow, you look as if you’ve got a very bad attack of melancholia. What’s the matter?”

“Read that,” I said, pointing to the crumpled letter on the floor. “Tell me, what am I to do?”

Picking up the note, he read it through, drew a heavy breath, and remained silent and thoughtful.

Pietro and I had been companions ever since our childhood days, when, as bare-legged urchins, sons of honest fishermen, we had played on the beach at our quiet home in rural Tuscany. When we set out together to seek our fortunes, Fate directed us to Genoa; and in “La Superba” we still lived, Pietro having become a well-known musician; while I, Gasparo Corazzini, had, by a vagary of chance, attracted the notice of the greatmaestroVerga, under whose tuition I had developed into a successful sculptor.

“It is unfortunate,” my friend said at last, twisting his pointed black moustache; “yet she is not of our world, and, after all, perhaps it is best that you should part.”

“Ah!” I said. “Your words are well meant, Pietro; but I love her too passionately to cast aside her memory so lightly. I must see her. She must tell me from her own lips that she no longer cares for me!” I cried, starting up impetuously.

“Very well—go. Take her back the money with which she has insulted you, and bid adieu to her forever. You will soon forget.”

“Yes,” I said; “I will.”

Snatching up my hat, and crushing the letter into the pocket of my blouse, I rushed out and down the stairs into the street, without a thought of personal appearance, my only desire being to catch her before she departed.

Blindly I hurried across the Piazza del Principe, then out of the town into the open country, never slackening my pace for a moment until I entered the grounds of a great white villa that stood on the hillside at Comigliano, overlooking the moonlit sea. Then, with a firm determination to be calm, I advanced towards the house cautiously, and, swinging myself upon the low verandah, peered in at a glass door that stood open.

Noiselessly I entered. The room was dazzling in its magnificence, notwithstanding that the lamps were shaded by soft lace and tinted silk. The gilt furniture, the great mirrors, the statuary—genuine works by Leopardi and Sansovino—the Persian rugs and rich silken hangings, all betokened wealth, taste, and refinement.

Reclining on a couch with languid grace, clad in a loose wrapper of dove-grey silk, with her hairen déshabille, was the woman I loved.

“Santina!” I whispered, bending over her, uttering a pet name I had bestowed upon her.

She started, and jumped up quickly, half-frightened, exclaiming—

“Cièlo! You, Gasparo—youhere?”

“Yes,” I replied, catching her white bejewelled hand and kissing it. “Yes. Why not?”

She snatched away her hand quickly, and passed it wearily across her brow. Her beauty shone with marvellous radiance, for she was only twenty-four—fair-haired, blue-eyed, and with a slim, graceful figure that gave her an almost girlish appearance. I own myself entranced by her loveliness.

“I thought,” she said, after a moment’s hesitation—“I thought my note explained everything. The statue is practically finished, and—”

“No—no!” I cried. “It is still incomplete. You cannot—you shall not leave me, Santina!”

“Pray, why?” she asked indignantly, raising her eyebrows.

“Because—because I love you,” I stammered.

“Love!” she exclaimed, with a light laugh. “Bah! How foolish! Love! It is only plebeians and fools who love. There is no such word in our vocabulary.”

“Yes, yes,” I said quickly. “I know the insurmountable barrier that lies between us, Santina. But do you intend to leave Italy—to leave me alone—now?”

“Of course. It is not my intention to return for several years; perhaps never. We have spent many pleasant hours together; but you have become infatuated, therefore we must part.”

“No!” I cried; “I cannot—I will not let you go! Only a week ago you confessed that you loved me. What have I done that you should treat me so?”

She made no immediate answer; and as she stood with bowed head and somewhat pale, thoughtful face, I wondered what mystery veiled and troubled her clear, resolute nature.

Placing my arm around her waist, I bent and kissed her lips; but she struggled to free herself.

“Dio!” she cried hoarsely. “Why have you come here, Gasparo? Think of my reputation—my honour! If any one found you here alone with me, and I indéshabillé.”

“Tell me, Santina, do you still love me?” I asked earnestly, looking into her eyes.

“I—I hardly know,” she replied, with a strange, preoccupied air.

“Why are you leaving so suddenly?”

“Because it is imperative,” she replied. “But hush! listen! a voice!Dio! it is my husband!”

“Your husband!” I gasped. “What do you mean? I thought the Count died in Buenos Ayres two years ago, and that you were free?”

“So did I. But that was his voice.Cièlo! I know it, alas! too well,” she said, turning deathly pale.

Rushing suddenly across the room, she snatched something from a small niche in the wall and brought it over to me. It was a curious little ivory idol, about six inches long, representing Amida, the eternal Buddha. Kissing it, she handed it to me, saying—

“Quick! take this as a souvenir. It has been my talisman; may it be yours. When I am absent, look upon it sometimes, Gasparo, and think of me.”

“You do love me, then, Santina?” I cried joyously; for answer she placed her lips to mine.

“Hide! hide at once!” she implored. “Kneel behind that screen, or we are lost. Remain there until we have left the house, and tell no one that you have seen the Count.A rivederci!”

I slipped into the place she indicated, and not a moment too soon, for as I did so, a short, stout man of about sixty years of age entered. His face wore a strange, fixed expression, and as he strode in, he betrayed no astonishment at meeting his wife, although she, terrified and trembling, shrank from him.

“I thought you were ready,” he exclaimed roughly. “Be quick and put on your travelling dress. The carriage is on its way round, and we haven’t a moment to spare if we mean to leave to-night.”

“I shall not keep you long,” she sighed, and a few moments later they both turned and left the room.

The reappearance of the Count di Pallanzeno, whom every one believed had died, was puzzling, and the manner in which husband and wife conversed showed there was but little affection between them.

Suddenly I remembered that I had forgotten to return the bank-note, but I saw it was useless to attempt to do so now, therefore I decided to keep it until we met again. Obeying the Contéssa’s instructions, I remained in my hiding-place for half an hour, until I heard the carriage drive away down the road, then I stole out upon the verandah and let myself down noiselessly into the garden.

The moon was shining brilliantly on the white blossoms and the pale marbles, and in order to escape the observation of any of the servants who might be about, I crept along under the dark shadow of the ilex-trees in the direction of the road. I had not gone very far when suddenly I caught my foot in an obstruction, and, stumbling, fell over some object that lay in my path. Regaining my feet, I bent to ascertain the cause of my fall, when, to my amazement, I discovered it was a man.

I touched the face, and drew back in horror.The man was dead!

Everything was quiet, not a leaf stirred, so, taking the body under the arms, I dragged it out into the light. The silver moonbeam that fell across the white face of the corpse gave it a ghastly appearance, revealing the features of a well-dressed man of middle age, totally unknown to me.

Closer examination disclosed that a murder had been committed. The man had been shot in the back.

Searching about the spot, I was not long before I discovered the weapon with which the crime had evidently been committed. It was a five-chambered plated revolver, one cartridge of which had been discharged. As I inspected it in the cold, bright light, eager to find a clue to the murderer, my eyes fell upon two words engraved on the barrel.

Breathlessly I deciphered them, and then stood dumb with awe and dismay.The name engraved upon it was my own!

In a moment a terrible thought flashed across me. Was not my presence there, and the discovery of a revolver bearing my name, direct circumstantial evidence against me? Thus recognising my danger, I put the weapon in my pocket, cast a final glance at the dead man’s face, and, creeping noiselessly away under the high hedge of rhododendron and jessamine, I at length gained the road and returned to the noisy city.

In the Bourse, in the Galleria Mazzini, in the streets, in thecafés, everywhere, one topic only was discussed next day. A startling tragedy had been enacted, for, according to the newspapers, Colonel Rossano had been discovered mysteriously murdered in the gardens of the Villa Pallanzeno.

No motive for the assassination could be assigned, for the colonel, who had only arrived on the previous day from Milan, was a most popular and distinguished officer. The police, it was stated, had received instructions from the Ministry of the Interior at Rome to spare no effort to discover the assassin, and the King himself had offered a reward of ten thousand lire for any information which would lead to the arrest of the murderer.

During the hour of the siesta, I had stretched myself in an old armchair in the studio, smoking, when Pietro burst into the room, greeting me with that buoyancy habitual to him. I asked him if he had heard of the tragedy, and gave him the papers to read. Having eagerly scanned them, he expressed surprise that the shot was not heard.

“I suppose the Contéssa does not know anything of it,” I said. “The body was not discovered until after midnight, whereas she left by the mail for Turin at ten o’clock.”

“And what was the result of your interview?” he asked, seating himself on the edge of the table, and carelessly swinging his legs.

“She has gone, but she will return,” I replied briefly.

“And she still loves you—eh?”

“Yes; you guess correctly,” I laughed.

“So goes the world! How happy you should be—you, the accepted lover of the girl-widow of a millionaire! One of these days you’ll marry, and thenper Bacco! you’ll throw over your old companion, the humble fiddler of the Politeama.”

His jesting words reminded me of the reappearance of the Count, that Santina was not free, and that our love was illicit.

“No,” I said sorrowfully; “I may love, but I shall never marry her.”

Three years passed, long, weary years, during which I had waited patiently for Santina’s return.Ahi sòrte avvèrsa!

The villa remained in just the same condition, but none of the servants knew the whereabouts of their mistress, and it had been whispered that the police, in order to learn something of events on the night of the murder, had vainly endeavoured to trace her.

With me things went badly. True, the statue of the Countess, that I had christened “Folly,” had gained a medal at the International Exhibition at Turin, but my later works had proved ignominious failures. I thought nothing of Art, only of the woman who had entranced me, and my hand had somehow lost its cunning. The carved Amida had brought me ill-fortune, it seemed, for I was now at the end of my resources.

Pietro had long ago accepted a lucrative post in the orchestra at La Scala, at Milan, and I lived alone and friendless in the old palazzo.

One evening, when Genoa was infesta, I had starved all day, and in desperation I at last resolved to change the bank-note Santina had sent me. Putting on my hat, I descended the stairs into the gaily-decked street, and pushed my way through the laughing crowd in the Via Nouvissima, at last turning into the narrow Via degli Orefici in search of a money-changer’s. A group of children were playing under a dark, ancient archway. How happy they seemed, with their bright chubby faces, like the carved cupids and cherubs in San Lorenzo!

All the world was gay, and I alone was desolate. The little office I entered was kept by a hook-nosed Jew, who, when I asked for gold in exchange for the limp piece of paper, took it and examined it carefully through his hornrimmed spectacles. Taking a book from a shelf, he consulted it, started, and then looked sharply up at me.

“This note,” he said, “does not belong to you.”

“It does,” I answered indignantly.

“Can you tell me whence you obtained it?”

“It is no business of yours!” I cried.

“Corpo di Bacco, signore! It were best for you to answer such a simple and necessary question with at least a semblance of civility.”

“Why should I, when you roundly accuse me of possessing stolen property? What grounds have you for saying the note does not belong to me?”

“I did but speak the truth. This note is not rightfully yours.”

“You waste my time. Give me back the note; I will change it elsewhere.”

“Signore, Idare notreturn you the note.”

“And why, pray?” I asked, suppressing my angry indignation.

“Avvertite! It was stolen.”

“Stolen?” I cried.

“Yes. Stolen from the man who was murdered at the Villa Pallanzeno three years ago. There is a big reward. I must inform the police.”

I was dumbfounded. The note Santina had sent me had been filched from a murdered man? Impossible!

The old Jew was hobbling round the counter, intending to give the alarm, so, seeing my danger, I snatched the note from him, and ran away through many intricate byways until I reached my studio. Cramming a number of things I valued into my pockets, I tied up a few other necessaries in a handkerchief, and then sped downstairs again and out into the open country.

In the east, the great arc of the sky, the distant mountains and the plains, were rose-coloured with the flush of dawn, for it was the hour when night and morning met and parted. My soul was mad with baffled hope, and I was mentally and physically ill.

The softening influences of the glorious morning awoke no responsive echoes in my troubled brain, for I had walked the whole night through, and now, worn out, footsore, hungry, and altogether hopeless, I was resting beside a little wayside shrine of Our Lady of Good Counsels, and in the hazy distance could see the gold cross, red roofs, and the gleaming white towers of Florence.

For many months I had been a homeless wanderer, a mere tramp, picking up a living as best as I could, but always moving from place to place over the smiling plains of Lombardy, or among the peaceful Tuscan vineyards, fearing that the police would pounce upon me and charge me with a crime of which I was innocent.

I had tramped to Milan in search of Pietro, but he had left—gone to Naples, they thought.

I think you, in English, have something like our old Tuscan saying, “Le sciagúre e le alle-grézze non vèngono mai sóle.”

Ah me! There is bitter truth in it. Misfortunes always come in overwhelming numbers, and those who are not favourites of the jade might as well be in their graves.

The more I reflected upon the strange tragedy, the more puzzling was the mystery.

Where was Santina? If she were innocent, why should she hide herself?

For two hours I tramped on over the dusty road to the city of Dante and Michael Angelo, at last entering the Porte Romano; and then wandering down the long street and around the Palazzo Pitti, I crossed the Vecchio Bridge, and passed on towards the great Duomo, with Brunelleschi’s wondrous dome.

I had taken a drink of water at the old Renaissance fountain in the Piazza del Mercato, and was strolling quietly on, gazing in wonderment at the grand old Gothic cathedral, when suddenly a heavy hand was laid upon my shoulder, and a stern voice said—

“Gasparo Corazzini, I arrest you.”

Almost before I was aware of it, two gendarmes, who had accompanied a little, shabbily-dressed police agent, seized me.

“For what crime do you lay your hands upon me?” I cried indignantly.

“You are accused of the murder of Colonel Rossano in Genoa,” the detective replied.

My heart sank within me. I was spellbound by the appalling charge.

The gloomy old Assize Court at Genoa was crowded; the afternoon heat was intense; the ray of sunlight slanting through the high window lit up the time-dimmed picture of Gesu, and fell upon the great gold crucifix that hung over the head of the grave-looking President. My trial had excited the greatest interest, for the police had, with extraordinary ingenuity, pieced together a truly wonderful chain of circumstantial evidence against me; and it was remarkable how ready people were to swear my life away. I stood like one in a dream, for I had at last become convinced of Santina’s treachery, and, having relinquished hope, had grown callous to everything.

I had no defence, for I had admitted being at the Villa on the night in question, and in the revolver found upon me remained some of the cartridges, the bullets of which exactly corresponded with that which caused the colonel’s death.

The Prosecutor had concluded, and without heeding the words the President was addressing to me, I stood with bent head and eyes fixed upon the floor. They might do their worst; they could not heap upon me greater agony than I had already suffered.

Suddenly there was a stir in court, as a servant in the Pallanzeno livery pushed his way forward and handed a large envelope to the judge. There were two legal-looking papers inside, and the President, having read them through twice, handed them to his two colleagues with an expression of profound surprise. A witness was called, and gabbled a statement in English which I could not understand. Then the judges retired to an ante-room, and remained absent for nearly half an hour.

Presently they returned and reseated themselves. A moment later, with startling suddenness, the words fell upon my ears—

“The prisoner, Gasparo Corazzini, is free. The murderer has confessed.”

Confessed? Was it Santina or her husband who had admitted their guilt? From my guards I endeavoured to ascertain the name of the assassin. But I was told that the President had decided for the present to keep it secret, and as the Contéssa’s servant had disappeared, I turned and left the court.

Walking through the white sunlit streets to the Via Balbi, I mounted the stairs to my studio. The dust of months was over everything, but some one had been there during my absence.

The image of the Contéssa still stood where I had left it, but its hideous appearance startled me. An arm had been broken off, and the face had been disfigured, battered beyond recognition with a heavy iron mallet that lay upon the floor.

An enemy had maliciously wrecked my masterpiece.

Sinking into a chair, I covered my face with my hands in blank despair. My reputation as a sculptor had gone, my skill with the chisel had departed. My kind master, the great Verga, had died, and I, lonely, forsaken, and forgotten, had no means of livelihood left to me.

How long I sat plunged in grim, melancholy thoughts I know not. When I returned to consciousness, the bright moon was shining full into the room, and the broken statue looked pale and ghostly in the deep shadow.

I had risen, and was standing before the window with my head sunk on my breast, when suddenly I felt a warm arm slowly entwine itself about my neck. Starting with a cry of surprise, I turned, and found to my amazement that Santina stood beside me.

“Gasparo!” she whispered softly, drawing my head down and kissing my lips.

“Santina!” I exclaimed joyfully. “You have at last returned?”

“Yes,” she replied. “I—I told you we should meet again, and I have kept my promise.”

She was very handsomely dressed in an evening gown of pale blue, her velvet cape was edged with sable, and, unloosened, displayed around her throat a diamond necklet that shone in the bright moonbeams a narrow line of white brilliancy.

For a few moments we stood in silence, clasped in each other’s arms.

Then I commenced to question her, and she told me how she had been living far away in London, adding—

“But I have come back to you, Gasparo. You still love me, do you not?”

“Love you?” I cried. “I would give half the years of my life if you were mine.”

“I am yours,” she said, gazing earnestly into my eyes.

“But—but your husband?” I exclaimed.

She shrugged her shoulders carelessly and laughed. Her eyes travelled round the studio, until they fell upon the mutilated statue.

“Ah!” she cried hoarsely; “your enemy’s handiwork. Then that was part of the revenge!”

“What revenge? Tell me about it!”

“A—a shadow came between us, Gasparo,” she sighed. “You had a rival, although you were unaware of it, and I was afraid to tell you, because I feared you would act desperately and create a scene. The man pestered me with his attentions, but I loved you, and turned a deaf ear to him. On the evening of the tragedy he came to me surreptitiously, and, with passionate declarations, begged me to accept him, but I refused, and left the room, vowing to leave Italy, never to return. I knew not what to do, for I was afraid to confess I loved you, as I saw that afracasand scandal would ensue, but at length I came to the conclusion that it would be best for both of us if we parted at least for a time, therefore I wrote you that cruel letter, in order to make you think my flirtation was at an end.”

“Yes; yes,” I said, eagerly drinking in every word.

“The conspiracy against us both was one of extraordinary cunning and daring. Your rival was, I have since ascertained, a French spy. On the evening in question, Colonel Rossano, who was an old friend of my father’s, arrived from Milan, having been entrusted with some plans of fortifications and other important and secret documents to take to the Ministry of War at Rome. The colonel intended to remain the night with us, but your rival, by some means, knew that the documents were in his possession, and resolved to secure them. Therefore he secreted himself, and when the officer entered the garden, he shot him, afterwards taking from his pockets the plans, together with a large sum in bank-notes. It was after committing this terrible deed that he sought me; and then, when I refused him, he plotted a desperate vengeance that he intended should fall upon us both. With villainous cunning he had already caused your name to be engraved on the revolver with which he took the colonel’s life, and placed the weapon beside the body. Afterwards he proceeded to carry out the other portion of the foul plot that was so nearly successful.”

“What was that?” I asked, amazed at her story.

“He followed my servant Guiseppe, bribed him to give him the letter I addressed to you, and, having read its contents, enclosed one of the bank-notes he had stolen from the murdered man. He intended that when the charge of assassination was made against you owing to the revolver, corroborative evidence would be furnished by the stolen note in your possession. Towards me he acted differently. You still have that little souvenir I gave you, I suppose? Strike a light, and I will show you something.”

I obeyed, and lit one of the candles, afterwards taking from my pocket the quaint little carved Amida, which I had kept carefully wrapped in a piece of chamois leather.

“See! Look at this!” she said, as she screwed off the head of the idol.

And then, holding out my hand, she emptied into my palm a piece of thin paper screwed up into the size of a nut. I spread it out, and found it was a plan of the submarine mines in Genoa harbour!

“I had only a few days previously showed him this little image, and had quite innocently told him that it was hollow, and the head could be removed,” she continued. “Therefore, during my absence from the room, he must have secreted the paper there for two reasons: firstly, to get rid of it for a time; and secondly, so that he could, if so desired, throw a terrible suspicion upon me as your friend and alleged accomplice.”

“But how do you know all this?” I inquired.

“For some time after I left Italy I neither saw nor heard of him. When, however, I was told of the tragedy, I admit that I felt convinced that the colonel had fallen by your hand, for I knew you were desperate that night, and knew also that you frequently carried a revolver. It was the horrible suspicion of your guilt that prevented me from returning or communicating with you. Nevertheless, a year ago, while I was living in London, this man, who had followed me, recommenced his hateful attentions. His actions throughout werebèlle paròle e cattivi fatti. Apparently he refrained from denouncing you because he believed he would eventually prevail upon me to marry him. For six months he shadowed me, and I humoured him until at last I again lost sight of him. One night, while still in London, I received a telegram stating that he had met with an accident, that he was dying, and that he must see me. I went, and found him in a wretched, squalid garret in a gloomy quarter they call Saffron Hill. It was there, before he died, that he made, in the presence of a notary I called in, the confession which I sent to the President of the Assize Court to-day. In an English newspaper I read the grave charge made against you, and hastened here without losing a moment.”

“You have not explained,” I said quickly. “You have not told me the name of my unknown rival.”

“He was your friend.His name was Pietro Barolini!”

“Pietro!” I gasped. “Why, I considered him my warmest friend. But what of your husband? Where is he?”

“Ah, I deceived you, Gasparo!” she said, laying her hand upon my arm. “I knew you would allow me to go in peace if you believed my husband still lived, therefore I practised a ruse upon you. The man from whom you hid was my father, to whose exertions the elucidation of the mystery is in a great measure due. He has returned with me to the Villa, and I will introduce you to him this evening.”

“Then the Count is not living?”

“No, Gasparo,” Santina whispered softly. “He died in Buenos Ayres, as you are aware, six months after our marriage. There is no barrier now between us; the grim shadow that darkened my life has passed away, and we are free—free to love each other, and to marry.”

Chapter Six.The Woman with a Blemish.The weird prologue of the drama was enacted some years ago, yet time, alas! does not obliterate it from my memory.To the hail of bullets, the whistling of shells, the fitful flash of powder, and the thunder of guns I had grown callous. During the months I had been in Servia and Bulgaria watching and describing the terrible struggle between Turkey and Russia, I had grown world-weary, careless of everything, even of life. I had been present at the relief of Kars, had witnessed the wholesale slaughter in various parts of the Ottoman Empire, and was now attached to the Russian forces bombarding Plevna.Those who have never experienced actual warfare cannot imagine how terrible are the horrors of life at the front.Picture for a moment a great multitude of men whose sole occupation is slaughter—some with smoke-blackened faces toiling in the earthworks, discharging their heavy field-pieces which day and night dispatch their death-dealing missiles into the shattered town yonder, while hordes of Cossacks and Russian grenadiers engage the enemy at every point; the rattle of musketry and artillery is deafening, the rain of bullets incessant, and on every side is suffering and death. And you are a war-correspondent, a spectator, a non-combatant! You have travelled across Europe to witness this frightful carnage, and paint word-pictures of it for the folk at home. At any moment a stray bullet might end your existence; nevertheless, you must not be fatigued, for after the toil of the day your work commences, and you must find a quiet corner where you can write a column of description for transmission to Fleet Street.Such were the circumstances in which I was placed when, after a six months’ absence from England, I found myself before Plevna. The brief December day was drawing to a close as I stood, revolver in hand, near one of the great guns that at regular intervals thundered forth in chorus with the others. I was in conversation with Captain Alexandrovitch, a smart young officer with whom I was on very friendly terms, and we were watching through our field-glasses the effect of our fire upon the town.“Now my lads,” the captain shouted in Russian, to the men working the gun. “Let us test our accuracy. See! one of Osman’s officers has just appeared on the small redoubt yonder to encourage his men. There is a good target. See!”Scarcely had he spoken when the men sprang back, the great gun belched forth flame, and the shell, striking the enemy’s fortification, took part of it away, blowing the unfortunate Turkish officer into fragments.Such are the fortunes of war!“Good!” exclaimed Alexandrovitch, laughing; as, turning to me, he added, “If we continue like this, we shall silence the redoubts before to-morrow. How suicidal of Osman Pasha to imagine his handful of lean, hungry dogs capable of defence against the army of the Great White Tzar. Bah! We shall—”The sentence was left unfinished, for a bullet whistled close to me, and a second later he threw up his hands, and, uttering a loud cry of pain, staggered and fell, severely wounded in the side.Our ambulance and medical staff was on that day very disorganised, so, instead of conveying him to the field hospital, they carried him into my tent, close by.Night fell, and for hours I knelt beside him, trying to alleviate his agony. The surgeon had dressed the wound, and the officer lay writhing and groaning, while by the meagre light of an evil-smelling oil-lamp I scribbled my dispatch. At last the wounded man became quieter, and presently slept; while I, jaded and worn, wrapped my blanket about me, placed my revolver under my saddle, and lay down to snatch an hour’s repose.How long I slept I scarcely know; but I was awakened by a strange rustling.The flap of the tent was open, and I saw against the faint grey glimmering of the wintry morning’s struggling dawn a figure stealthily bending over the wounded man who lay asleep at my side.The intruder wore the heavy greatcoat and round cap of a Cossack officer, and was evidently searching my comrade’s pockets.“Who are you? What do you want?” I cried in Russian, clutching my revolver.The man started, withdrew his hand, and stood upright, looking down upon me. For a moment I fixed my eyes upon the statuesque figure, and gazed at him amazed. I am not by any means a nervous man, but there was something weird about the fellow’s appearance.Whether it was due to the suddenness with which I had discovered him, or whether some peculiar phenomenon was caused by his presence, I was unable to determine.I remember asking myself if I were really awake, and becoming convinced that I was in possession of all my faculties.“Speak!” I said sternly. “Speak—or I’ll fire!”Raising the weapon, I waited for a moment.The figure remained motionless, facing the muzzle of the pistol unflinchingly.Again I repeated my challenge. There was, however, no reply.I pulled the trigger.In the momentary flash that followed I caught a glimpse of the face of the intruder. It was that of a woman!She was young and beautiful. Her parted lips revealed an even row of tightly-clenched teeth, her dark eyes had a look of unutterable horror in them, and her cheeks were deathly pale.It was the most lovely face I had ever gazed upon.Its beauty was perfect, yet there was something about the forehead that struck me as peculiar.The thick dark hair was brushed back severely, and high up, almost in the centre of the white brow, was a curious mark, which, in the rapid flash of light, appeared to be a small butperfectly-defined bluish-grey ring!As I fired, the arm of the mysterious visitor was raised as if to ward off a blow, and in the hand I saw the gleam of steel.The slender fingers were grasping a murderous weapon—a long, keen surgeon’s knife, the blade of which was besmeared with blood.Was I dreaming? I again asked myself. No, it was not a visionary illusion, for I saw it plainly with my eyes wide-open.So great a fascination did this strange visitant possess over me, that I had been suddenly overcome by a terrible dread that had deprived me of the power of speech. My tongue clave to the roof of my mouth.I felt more than ever convinced that there must be something supernatural about the silent masquerader.In the dim light the puff of grey smoke from the revolver slowly curled before my eyes, hiding for a few seconds the singularly-beautiful countenance.When, however, a moment later, the veil had cleared, I was amazed to discover that the figure had vanished.My hand had been unsteady.Grasping my revolver firmly, I sprang to my feet and rushed out of the tent. While gazing quickly around, a Cossack sentry, whose attention had been attracted by the shot, ran towards me.“Has a woman passed you?” I asked excitedly, in the best Russian I could muster.“A woman! No, sir. I was speaking with Ivan, my comrade on duty, when I heard a pistol-shot; but I have seen no one except yourself.”“Didn’t you see an officer?”“No, sir,” the man replied, leaning on his Berdan rifle and regarding me with astonishment.“Are you positive?”“I could swear before the holyikon,” answered the soldier. “You could not have seen a woman, sir. There’s not one in the camp, and one could not enter, for we are exercising the greatest vigilance to exclude spies.”“Yes, yes, I understand,” I said, endeavouring to laugh. “I suppose, after all, I’ve been dreaming;” and then, wishing the man good-morning, I returned to the tent.It was, I tried to persuade myself, merely a chimera of a disordered imagination and a nervous system that had been highly strained by constant fatigue and excitement. I had of late, I remembered, experienced curious delusions, and often in the midst of most exciting scenes I could see vividly how peaceful and happy was my home in London, and how anxiously yet patiently my friends and relatives were awaiting my return from the dreaded seat of war.On entering the tent, I was about to fling myself down to resume my rest, when it occurred to me that my wounded comrade might require something. Apparently he was asleep, and it seemed a pity to rouse him to administer the cooling draught the surgeon had left.Bending down, I looked into his face, but could not see it distinctly, for the light was still faint and uncertain. His breathing was very slight, I thought; indeed, as I listened, I could not detect any sound of respiration. I placed my hand upon his breast, but withdrew it quickly.My fingers were covered with blood.Striking a match and holding it close to his recumbent figure, my eyes fell upon a sight which caused me to start back in horror. The face was bloodless, the jaw had dropped; he was dead!There was a great ugly knife-wound. Captain Alexandrovitch had been stabbed to the heart!At that moment the loud rumble of cannon broke the stillness, and a second later there was a vivid flash of light, followed by a terrific explosion. The redoubts of Plevna had opened fire upon us again, and a shell had burst in unpleasant proximity to my tent. The sullen roar of the big guns, and the sharp rattle from the rifle-pits, quickly placed us on the defence.Bugles sounded everywhere, words of command were shouted, there was bustle and confusion for a few minutes, then every one sprang to his post, and our guns recommenced pouring their deadly fire into the picturesque little town, with its two white minarets, its domed church, and its flat-roofed houses, nestling in the wooded hollow.With a final glance at my murdered comrade, I hastily buckled on my traps, reloaded my revolver, and, taking a photograph from my pocket, kissed it. Need I say that it was a woman’s? A moment later, I was outside amid the deafening roar of the death-dealing guns. Our situation was more critical than we had imagined, for Osman, believing that he had discovered a weak point in the girdle of Muscovite steel, was advancing, notwithstanding our fire. A terrible conflict ensued; but our victory is now historical.We fought the Turks hand to hand, bayonet to bayonet, with terrible desperation, knowing well that the battle must be decisive. The carnage was fearful, yet to me there was one thing still more horrible, for throughout that well-remembered day the recollection of the mysterious murder of my friend was ever present in my mind. Amid the cannon smoke I saw distinctly the features of the strange visitant. They were, however, not so beautiful as I had imagined. The countenance was hideous. Indeed, never in my life have I seen such a sinister female face, or flashing eyes starting from their sockets in so horrible a manner.But the most vivid characteristic of all was the curious circular mark on the forehead, that seemed to stand out black as jet.Three months afterwards, on a rainy, cheerless March afternoon, I arrived at Charing Cross, and with considerable satisfaction set foot once again upon the muddy pavement of the Strand. It is indeed pleasant to be surrounded by English faces, and hear English voices, after a long period of enforced exile, wearying work, and constant uncertainty as to whether one will live to return to old associations and acquaintances. Leaving my luggage at the station, I walked down to the office in Fleet Street to report myself, and having received the welcome of such of the staff as were about the premises at that hour, afterwards took a cab to my rather dreary bachelor rooms in Russell Square.My life in London during the next few months was uneventful, save for two exceptions. The first was when the Russian Ambassador conferred upon me, in the name of his Imperial master the Tzar, a little piece of orange and purple ribbon, in recognition of a trifling accident whereby I was enabled to save the lives of several of his brave Sibirsky soldiers. The second and more important was that I renounced the Bohemian ease of bachelorhood, and married Mabel Travers, the girl to whom for five years I had been engaged, and whose portrait I had carried in my pocket through so many scenes of desolation and hours of peril.We took up our residence in a pretty bijou flat in Kensington Court, and our married life was one of unalloyed happiness. I found my wife amiable and good as she was young and handsome, and although she moved in a rather smart set, there was nothing of the butterfly of fashion about her. Her father was a wealthy Manchester cotton-spinner, who had a town-house at Gloucester Gate, and her dowry, being very considerable, enabled us to enter society.On a winter’s afternoon, six months after our marriage, I arrived home about four o’clock, having been at the office greater part of the day, writing an important article for the next morning’s issue. Mabel was not at home, therefore, after a while, I entered the diningroom to await her. The hours dragged on, and though the marble clock on the mantelshelf chimed six, seven, and even eight o’clock, still she did not return. Although puzzled at her protracted absence, I was also hungry, so, ringing for dinner to be served, I sat down to a lonely meal.Soon afterwards Mabel returned. She dashed into the room, gazed at me with a strange, half-frightened glance, then, rushing across, kissed me passionately, flinging her arms about my neck, and pleading to be forgiven for being absent so long, explaining that a lady, to whose “At Home” she had been, was very unwell, and she had remained a couple of hours longer with her. Of course I concealed my annoyance, and we spent the remainder of the evening very happily; for, seated before the blazing fire in full enjoyment of a good cigar and liqueur, I related how I had spent the day, while she gave me a full description of what she had been doing, and the people she had met.Shortly before eleven o’clock the maid entered with a telegram addressed to Mabel. A message at that hour was so extraordinary, that I took it and eagerly broke open the envelope.It was an urgent request that my wife should proceed at once to the house of her brother George at Chiswick, as something unusual had happened. We had a brief consultation over the extraordinary message, and as it was late, and raining heavily, I decided to go in her stead.An hour’s drive in a cab brought me to a large red-brick, ivy-covered house, standing back from the road, and facing the Thames near Chiswick Mall. It was one of those residences built in the Georgian era, at a time when thefêtes champètresat Devonshire House were attended by the King, and when Chiswick was a fashionable country retreat. It stood in the centre of spacious grounds, with pretty serpentine walks, where long ago dainty dames in wigs and patches strolled arm-in-arm with splendid silk-coated beaux. The house was one of those time-mellowed relics of an age bygone, that one rarely comes across in London suburbs nowadays.Mabel’s brother had resided here with his wife and their two children for four years, and being an Oriental scholar and enthusiast, he spent a good deal of his time in his study.It was midnight when the old man-servant opened the door to me.“Ah, Mr Harold!” he cried, on recognising me. “I’m glad you’ve come, sir. It’s a terrible night’s work that’s been done here.”“What do you mean?” I gasped; then, as I noticed old Mr Travers standing pale and haggard in the hall, I rushed towards him, requesting an explanation.“It’s horrible,” he replied. “I—I found poor George dead—murdered!”“Murdered?” I echoed.“Yes, it is all enshrouded in mystery,” he said. “The detectives are now making their examination.”As I followed him into the study, I felt I must collect myself and show some reserve of mental strength and energy, but on entering, I was horror-stricken at the sight.This room, in which George Travers spent most of his time, was of medium size, with French windows opening upon the lawn, and lined from floor to ceiling with books, while the centre was occupied by a large writing-table, littered with papers.Beside the table, with blanched face upturned to the green-tinted light of the reading-lamp, lay the corpse of my brother-in-law, while from a wound in his neck the blood had oozed, forming a great dark pool upon the carpet.It was evident that he had fallen in a sitting posture in the chair when the fatal blow had been dealt; then the body had rolled over on to the floor, for in the position it had been discovered it still remained.The crime was a most remarkable one. George Travers had retired to do some writing shortly before eight o’clock, leaving his father and his wife together in the drawing-room, and expressing a wish not to be disturbed.At ten, old Mr Travers, who was about to return home, entered the room for the purpose of bidding his son good-night, when, to his dismay, he found him stabbed to the heart, the body rigid and cold. The window communicating with the garden stood open, the small safe had been ransacked, the drawers in the writing-table searched, and there was every evidence that the crime was the deliberate work of an assassin who had been undisturbed.No sound had been heard by the servants, for the murderer must have struck down the defenceless man at one blow.Entrance had been gained from the lawn, as the detectives found muddy footprints upon the grass and on the carpet, prints which they carefully sketched and measured, at length arriving at the conclusion that they were those of a woman.They appeared to be the marks of thin-soled French shoes, with high heels slightly worn over.Beyond this there was an entire absence of anything that could lead to the identification of the murderer, and though they searched long and diligently over the lawn and shrubbery beyond, their efforts were unrewarded.It was dawn when I returned home, and having occasion to enter the kitchen, I noticed that on a chair a pair of woman’s shoes had been placed.They were Mabel’s. Scarcely knowing why I did so, I took them up and glanced at them. They were very muddy, and, strangely enough, some blades of grass were embedded in the mud. Then terrible thoughts occurred to me.I recollected Mabel’s long absence, and remembered that one does not get grass on one’s shoes in Kensington.The shoes were of French make, stamped with the name of “Pinet.” They were thin-soled, and the high Louis XV heels were slightly worn on one side.Breathlessly I took them to the window, and, in the grey light, examined them scrupulously. They coincided exactly with the pair the detectives were searching for, the wearer of which they declared was the person who stabbed George Travers to the heart!The dried clay and the blades of grass were positive proof that Mabel had walked somewhere besides on London pavements.Could she really have murdered her brother? A terrible suspicion entered my soul, although I strove to resist it, endeavouring to bring myself to believe that such a thought was absolutely absurd; but at length, fearing detection, I found a brush and removed the mud with my own hands.Then I walked through the flat and entered the room where Mabel was soundly sleeping. At the foot of the bed something white had fallen. Picking it up, I discovered it was a handkerchief.A second later it fell from my nerveless grasp. It had dark, stiff patches upon it—the ugly stains of blood!The one thought that took possession of me was of Mabel’s guilt. Yet she gave me no cause for further suspicion, except, indeed, that she eagerly read all the details as “written up” in those evening papers that revel in sensation.George was buried, his house was sold, and his widow went with her children to live at Alversthorpe Hall, old Mr Travers’ place in Cumberland.Mabel appeared quite as inconsolable as the bereaved wife.“Do you believe the police will ever find the murderer?” she asked me one evening, when we were sitting alone.“I really can’t tell, dear,” I replied, noticing how haggard and serious was her face as she gazed fixedly into the fire.“Have—have they discovered anything?” she inquired hesitatingly.“Yes,” I answered. “They found the marks of a woman’s shoes upon the lawn.”She started visibly and held her breath.“Ah!” she gasped; “I—I thought they would. I knew it—I knew—”Then, sighing, she drew her hand quickly across her brow, and, rising, left me abruptly.About two months afterwards, Mabel and I went down to Alversthorpe on a visit, and as we sat at dinner on the evening of our arrival, Fraulein Steinbock, the new German governess, entered to speak with her mistress.For a moment she stood behind the widow’s chair, glancing furtively at me. It was very remarkable. Although her features bore not the slightest resemblance to any I had ever seen before, they seemed somehow familiar. It was not the expression of tenderness and purity of soul that entranced me, but there was something strange about the forehead. The dark hair in front had accidentally been parted, disclosing what appeared to bea portion of a dark ugly scar!Chancing to glance at Mabel, I was amazed to notice that she had dropped her knife and fork, and was sitting pale and haggard, with her eyes fixed upon the wall opposite.Her lips were moving slightly, but no sound came from them.When, on the following morning, I was chatting with the widow alone, I carelessly inquired about the new governess.“She was called away suddenly last night. Her brother is dying,” she said.“Called away!” I echoed. “Where has she gone?”“To London. I do hope she won’t be long away, for I really can’t do without her. She is so kind and attentive to the children.”“Do you know her brother’s address?”She shook her head. Then I asked for some particulars about her, but discovered that nothing was known of her past. She was an excellent governess—that was all.Twelve months later. One evening I had been busy writing in my own little den, and had left Mabel in the drawing-room reading a novel. It was almost ten o’clock when I rose from my table, and, having turned out my lamp, I went along the passage to join my wife.Pushing open the door, I saw she had fallen asleep in her little wicker chair.But she was not alone.The tall, statuesque form of a woman in a light dress stood over her. The profile of the mysterious visitor was turned towards me. The face wore the same demoniacal expression, it had the same dark, flashing eyes, the same white teeth, that I had seen on that terrible day before Plevna!As she bent over my sleeping wife, one hand rested on the chair, while the other grasped a gleaming knife, which she held uplifted, ready to strike.For a moment I stood rooted to the spot; then, next second, I dashed towards her, just in time to arrest a blow that must otherwise have proved fatal.She turned on me ferociously, and fought like a wild animal, scratching and biting me viciously. Our struggle for the weapon was desperate, for she seemed possessed of superhuman strength. At last, however, I proved victor, and, wrenching the knife from her bony fingers, flung it across the room.Meanwhile Mabel awoke, and, springing to her feet, recognised the unwelcome guest.“See!” she cried, terrified. “Her face! It is the face of the man I met on the night George was murdered!”So distorted were the woman’s features by passion and hatred, that it was very difficult to recognise her as Fraulein Steinbock, the governess.In a frenzy of madness she flew across to Mabel, but I rushed between them, and by sheer brute force threw her back upon an ottoman, where I held her until assistance arrived. I was compelled to clutch her by the throat, and as I forced her head back, the thick hair fell aside from her brow, disclosing a deep, distinct mark upon the white flesh—a bluish-grey ring in the centre of her forehead.Screaming hysterically, she shouted terrible imprecations in some language I was unable to understand; and eventually, after a doctor had seen her, I allowed the police to take her to the station, where she was charged as a lunatic.It was many months before I succeeded in gleaning the remarkable facts relating to her past. It appears that her real name was Dàrya Goltsef, and she was the daughter of a Cossack soldier, born at Darbend, on the Caspian Sea. With her family she led a nomadic life, wandering through Georgia and Armenia, and often accompanying the Cossacks on their incursions and depredations over the frontier into Persia.It was while on one of these expeditions that she was guilty of a terrible crime. One night, wandering alone in one of the wild mountain passes near Tabreez, she discovered a lonely hut, and, entering, found three children belonging to the Iraks, a wandering tribe of robbers that infest that region.She was seized with a terrible mania, and in a semi-unconscious state, and without premeditation, she took up a knife and stabbed all three. Some men belonging to the tribe, however, detected her, and at first it was resolved to torture her and end her life; but on account of her youth—for she was then only fifteen—it was decided to place on her forehead an indelible mark, to brand her as a murderess.It is the custom of the Iraks to brand those guilty of murder; therefore, an iron ring was made red hot, and its impression burned deeply into the flesh.During the three years that followed, Dàrya was perfectly sane, but it appeared that my friend, Captain Alexandrovitch, while quartered at Deli Musa, in Transcaucasia, killed, in a duel, a man named Peschkoff, who was her lover. The sudden grief at losing the man she loved caused a second calenture of the brain, and, war being declared against Turkey just at that time, she joined the Red Cross Sisters, and went to the front to aid the wounded. I have since remembered that one evening, while before Plevna, I was passing through the camp hospital with Alexandrovitch, when he related to me his little escapade, explaining with happy, careless jest how recklessly he had flirted, and how foolishly jealous Peschkoff had been.He told me that it was an Englishman who had been travelling for pleasure to Teheran, but whose name he did not remember, that had really been the cause of the quarrel, and laughed heartily, with a Russian’s pride of swordsmanship, as he narrated how evenly matched Peschkoff and he had been.That just cost my friend his life, for Dàrya must have overheard.Then the desire for revenge, the mad, insatiable craving for blood that had remained dormant, was again aroused; and, under the weird circumstances already described, she disguised herself as a man, and, entering our tent, murdered Alexandrovitch.On further investigation, I discovered that the unknown English traveller was none other than George Travers, for in one of the sketchbooks he had carried during his tour in the East, I found a well-executed pencil portrait of the Cossack maiden.Dàrya’s motive in coming to England was, without doubt, one of revenge, prompted by the terrible aberration from which she was suffering.Mabel, who had refrained from saying anything regarding the murder of her brother, fearing lest her story should appear absurd, now made an explanation. On the night of the tragedy, she was on her way to the house at Chiswick, and, when near the gates, a well-dressed young man had accosted her, explaining that he was an old friend of George’s recently returned from abroad, and wished to speak with him privately without his wife’s knowledge. He concluded by asking her whether, as a favour, she would show him the way to enter her brother’s room without going in at the front door. The story told by the young man seemed quite plausible, and she led him up to the French windows of the study.Then she left the stranger, and crossed the lawn to go round to the front door, but at that moment the clock of Chiswick church chimed, and, finding the hour so late, she suddenly resolved to return home.Later, when she heard of the tragedy, she was horrified to discover that she had actually aided the assassin, but resolved to preserve silence lest suspicion might attach itself to her.She now identified the distorted features of the madwoman as those of the young man, and when I questioned her with regard to the bloodstained handkerchief, she explained how, in groping about the shrubbery in the dark, she had torn her hand severely on some thorns.The cloud of suspicion that had rested so long upon Mabel is now removed, and we are again happy.The carefully-devised plots and the devilish cunning that characterised all the murderess’s movements appeared most extraordinary; nevertheless, in cases such as hers, they are not unheard of. Dàrya is now in Brookwood Asylum, hopelessly insane, for she is still suffering from that most terrible form of madness,—acute homicidal mania,—and is known to the attendants as “The Woman with a Blemish.”

The weird prologue of the drama was enacted some years ago, yet time, alas! does not obliterate it from my memory.

To the hail of bullets, the whistling of shells, the fitful flash of powder, and the thunder of guns I had grown callous. During the months I had been in Servia and Bulgaria watching and describing the terrible struggle between Turkey and Russia, I had grown world-weary, careless of everything, even of life. I had been present at the relief of Kars, had witnessed the wholesale slaughter in various parts of the Ottoman Empire, and was now attached to the Russian forces bombarding Plevna.

Those who have never experienced actual warfare cannot imagine how terrible are the horrors of life at the front.

Picture for a moment a great multitude of men whose sole occupation is slaughter—some with smoke-blackened faces toiling in the earthworks, discharging their heavy field-pieces which day and night dispatch their death-dealing missiles into the shattered town yonder, while hordes of Cossacks and Russian grenadiers engage the enemy at every point; the rattle of musketry and artillery is deafening, the rain of bullets incessant, and on every side is suffering and death. And you are a war-correspondent, a spectator, a non-combatant! You have travelled across Europe to witness this frightful carnage, and paint word-pictures of it for the folk at home. At any moment a stray bullet might end your existence; nevertheless, you must not be fatigued, for after the toil of the day your work commences, and you must find a quiet corner where you can write a column of description for transmission to Fleet Street.

Such were the circumstances in which I was placed when, after a six months’ absence from England, I found myself before Plevna. The brief December day was drawing to a close as I stood, revolver in hand, near one of the great guns that at regular intervals thundered forth in chorus with the others. I was in conversation with Captain Alexandrovitch, a smart young officer with whom I was on very friendly terms, and we were watching through our field-glasses the effect of our fire upon the town.

“Now my lads,” the captain shouted in Russian, to the men working the gun. “Let us test our accuracy. See! one of Osman’s officers has just appeared on the small redoubt yonder to encourage his men. There is a good target. See!”

Scarcely had he spoken when the men sprang back, the great gun belched forth flame, and the shell, striking the enemy’s fortification, took part of it away, blowing the unfortunate Turkish officer into fragments.

Such are the fortunes of war!

“Good!” exclaimed Alexandrovitch, laughing; as, turning to me, he added, “If we continue like this, we shall silence the redoubts before to-morrow. How suicidal of Osman Pasha to imagine his handful of lean, hungry dogs capable of defence against the army of the Great White Tzar. Bah! We shall—”

The sentence was left unfinished, for a bullet whistled close to me, and a second later he threw up his hands, and, uttering a loud cry of pain, staggered and fell, severely wounded in the side.

Our ambulance and medical staff was on that day very disorganised, so, instead of conveying him to the field hospital, they carried him into my tent, close by.

Night fell, and for hours I knelt beside him, trying to alleviate his agony. The surgeon had dressed the wound, and the officer lay writhing and groaning, while by the meagre light of an evil-smelling oil-lamp I scribbled my dispatch. At last the wounded man became quieter, and presently slept; while I, jaded and worn, wrapped my blanket about me, placed my revolver under my saddle, and lay down to snatch an hour’s repose.

How long I slept I scarcely know; but I was awakened by a strange rustling.

The flap of the tent was open, and I saw against the faint grey glimmering of the wintry morning’s struggling dawn a figure stealthily bending over the wounded man who lay asleep at my side.

The intruder wore the heavy greatcoat and round cap of a Cossack officer, and was evidently searching my comrade’s pockets.

“Who are you? What do you want?” I cried in Russian, clutching my revolver.

The man started, withdrew his hand, and stood upright, looking down upon me. For a moment I fixed my eyes upon the statuesque figure, and gazed at him amazed. I am not by any means a nervous man, but there was something weird about the fellow’s appearance.

Whether it was due to the suddenness with which I had discovered him, or whether some peculiar phenomenon was caused by his presence, I was unable to determine.

I remember asking myself if I were really awake, and becoming convinced that I was in possession of all my faculties.

“Speak!” I said sternly. “Speak—or I’ll fire!”

Raising the weapon, I waited for a moment.

The figure remained motionless, facing the muzzle of the pistol unflinchingly.

Again I repeated my challenge. There was, however, no reply.

I pulled the trigger.

In the momentary flash that followed I caught a glimpse of the face of the intruder. It was that of a woman!

She was young and beautiful. Her parted lips revealed an even row of tightly-clenched teeth, her dark eyes had a look of unutterable horror in them, and her cheeks were deathly pale.

It was the most lovely face I had ever gazed upon.

Its beauty was perfect, yet there was something about the forehead that struck me as peculiar.

The thick dark hair was brushed back severely, and high up, almost in the centre of the white brow, was a curious mark, which, in the rapid flash of light, appeared to be a small butperfectly-defined bluish-grey ring!

As I fired, the arm of the mysterious visitor was raised as if to ward off a blow, and in the hand I saw the gleam of steel.

The slender fingers were grasping a murderous weapon—a long, keen surgeon’s knife, the blade of which was besmeared with blood.

Was I dreaming? I again asked myself. No, it was not a visionary illusion, for I saw it plainly with my eyes wide-open.

So great a fascination did this strange visitant possess over me, that I had been suddenly overcome by a terrible dread that had deprived me of the power of speech. My tongue clave to the roof of my mouth.

I felt more than ever convinced that there must be something supernatural about the silent masquerader.

In the dim light the puff of grey smoke from the revolver slowly curled before my eyes, hiding for a few seconds the singularly-beautiful countenance.

When, however, a moment later, the veil had cleared, I was amazed to discover that the figure had vanished.

My hand had been unsteady.

Grasping my revolver firmly, I sprang to my feet and rushed out of the tent. While gazing quickly around, a Cossack sentry, whose attention had been attracted by the shot, ran towards me.

“Has a woman passed you?” I asked excitedly, in the best Russian I could muster.

“A woman! No, sir. I was speaking with Ivan, my comrade on duty, when I heard a pistol-shot; but I have seen no one except yourself.”

“Didn’t you see an officer?”

“No, sir,” the man replied, leaning on his Berdan rifle and regarding me with astonishment.

“Are you positive?”

“I could swear before the holyikon,” answered the soldier. “You could not have seen a woman, sir. There’s not one in the camp, and one could not enter, for we are exercising the greatest vigilance to exclude spies.”

“Yes, yes, I understand,” I said, endeavouring to laugh. “I suppose, after all, I’ve been dreaming;” and then, wishing the man good-morning, I returned to the tent.

It was, I tried to persuade myself, merely a chimera of a disordered imagination and a nervous system that had been highly strained by constant fatigue and excitement. I had of late, I remembered, experienced curious delusions, and often in the midst of most exciting scenes I could see vividly how peaceful and happy was my home in London, and how anxiously yet patiently my friends and relatives were awaiting my return from the dreaded seat of war.

On entering the tent, I was about to fling myself down to resume my rest, when it occurred to me that my wounded comrade might require something. Apparently he was asleep, and it seemed a pity to rouse him to administer the cooling draught the surgeon had left.

Bending down, I looked into his face, but could not see it distinctly, for the light was still faint and uncertain. His breathing was very slight, I thought; indeed, as I listened, I could not detect any sound of respiration. I placed my hand upon his breast, but withdrew it quickly.

My fingers were covered with blood.

Striking a match and holding it close to his recumbent figure, my eyes fell upon a sight which caused me to start back in horror. The face was bloodless, the jaw had dropped; he was dead!

There was a great ugly knife-wound. Captain Alexandrovitch had been stabbed to the heart!

At that moment the loud rumble of cannon broke the stillness, and a second later there was a vivid flash of light, followed by a terrific explosion. The redoubts of Plevna had opened fire upon us again, and a shell had burst in unpleasant proximity to my tent. The sullen roar of the big guns, and the sharp rattle from the rifle-pits, quickly placed us on the defence.

Bugles sounded everywhere, words of command were shouted, there was bustle and confusion for a few minutes, then every one sprang to his post, and our guns recommenced pouring their deadly fire into the picturesque little town, with its two white minarets, its domed church, and its flat-roofed houses, nestling in the wooded hollow.

With a final glance at my murdered comrade, I hastily buckled on my traps, reloaded my revolver, and, taking a photograph from my pocket, kissed it. Need I say that it was a woman’s? A moment later, I was outside amid the deafening roar of the death-dealing guns. Our situation was more critical than we had imagined, for Osman, believing that he had discovered a weak point in the girdle of Muscovite steel, was advancing, notwithstanding our fire. A terrible conflict ensued; but our victory is now historical.

We fought the Turks hand to hand, bayonet to bayonet, with terrible desperation, knowing well that the battle must be decisive. The carnage was fearful, yet to me there was one thing still more horrible, for throughout that well-remembered day the recollection of the mysterious murder of my friend was ever present in my mind. Amid the cannon smoke I saw distinctly the features of the strange visitant. They were, however, not so beautiful as I had imagined. The countenance was hideous. Indeed, never in my life have I seen such a sinister female face, or flashing eyes starting from their sockets in so horrible a manner.

But the most vivid characteristic of all was the curious circular mark on the forehead, that seemed to stand out black as jet.

Three months afterwards, on a rainy, cheerless March afternoon, I arrived at Charing Cross, and with considerable satisfaction set foot once again upon the muddy pavement of the Strand. It is indeed pleasant to be surrounded by English faces, and hear English voices, after a long period of enforced exile, wearying work, and constant uncertainty as to whether one will live to return to old associations and acquaintances. Leaving my luggage at the station, I walked down to the office in Fleet Street to report myself, and having received the welcome of such of the staff as were about the premises at that hour, afterwards took a cab to my rather dreary bachelor rooms in Russell Square.

My life in London during the next few months was uneventful, save for two exceptions. The first was when the Russian Ambassador conferred upon me, in the name of his Imperial master the Tzar, a little piece of orange and purple ribbon, in recognition of a trifling accident whereby I was enabled to save the lives of several of his brave Sibirsky soldiers. The second and more important was that I renounced the Bohemian ease of bachelorhood, and married Mabel Travers, the girl to whom for five years I had been engaged, and whose portrait I had carried in my pocket through so many scenes of desolation and hours of peril.

We took up our residence in a pretty bijou flat in Kensington Court, and our married life was one of unalloyed happiness. I found my wife amiable and good as she was young and handsome, and although she moved in a rather smart set, there was nothing of the butterfly of fashion about her. Her father was a wealthy Manchester cotton-spinner, who had a town-house at Gloucester Gate, and her dowry, being very considerable, enabled us to enter society.

On a winter’s afternoon, six months after our marriage, I arrived home about four o’clock, having been at the office greater part of the day, writing an important article for the next morning’s issue. Mabel was not at home, therefore, after a while, I entered the diningroom to await her. The hours dragged on, and though the marble clock on the mantelshelf chimed six, seven, and even eight o’clock, still she did not return. Although puzzled at her protracted absence, I was also hungry, so, ringing for dinner to be served, I sat down to a lonely meal.

Soon afterwards Mabel returned. She dashed into the room, gazed at me with a strange, half-frightened glance, then, rushing across, kissed me passionately, flinging her arms about my neck, and pleading to be forgiven for being absent so long, explaining that a lady, to whose “At Home” she had been, was very unwell, and she had remained a couple of hours longer with her. Of course I concealed my annoyance, and we spent the remainder of the evening very happily; for, seated before the blazing fire in full enjoyment of a good cigar and liqueur, I related how I had spent the day, while she gave me a full description of what she had been doing, and the people she had met.

Shortly before eleven o’clock the maid entered with a telegram addressed to Mabel. A message at that hour was so extraordinary, that I took it and eagerly broke open the envelope.

It was an urgent request that my wife should proceed at once to the house of her brother George at Chiswick, as something unusual had happened. We had a brief consultation over the extraordinary message, and as it was late, and raining heavily, I decided to go in her stead.

An hour’s drive in a cab brought me to a large red-brick, ivy-covered house, standing back from the road, and facing the Thames near Chiswick Mall. It was one of those residences built in the Georgian era, at a time when thefêtes champètresat Devonshire House were attended by the King, and when Chiswick was a fashionable country retreat. It stood in the centre of spacious grounds, with pretty serpentine walks, where long ago dainty dames in wigs and patches strolled arm-in-arm with splendid silk-coated beaux. The house was one of those time-mellowed relics of an age bygone, that one rarely comes across in London suburbs nowadays.

Mabel’s brother had resided here with his wife and their two children for four years, and being an Oriental scholar and enthusiast, he spent a good deal of his time in his study.

It was midnight when the old man-servant opened the door to me.

“Ah, Mr Harold!” he cried, on recognising me. “I’m glad you’ve come, sir. It’s a terrible night’s work that’s been done here.”

“What do you mean?” I gasped; then, as I noticed old Mr Travers standing pale and haggard in the hall, I rushed towards him, requesting an explanation.

“It’s horrible,” he replied. “I—I found poor George dead—murdered!”

“Murdered?” I echoed.

“Yes, it is all enshrouded in mystery,” he said. “The detectives are now making their examination.”

As I followed him into the study, I felt I must collect myself and show some reserve of mental strength and energy, but on entering, I was horror-stricken at the sight.

This room, in which George Travers spent most of his time, was of medium size, with French windows opening upon the lawn, and lined from floor to ceiling with books, while the centre was occupied by a large writing-table, littered with papers.

Beside the table, with blanched face upturned to the green-tinted light of the reading-lamp, lay the corpse of my brother-in-law, while from a wound in his neck the blood had oozed, forming a great dark pool upon the carpet.

It was evident that he had fallen in a sitting posture in the chair when the fatal blow had been dealt; then the body had rolled over on to the floor, for in the position it had been discovered it still remained.

The crime was a most remarkable one. George Travers had retired to do some writing shortly before eight o’clock, leaving his father and his wife together in the drawing-room, and expressing a wish not to be disturbed.

At ten, old Mr Travers, who was about to return home, entered the room for the purpose of bidding his son good-night, when, to his dismay, he found him stabbed to the heart, the body rigid and cold. The window communicating with the garden stood open, the small safe had been ransacked, the drawers in the writing-table searched, and there was every evidence that the crime was the deliberate work of an assassin who had been undisturbed.

No sound had been heard by the servants, for the murderer must have struck down the defenceless man at one blow.

Entrance had been gained from the lawn, as the detectives found muddy footprints upon the grass and on the carpet, prints which they carefully sketched and measured, at length arriving at the conclusion that they were those of a woman.

They appeared to be the marks of thin-soled French shoes, with high heels slightly worn over.

Beyond this there was an entire absence of anything that could lead to the identification of the murderer, and though they searched long and diligently over the lawn and shrubbery beyond, their efforts were unrewarded.

It was dawn when I returned home, and having occasion to enter the kitchen, I noticed that on a chair a pair of woman’s shoes had been placed.

They were Mabel’s. Scarcely knowing why I did so, I took them up and glanced at them. They were very muddy, and, strangely enough, some blades of grass were embedded in the mud. Then terrible thoughts occurred to me.

I recollected Mabel’s long absence, and remembered that one does not get grass on one’s shoes in Kensington.

The shoes were of French make, stamped with the name of “Pinet.” They were thin-soled, and the high Louis XV heels were slightly worn on one side.

Breathlessly I took them to the window, and, in the grey light, examined them scrupulously. They coincided exactly with the pair the detectives were searching for, the wearer of which they declared was the person who stabbed George Travers to the heart!

The dried clay and the blades of grass were positive proof that Mabel had walked somewhere besides on London pavements.

Could she really have murdered her brother? A terrible suspicion entered my soul, although I strove to resist it, endeavouring to bring myself to believe that such a thought was absolutely absurd; but at length, fearing detection, I found a brush and removed the mud with my own hands.

Then I walked through the flat and entered the room where Mabel was soundly sleeping. At the foot of the bed something white had fallen. Picking it up, I discovered it was a handkerchief.

A second later it fell from my nerveless grasp. It had dark, stiff patches upon it—the ugly stains of blood!

The one thought that took possession of me was of Mabel’s guilt. Yet she gave me no cause for further suspicion, except, indeed, that she eagerly read all the details as “written up” in those evening papers that revel in sensation.

George was buried, his house was sold, and his widow went with her children to live at Alversthorpe Hall, old Mr Travers’ place in Cumberland.

Mabel appeared quite as inconsolable as the bereaved wife.

“Do you believe the police will ever find the murderer?” she asked me one evening, when we were sitting alone.

“I really can’t tell, dear,” I replied, noticing how haggard and serious was her face as she gazed fixedly into the fire.

“Have—have they discovered anything?” she inquired hesitatingly.

“Yes,” I answered. “They found the marks of a woman’s shoes upon the lawn.”

She started visibly and held her breath.

“Ah!” she gasped; “I—I thought they would. I knew it—I knew—”

Then, sighing, she drew her hand quickly across her brow, and, rising, left me abruptly.

About two months afterwards, Mabel and I went down to Alversthorpe on a visit, and as we sat at dinner on the evening of our arrival, Fraulein Steinbock, the new German governess, entered to speak with her mistress.

For a moment she stood behind the widow’s chair, glancing furtively at me. It was very remarkable. Although her features bore not the slightest resemblance to any I had ever seen before, they seemed somehow familiar. It was not the expression of tenderness and purity of soul that entranced me, but there was something strange about the forehead. The dark hair in front had accidentally been parted, disclosing what appeared to bea portion of a dark ugly scar!

Chancing to glance at Mabel, I was amazed to notice that she had dropped her knife and fork, and was sitting pale and haggard, with her eyes fixed upon the wall opposite.

Her lips were moving slightly, but no sound came from them.

When, on the following morning, I was chatting with the widow alone, I carelessly inquired about the new governess.

“She was called away suddenly last night. Her brother is dying,” she said.

“Called away!” I echoed. “Where has she gone?”

“To London. I do hope she won’t be long away, for I really can’t do without her. She is so kind and attentive to the children.”

“Do you know her brother’s address?”

She shook her head. Then I asked for some particulars about her, but discovered that nothing was known of her past. She was an excellent governess—that was all.

Twelve months later. One evening I had been busy writing in my own little den, and had left Mabel in the drawing-room reading a novel. It was almost ten o’clock when I rose from my table, and, having turned out my lamp, I went along the passage to join my wife.

Pushing open the door, I saw she had fallen asleep in her little wicker chair.

But she was not alone.

The tall, statuesque form of a woman in a light dress stood over her. The profile of the mysterious visitor was turned towards me. The face wore the same demoniacal expression, it had the same dark, flashing eyes, the same white teeth, that I had seen on that terrible day before Plevna!

As she bent over my sleeping wife, one hand rested on the chair, while the other grasped a gleaming knife, which she held uplifted, ready to strike.

For a moment I stood rooted to the spot; then, next second, I dashed towards her, just in time to arrest a blow that must otherwise have proved fatal.

She turned on me ferociously, and fought like a wild animal, scratching and biting me viciously. Our struggle for the weapon was desperate, for she seemed possessed of superhuman strength. At last, however, I proved victor, and, wrenching the knife from her bony fingers, flung it across the room.

Meanwhile Mabel awoke, and, springing to her feet, recognised the unwelcome guest.

“See!” she cried, terrified. “Her face! It is the face of the man I met on the night George was murdered!”

So distorted were the woman’s features by passion and hatred, that it was very difficult to recognise her as Fraulein Steinbock, the governess.

In a frenzy of madness she flew across to Mabel, but I rushed between them, and by sheer brute force threw her back upon an ottoman, where I held her until assistance arrived. I was compelled to clutch her by the throat, and as I forced her head back, the thick hair fell aside from her brow, disclosing a deep, distinct mark upon the white flesh—a bluish-grey ring in the centre of her forehead.

Screaming hysterically, she shouted terrible imprecations in some language I was unable to understand; and eventually, after a doctor had seen her, I allowed the police to take her to the station, where she was charged as a lunatic.

It was many months before I succeeded in gleaning the remarkable facts relating to her past. It appears that her real name was Dàrya Goltsef, and she was the daughter of a Cossack soldier, born at Darbend, on the Caspian Sea. With her family she led a nomadic life, wandering through Georgia and Armenia, and often accompanying the Cossacks on their incursions and depredations over the frontier into Persia.

It was while on one of these expeditions that she was guilty of a terrible crime. One night, wandering alone in one of the wild mountain passes near Tabreez, she discovered a lonely hut, and, entering, found three children belonging to the Iraks, a wandering tribe of robbers that infest that region.

She was seized with a terrible mania, and in a semi-unconscious state, and without premeditation, she took up a knife and stabbed all three. Some men belonging to the tribe, however, detected her, and at first it was resolved to torture her and end her life; but on account of her youth—for she was then only fifteen—it was decided to place on her forehead an indelible mark, to brand her as a murderess.

It is the custom of the Iraks to brand those guilty of murder; therefore, an iron ring was made red hot, and its impression burned deeply into the flesh.

During the three years that followed, Dàrya was perfectly sane, but it appeared that my friend, Captain Alexandrovitch, while quartered at Deli Musa, in Transcaucasia, killed, in a duel, a man named Peschkoff, who was her lover. The sudden grief at losing the man she loved caused a second calenture of the brain, and, war being declared against Turkey just at that time, she joined the Red Cross Sisters, and went to the front to aid the wounded. I have since remembered that one evening, while before Plevna, I was passing through the camp hospital with Alexandrovitch, when he related to me his little escapade, explaining with happy, careless jest how recklessly he had flirted, and how foolishly jealous Peschkoff had been.

He told me that it was an Englishman who had been travelling for pleasure to Teheran, but whose name he did not remember, that had really been the cause of the quarrel, and laughed heartily, with a Russian’s pride of swordsmanship, as he narrated how evenly matched Peschkoff and he had been.

That just cost my friend his life, for Dàrya must have overheard.

Then the desire for revenge, the mad, insatiable craving for blood that had remained dormant, was again aroused; and, under the weird circumstances already described, she disguised herself as a man, and, entering our tent, murdered Alexandrovitch.

On further investigation, I discovered that the unknown English traveller was none other than George Travers, for in one of the sketchbooks he had carried during his tour in the East, I found a well-executed pencil portrait of the Cossack maiden.

Dàrya’s motive in coming to England was, without doubt, one of revenge, prompted by the terrible aberration from which she was suffering.

Mabel, who had refrained from saying anything regarding the murder of her brother, fearing lest her story should appear absurd, now made an explanation. On the night of the tragedy, she was on her way to the house at Chiswick, and, when near the gates, a well-dressed young man had accosted her, explaining that he was an old friend of George’s recently returned from abroad, and wished to speak with him privately without his wife’s knowledge. He concluded by asking her whether, as a favour, she would show him the way to enter her brother’s room without going in at the front door. The story told by the young man seemed quite plausible, and she led him up to the French windows of the study.

Then she left the stranger, and crossed the lawn to go round to the front door, but at that moment the clock of Chiswick church chimed, and, finding the hour so late, she suddenly resolved to return home.

Later, when she heard of the tragedy, she was horrified to discover that she had actually aided the assassin, but resolved to preserve silence lest suspicion might attach itself to her.

She now identified the distorted features of the madwoman as those of the young man, and when I questioned her with regard to the bloodstained handkerchief, she explained how, in groping about the shrubbery in the dark, she had torn her hand severely on some thorns.

The cloud of suspicion that had rested so long upon Mabel is now removed, and we are again happy.

The carefully-devised plots and the devilish cunning that characterised all the murderess’s movements appeared most extraordinary; nevertheless, in cases such as hers, they are not unheard of. Dàrya is now in Brookwood Asylum, hopelessly insane, for she is still suffering from that most terrible form of madness,—acute homicidal mania,—and is known to the attendants as “The Woman with a Blemish.”

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