.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 41652
   :PG.Title: The Wages of Virtue
   :PG.Released: 2012-12-17
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Percival Christopher Wren
   :DC.Title: The Wages of Virtue
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1916
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

===================
THE WAGES OF VIRTUE
===================

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   .. _`Cover`:

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      Cover

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      THE
      WAGES OF VIRTUE

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      BY
      PERCIVAL CHRISTOPHER WREN

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      LONDON
      JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET

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      FIRST EDITION . . . November, 1916
      Reprinted . . . . . December, 1916
      Reprinted . . . . . May, 1917
      Reprinted . . . . . September, 1917
      Reprinted (2/-) . . January, 1920
      Reprinted (3/6) . . April, 1925
      Reprinted . . . . . September, 1925
      Reprinted (2/-) . . November, 1925
      Reprinted (3/6) . . December, 1925
      Reprinted . . . . . March, 1926
      Reprinted (2/-) . . August, 1926
      Reprinted (3/6) . . October, 1926
      Reprinted (2/-) . . January, 1927
      Reprinted (3/6) . . March, 1927
      Reprinted (2/-) . . March, 1927
      Reprinted (2/-) . . June, 1927
      Reprinted (3/6) . . June, 1927
      Reprinted (2/-) . . February, 1928
      Reprinted (3/6) . . May, 1928

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      *BY THE SAME AUTHOR*

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      BEAU GESTE
      BEAU SABREUR
      THE WAGES OF VIRTUE
      STEPSONS OF FRANCE
      THE SNAKE AND THE SWORD
      FATHER GREGORY
      DEW AND MILDEW
      DRIFTWOOD SPARS
      THE YOUNG STAGERS

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      *All rights reserved*

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      TO
      THE CHARMINGEST WOMAN

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   CONTENTS

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   `Prologue`_

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   I.  `Soap and Sir Montague Merline`_
   II.  `A Barrack-Room of the Legion`_
   III.  `Carmelita et Cie`_
   IV.  `The Canteen of the Legion`_
   V.  `The Trivial Round`_
   VI.  `Le Cafard and Other Things`_
   VII.  `The Sheep in Wolf's Clothing`_
   VIII.  `The Temptation of Sir Montague Merline`_
   IX.  `The Café and the Canteen`_
   X.  `The Wages of Sin`_
   XI.  `Greater Love...`_

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   `Epilogue`_

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   |   "Vivandière du régiment,
   |   C'est Catin qu'on me nomme;
   |   Je vends, je donne, je bois gaiment,
   |   Mon vin et mon rogomme;
   |   J'ai le pied leste et l'oeil mutin,
   |   Tintin, tintin, tintin, r'lin tintin,
   |   Soldats, voilà Catin!
   |
   |   "Je fus chère à tous nos héros;
   |   Hélas! combien j'en pleure,
   |   Ainsi soldats et généraux
   |   Me comblaient à tout heure
   |   D'amour, de gloire et de butin,
   |   Tintin, tintin, tintin, r'lin tintin
   |   D'amour, de gloire et de butin,
   |   Soldats, voilà Catin!"
   |
   |   BÉRANGER.

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.. _`prologue`:

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   PROLOGUE

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Lord Huntingten emerged from his little
green tent, and strolled over to where Captain
Strong, of the Queen's African Rifles, sat in the
"drawing-room."  The drawing-room was the space under
a cedar fir and was furnished with four Roorkee chairs
of green canvas and white wood, and a waterproof
ground-sheet.

"I do wish the Merlines would roll up," he said.
"I want my dinner."

"Not dinner time yet," remarked Captain Strong.
"Hungry?"

"No," answered Lord Huntingten almost
snappishly.  Captain Strong smiled.  How old Reggie
Huntingten always gave himself away!  It was the
safe return of Lady Merline that he wanted.

Captain Strong, although a soldier, the conditions
of whose life were almost those of perpetual Active
Service, was a student--and particularly a student of
human nature.  Throughout a life of great activity he
found, and made, much opportunity for sitting in the
stalls of the Theatre of Life and enjoying the Human
Comedy.  This East African shooting-trip with Lord
Huntingten, Sir Montague, and Lady Merline, was
affording him great entertainment, inasmuch as
Huntingten had fallen in love with Lady Merline and did not
know it.  Lady Merline was falling in love with
Huntingten and knew it only too well, and Merline loved
them both.  That there would be no sort or kind of
"dénouement," in the vulgar sense, Captain Strong
was well and gladly aware--for Huntingten was as
honourable a man as ever lived, and Lady Merline just
as admirable.  No saner, wiser, nor better woman had
Strong ever met, nor any as well balanced.  Had there
been any possibility of "developments," trouble, and
the usual fiasco of scandal and the Divorce Court, he
would have taken an early opportunity of leaving the
party and rejoining his company at Mombasa.  For
Lord Huntingten was his school, Sandhurst and lifelong
friend, while Merline was his brother-in-arms and
comrade of many an unrecorded, nameless expedition,
foray, skirmish, fight and adventure.

"Merline shouldn't keep her out after dusk like
this," continued Lord Huntingten.  "After all, Africa's
Africa and a woman's a woman."

"And Merline's Merline," added Strong with a faint
hint of reproof.  Lord Huntingten grunted, arose, and
strode up and down.  A fine upstanding figure of a
man in the exceedingly becoming garb of khaki cord
riding-breeches, well-cut high boots, brown flannel
shirt and broad-brimmed felt hat.  Although his hands
were small, the arms exposed by the rolled-up
shirtsleeves were those of a navvy, or a blacksmith.  The
face, though tanned and wrinkled, was finely cut and
undeniably handsome, with its high-bridged nose,
piercing blue eyes, fair silky moustache and prominent
chin.  If, as we are sometimes informed, impassivity
and immobility of countenance are essential to
aspirants for such praise as is contained in the term
"aristocratic," Lord Huntingten was not what he
himself would have described as a "starter," for never
did face more honestly portray feeling than did that of
Lord Huntingten.  As a rule it was wreathed in smiles,
and brightly reflected the joyous, sunny nature of its
owner.  On those rare occasions when he was angered,
it was convulsed with rage, and, even before he spoke,
all and sundry were well aware that his lordship was
angry.  When he did speak, they were confirmed in the
belief without possibility of error.  If he were
disappointed or chagrined this expressive countenance
fell with such suddenness and celerity that the fact of
so great a fall being inaudible came as a surprise to the
observant witness.  At that moment, as he consulted
his watch, the face of this big, generous and lovable
man was only too indicative of the fact that his soul
was filled with anxiety, resentment and annoyance.
Captain Strong, watching him with malicious affection,
was reminded of a petulant baby and again of a big
naughty boy who, having been stood in the corner for
half an hour, firmly believes that the half-hour has long
ago expired.  Yes, he promised himself much quiet
and subtle amusement, interest and instruction from
the study of his friends and their actions and
reactions during the coming weeks.  What would
Huntingten do when he realised his condition and position?
Run for his life, or grin and bear it?  If the former,
where would he go?  If, living in Mayfair and falling
in love with your neighbour's wife, the correct thing
is to go and shoot lions in East Africa, is it, conversely,
the correct thing to go and live in Mayfair if, shooting
lions in East Africa, you fall in love with your
neighbour's wife?  Captain Strong smiled at his whimsicality,
and showed his interesting face at its best.  A
favourite remark of his was to the effect that the
world's a queer place, and life a queer, thing.  It is
doubtful whether he realised exactly how queer an
example of the fact was afforded by his being a soldier
in the first place, and an African soldier in the second.
When he was so obviously and completely cut out for
a philosopher and student (with relaxations in the
direction of the writing of Ibsenical-Pinerotic plays
and Shavo-Wellsian novels), what did he in that galley
of strenuous living and strenuous dying?  Further, it is
interesting to note that among those brave and hardy
men, second to none in keenness, resourcefulness and
ability, Captain Strong was noted for these qualities.

A huge Swahili orderly of the Queen's African Rifles,
clad in a tall yellow tarboosh, a very long blue jersey,
khaki shorts, blue puttees and hobnail boots,
approached Captain Strong and saluted.  He announced
that Merline *Bwana* was approaching, and, on Strong's
replying that such things did happen, and even with
sufficient frequency to render the widest publication
of the fact unnecessary, the man informed him that
the *macouba Bwana Simba* (the big Lion Master) had
given his bearer orders to have the approach of
Merline *Bwana* signalled and announced.

Turning to Huntingten, Strong bade that agitated
nobleman to be of good cheer, for Merline was safe--his
*askaris* were safe--his pony was safe, and it was
even reported that all the dogs were safe.

"Three loud cheers," observed his lordship, as his
face beamed ruddily, "but, to tell you the truth, it
was of *Lady* Merline I was thinking....  You never
know in Africa, you know...."

Captain Strong smiled.

Sir Montague and Lady Merline rode into camp on
their Arab ponies a few minutes later, and there was a
bustle of Indian and Swahili "boys" and bearers,
about the unlacing of tents, preparing of hot baths,
the taking of ponies and guns, and the hurrying up of
dinner.

While Sir Montague gave orders concerning the
*enyama*\[#] for the *safari* servants and porters, whose
virtue had merited this addition to their *posho*\[#] Lady
Merline entered the "drawing-room," and once again
gladdened the heart of Lord Huntingten with her
grace and beauty.  He struck an attitude, laid his
hand upon his heart, and swept the ground with his
slouch hat in a most gracefully executed bow.  Lady
Merline, albeit clad in brief khaki shooting-costume,
puttees, tiny hobnail boots, and brown pith helmet,
returned the compliment with a Court curtsey.

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   [#] Meat.

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   [#] Food.

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Their verbal greeting hardly sustained the dignity
of the preliminaries.

"How's Bill the Lamb?" quoth the lady.

"How's Margarine?" was the reply.

Their eyes interested Captain Strong more than
their words.

(Lady Merline's eyes were famous; and, beautiful
as Strong had always realised those wonderful orbs to
be, he was strongly inclined to fancy that they looked
even deeper, even brighter, even more beautiful when
regarding the handsome sunny face of Lord Huntingten.)

Sir Montague Merline joined the group.

"Hallo, Bill!  Hallo, Strong!" he remarked.  "I
say, Strong, what's *marodi*, and what's *gisi* in Somali?"

"Same as *tembo* and *mbogo* in Swahili," was the
reply.

"Oh!  Elephant and buffalo.  Well, that one-eyed
Somali blighter with the corrugated forehead, whom
Abdul brought in, says there are both--close to
Bamania over there--about thirteen miles you know."

"He's a liar then," replied Captain Strong.

"Swears the elephants went on the tiles all night in
a *shamba*\[#] there, the day before yesterday."

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   [#] Garden.  Cultivation.

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"Might go that way, anyhow," put in Lord Huntingten.
"Take him with us, and rub his nose in it if
there's nothing."

"You're nothing if not lucid, Bill," said Lady
Merline.  "I'm off to change," and added as she turned
away, "I vote we go to Bamania anyhow.  There may
be lemons, or mangoes, or bananas or something in the
*shamba*, if there are no elephants or buffaloes."

"Don't imagine you are going upsetting elephants
and teasing buffaloes, young woman," cried "Bill"
after her as she went to her tent.  "The elephants and
buffaloes of these parts are the kind that eat English
women, and feeding the animals is forbidden...."

It occurred to Captain Strong, that silent and
observant man, that Lady Merline's amusement at
this typical specimen of the Huntingten humour was
possibly greater than it would have been had he or her
husband perpetrated it.

"Dinner in twenty minutes, Monty," said he to Sir
Montague Merline and departed to his tent.

"I say, Old Thing, dear," observed Lord Huntingten
to the same gentleman, as, with the tip of his little
finger, he "wangled" a soda-water bottle with a view
to concocting a whiskey-and-soda.  "We won't let
Marguerite have anything to do with elephant or
buffalo, will we?"

"Good Lord, no!" was the reply.  "We've promised
her one pot at a lion if we can possibly oblige, but
that will have to be her limit, and, what's more, you
and I will be one each side of her when she does it."

"Yes," agreed the other, and added, "Expect I
shall know what nerves are, when it comes off, too."

"Fancy 'nerves' and the *Bwana Simba*," laughed
Sir Montague Merline as he held out his glass for the
soda....  "Here's to Marguerite's first lion," he
continued, and the two men solemnly drank the toast.

Sir Montague Merline struck a match for his pipe,
the light illuminating his face in the darkness which
had fallen in the last few minutes.  The first impression
one gathered from the face of Captain Sir Montague
Merline, of the Queen's African Rifles, was one of
unusual gentleness and kindliness.  Without being in
any way a weak face, it was an essentially friendly and
amiable one--a soldierly face without any hint of
that fierce, harsh and ruthless expression which is
apparently cultivated as part of their stock-in-trade
by the professional soldiers of militarist nations.  A
physiognomist, observing him, would not be surprised
to learn of quixotic actions and a reputation for being
"such an awful good chap--one of the best-hearted
fellers that ever helped a lame dog over a stile."  So
far as such a thing can be said of any strong and
honest man who does his duty, it could be said of Sir
Montague Merline that he had no enemies.  Contrary
to the dictum that "He who has no enemies has no
friends" was the fact that Sir Montague Merline's
friends were all who knew him.  Of these, his best and
closest friend was his wife, and it had been reserved
for Lord Huntingten unconsciously to apprise her of
the fact that she was this and nothing more.  Until
he had left his yacht at Mombasa a few weeks before,
on the invitation of Captain Strong (issued with their
cordial consent) to join their projected shooting trip,
Lady Merline had fondly imagined that she knew what
love was, and had thought herself a thoroughly happy
and contented woman.  In a few days after his joining
the party it seemed that she must have loved him all
her life, and that there could not possibly be a gulf of
some fifteen years between then and the childish days
when he was "Bill the Lamb" and she the
unconsidered adjunct of the nursery and schoolroom,
generally addressed as "Margarine."  Why had he
gone wandering about the world all these years?
Why had their re-discovery of each other had to be
postponed until now?  Why couldn't he have been at
home when Monty came wooing and ... When Lady
Merline's thoughts reached this point she resolutely
switched them off.  She was doing a considerable
amount of switching off, these last few days, and
realised that when Lord Huntingten awoke to the fact
that he too must practise this exercise, the shooting
trip would have to come to an untimely end.  As she
crouched over the tiny candle-lit mirror on the
*soi-disant* dressing-table in her tent, while hastily changing
for dinner that evening, she even considered plausible
ways and possible means of terminating the trip when
the inevitable day arrived.

She was saved the trouble.

As they sat at dinner a few minutes later, beneath
the diamond-studded velvet of the African sky--an
excellent dinner of clear soup, sardines, bustard,
venison, and tinned fruit--Strong's orderly again appeared
in the near distance, saluting and holding two official
letters in his hand.  These, it appeared, had just been
brought by messenger from the railway-station some
nineteen miles distant.

Captain Strong was the first to gather their import,
and his feeling of annoyance and disappointment was
more due to the fact of the interruption of his
interesting little drama than to the cancellation of his leave
and return to harness.

"Battle, Murder and Sudden Death!" he
murmured.  "I wish people wouldn't kill people, and
cause other people to interfere with the arrangements
of people....  Our trip's bust."

"What is it?" asked Lady Merline.

"Mutiny and murder down Uganda way," replied
her husband, whose letter was a duplicate.  "I'm
sorry, Huntingten, old chap," he added, turning to
his friend.  "It's draw stumps and hop it, for Strong
and me.  We must get to the railway to-morrow--there
will be a train through in the afternoon....
Better luck next time."

Lord Huntingten looked at Lady Merline, and
Lady Merline looked at her plate.

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Down the narrowest of narrow jungle-paths marched
a small party of the Queen's African Rifles.  They
marched, perforce, in single file, and at their head was
their white officer.  A wiser man would have marched
in the middle, for the leading man was inevitably
bound to "get it" if they came upon the enemy, and,
albeit brave and warlike men, negroes of the Queen's
African Rifles (like other troops) fight better when
commanded by an officer.  A "point" of a sergeant
and two or three men, a couple of hundred yards in
front, is all very well, but the wily foe in ambush
knows quite enough to take, as it were, the cash and
let the credit go--to let the "point" march on, and
to wait for the main body.

Captain Sir Montague Merline was well aware of
the unwisdom and military inadvisability of heading
the long file, but did it, nevertheless.  If called upon
to defend his conduct, he would have said that what
was gained by the alleged wiser course was more than
lost, inasmuch as the confidence of the men in so
discreet a leader would not be, to say the least of it,
enhanced.  The little column moved silently and slowly
through the horrible place, a stinking swamp, the
atmosphere almost unbreatheable, the narrow winding
track almost untreadable, the enclosing walls of densest
jungle utterly unpenetrable--a singularly undesirable
spot in which to be attacked by a cunning and
blood-thirsty foe of whom this was the "native heath."

Good job the beggars did not run to machine
guns, thought Captain Merline; fancy one, well
placed and concealed in one of these huge trees,
and commanding the track.  Stake-pits, poisoned
arrows, spiked-log booby-traps, and poisoned needle-pointed
snags neatly placed to catch bare knees, and
their various other little tricks were quite enough to
go on with.  What a rotten place for an ambush!
The beggars could easily have made a neat clearing
a foot or two from the track, and massed a hundred
men whose poisoned arrows, guns, and rifles could be
presented a few inches from the breasts of passing
enemies, without the least fear of discovery.  Precautions
against that sort of thing were utterly impossible
if one were to advance at a higher speed than a mile
a day.  The only possible way of ensuring against
flank attack was to have half the column out in the
jungle with axes, hacking their way in line, ahead of
the remainder.  They couldn't do a mile a day at that
rate.  That "point" in front was no earthly good,
nor would it have been if joined by Daniel Boone
Burnham and Buffalo Bill.  The jungle on either side
might as well have been a thirty-foot brick wall.
Unless the enemy chose to squat in the middle of the
track, what could the "point" do in the way of
warning?--and the enemy wouldn't do that.  Of
course, an opposing column might be marching
toward them along the same path, but, in that case,
except at a sudden bend, the column would see them
as soon as the "point."  Confound all bush fighting--messy,
chancy work.  Anyhow, he'd have ten minutes'
halt and send Ibrahim up a tree for a look round.

Captain Merline put his hand to the breast
pocket of his khaki flannel shirt for his whistle,
with a faint short blast on which he would signal to
his "point" to halt.  The whistle never reached his
lips.  A sudden ragged crash of musketry rang out
from the dense vegetation on either side, and from
surrounding trees which commanded and enfiladed
the path.  More than half the little force fell at the
first discharge, for it is hard to miss a man with a
Snider or a Martini-Henry rifle at three yards' range.
For a moment there was confusion, and more than
one of those soldiers of the Queen, it must be admitted,
fired off his rifle at nothing in particular.  A burly
sergeant, bringing up the rear, thrust his way to the
front shouting an order, and the survivors of the first
murderous burst of fire crouched down on either side
of the track and endeavoured to force their way into
the jungle, form a line on either side, and fire volleys
to their left, front and right.  Having made his way to
the head of the column, Sergeant Isa ibn Yakub found
his officer shot through the head, chest and thigh....
A glance was sufficient.  With a loud click of his tongue
he turned away with a look of murderous hate on his
ebony face and the lust of slaughter in his rolling
yellow eye.  He saw a leafy twig fall from a tree that
overhung the path and crouched motionless, staring
at the spot.  Suddenly he raised his rifle and fired,
and gave a hoarse shout of glee as a body fell crashing
to the ground.  In the same second his tarboosh was
spun from his head and the shoulder of his blue jersey
torn as by an invisible claw.  He too wriggled into the
undergrowth and joined the volley-firing, which,
sustained long enough and sufficiently generously and
impartially distributed, must assuredly damage a
neighbouring foe and hinder his approach.  Equally
assuredly it must, however, lead to exhaustion of
ammunition, and when the volley-firing slackened
and died away, it was for this reason.  Sergeant Isa
ibn Yakub was a man of brains and resource, as well
as of dash and courage.  Since the enemy had fallen
silent too, he would emerge with his men and collect
the ammunition from their dead and wounded
comrades.  He blew a number of short shrill blasts on
the whistle which, with the stripes upon his arm, was
the proudest of his possessions.

The ammunition was quickly collected and the
worthy Sergeant possessed himself of his dead officer's
revolver and cartridges....  The next step? ... If
he attempted to remove his wounded, his whole
effective force would become stretcher-bearers and
still be inadequate to the task.  If he abandoned his
wounded, should he advance or retire?  He would
rather fight a lion or three Masai than have to answer
these conundrums and shoulder these responsibilities....
He was relieved of all necessity in the
matter of deciding, for the brooding silence was again
suddenly broken by ear-piercing and blood-curdling
howls and a second sudden fusillade, as, at some given
signal, the enemy burst into the track both before
and behind the column.  Obviously they were skilfully
handled and by one versed in the art of jungle war.
The survivors of the little force were completely
surrounded--and the rest was rather a massacre than
a fight.  It is useless to endeavour to dive into dense
jungle to form a firing line when a determined person
with a broad-bladed spear is literally at your heels.
Sergeant Isa ibn Yakub did his utmost and fought
like the lion-hearted warrior he was.  It is some
satisfaction to know that the one man who escaped and
made his way to the temporary base of the little
columns to tell the story of the destruction of this
particular force, was Sergeant Isa ibn Yakub.

One month later a Lieutenant was promoted to
Captain Sir Montague Merline's post, and, twelve
months later, Lord Huntingten married his wife.

Captain Strong of the Queen's African Rifles, home
on furlough, was best man at the wedding of the
handsome and popular Lord Huntingten with the
charming and beautiful Lady Merline.


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   3

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At about the same time as the fashionable London
press announced to a more or less interested world
the more or less important news that Lady Huntingten
had presented her lord and master with a son and
heir, a small *safari* swung into a tiny African village
and came to a halt.  The naked Kavarondo porters
flung down their loads with grunts and duckings,
and sat them down, a huddled mass of smelly humanity.
From a litter, borne in the middle of the caravan,
stepped the leader of the party, one Doctor John
Williams, a great (though unknown) surgeon, a medical
missionary who gave his life and unusual talents, skill
and knowledge to the alleviation of the miseries of
black humanity.  There are people who have a lot
to say about missionaries in Africa, and there are
people who have nothing to say about Dr. John
Williams because words fail them.  They have seen
him at work and know what his life is--and also what
it might be if he chose to set up in Harley Street.

Doctor John Williams looked around at the village
to which Fate brought him for the first time, and
beheld the usual scene--a collection of huts built of
poles and grass, and a few superior dwelling-places
with thatched walls and roofs.  A couple of women
were pounding grain in a wooden mortar; a small
group of others was engaged in a kind of rude basket
weaving under the porch of a big hut; a man seated
by a small fire had apparently "taken up" poker
work, for he was decorating a vase-shaped gourd by
means of a red-hot iron; a gang of tiny naked
piccaninnies, with incredibly distended stomachs, was
playing around a...

*What?*

Dr.  John Williams strode over to the spot.  A white
man, or the ruin of a sort of a white man, was seated
on a native stool and leaning against the bole of one
of the towering palms that embowered, shaded, concealed
and enriched the little village.  His hair was very
long and grey, his beard and moustache were long
and grey, his face was burnt and bronzed, his eyes
blue and bright.  On his head were the deplorable
ruins of a khaki helmet, and, for the rest, he wore the
rags and remains of a pair of khaki shorts.  Dr. John
Williams stood and stared at him in open-mouthed
astonishment.  He arose and advanced with extended
hand.  The doctor was too astounded to speak, and
the other could not, for he was dumb.  In a minute
it was obvious to the new-comer that he was
more--that he was in some way "wanting."

From the headman of the villagers, who quickly
gathered round, he learned that the white man had
been with them for "many nights and days and
seasons," that he was afflicted of the gods, very wise,
and as a little child.  Why "very wise" Dr. John
Williams failed to discover, or anything more of the
man's history, save that he had simply walked into
the village from nowhere in particular and had sat
under that tree, all day, ever since.  They had given
him a hut, milk, corn, cocoanut, and whatever else
they had.  Also, in addition to this propitiation, they
had made a minor god of him, with worship of the
milder sorts.  Their wisdom and virtue in this particular
had been rewarded by him with a period of marked
prosperity; and undoubtedly their crops, their cattle,
and their married women had benefited by his
benevolent presence....

When Doctor John Williams resumed his journey
he took the dumb white man with him, and, in due
course, reached his own mission, dispensary and
wonderful little hospital a few months later.  Had he
considered that there was any urgency in the case, and
the time-factor of any importance, he would have
abandoned his sleeping-sickness tour, and gone direct
to the hospital to operate upon the skull of his
foundling.  For this great (and unknown) surgeon, upon
examination, had decided that the removal of a bullet
which was lodged beneath the scalp and in the solid
bone of the top of the man's head was the first, and
probably last, step in the direction of the restoration
of speech and understanding.  Obviously he was in
no pain, and he was not mad, but his brain was that
of a child whose age was equal to the time which had
elapsed since the wound was caused.  Probably this
had happened about a couple of years ago, for the
brain was about equal to that of a two-year-old child.
But why had the child not learned to talk?  Possibly
the fact that he had lived among negroes, since his
last return to consciousness, would account for the
fact.  Had he been shot in the head and recovered
among English people (if he were English) he would
probably be now talking as fluently as a two-year-old
baby....

The first few days after his return to his headquarters
were always exceedingly busy ones for the doctor.  The
number of things able to "go wrong" in his absence
was incredible, and, as he was the only white man
resident in a district some ten thousand square miles
in area, the accumulation of work and trouble was
sufficient to appal most people.  But work and trouble
were what the good doctor sought and throve on....
One piece of good news there was, however, in the
tale of calamities.  A pencilled note, scribbled on a
leaf of a military pocket-book, informed him that his
old friend Strong, of the Queen's African Rifles, had
passed through his village three weeks earlier, and
would again pass through, on his return, in a week's
time.  Having made a wide détour to see his friend,
Strong was very disappointed to learn of his absence,
and would return by the same devious route, in the
hope of better luck....

Good!  A few days of Strong's company would be
worth a lot.  A visit from any white man was
something; from a man of one's own class and kind was
a great thing; but from worldly-wise, widely-read,
clever old Strong! ... Excellent! ...


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   4

.. vspace:: 1

Captain Strong, of the Queen's African Rifles, passed
from the strong sunlight into the dark coolness of
Doctor John Williams' bungalow side by side with
his host, who was still shaking him by the hand, in his
joy and affection.  Laying his riding-whip and helmet
on a table he glanced round, stared, turned as white
as a sunburnt man may, ejaculated "Oh, my God!"
and seized the doctor's arm.  His mouth hung open, his
eyes were starting from his head, and it was with
shaking hand that he pointed to where, in the doctor's
living-room, sat the dumb and weak-witted foundling.

Doctor Williams was astounded and mightily
interested.

"What's up, Strong?" he asked.

"B--b--b--but he's *dead*!" stammered Strong
with a gasp.

"Not a bit of it, man," was the reply, "he's as
alive as you or I.  He's dumb, and he's dotty, but
he's alive all right....  What's wrong with you?
You've got a touch of the sun..." and then Captain
Strong was himself again.  If Captain Sir Montague
Merline, late of the Queen's African Rifles, were alive,
it should not be Jack Strong who would announce the
fact....

*Monty Merline?* ... Was that vacant-looking
person who was rising from a chair and bowing to
him, his old pal Merline? ... Most undoubtedly it
was.  Besides--there on his wrist and forearm was
the wonderfully-tattooed snake....

"How do you do?" he said.  The other bowed
again, smiled stupidly, and fumbled with the buttons
of his coat....  Balmy! ...

Strong turned and dragged his host out of the room.

"Where's he come from?" he asked quickly.
"Who is he?"

"Where he came from last," replied the doctor,
"is a village called, I believe, Bwogo, about a hundred
and twenty miles south-east of here.  How he got
there I can't tell you.  The natives said he just walked
up unaccompanied, unbounded, unpursued.  He's got
a bullet or something in the top of his head and I'm
going to lug it out.  And then, my boy, with any luck
at all, he'll very soon be able to answer you any
question you like to put him.  Speech and memory
will return at the moment the pressure on the brain
ceases."

"Will he remember up to the time the bullet hit
him, or since, or both?" asked Strong.

"All his life, up to the moment the bullet hit him,
certainly," was the reply.  "What happened since
will, at first, be remembered as a dream, probably.
If I had to prophesy I should say he'd take up his
life from the second in which the bullet hit him, and
think, for the moment, that he is still where it
happened.  By-and-by, he'll realise that there's a gap
somewhere, and gradually he'll be able to fill it in with
events which will seem half nightmare, half real."

"Anyhow, he'll be certain of his identity and
personal history and so forth?" asked Strong.

"Absolutely," said the surgeon.  "It will be
precisely as though he awoke from an ordinary night's
rest....  It'll be awfully interesting to hear him give
an account of himself....  All this, of course, if he
doesn't die under the operation."

"I hope he will," said Strong.

"What *do* you mean, my dear chap?"

"I hope he'll die under the operation."

"Why?"

"He'll be better dead....  And it will be better
for three other people that he should be dead....
Is he likely to die?"

"I should say it's ten to one he'll pull through all
right....  What's it all about, Strong?"

"Look here, old chap," was the earnest reply.
"If it were anybody else but you I shouldn't know
what to say or do.  As it's *you*, my course is clear, for
you're the last thing in discretion, wisdom and
understanding....  But don't ask me his name....  I know
him....  Look here, it's like this.  His wife's married
again....  There's a kid....  They're well known in
Society....  Awful business....  Ghastly scandal....
Shockin' position."  Captain Strong took Doctor John
Williams by the arm.  "Look here, old chap," he
said once again.  "Need you do this?  It isn't as though
he was 'conscious,' so to speak, and in pain."

"Yes, I must do it," replied the doctor without
hesitation, as the other paused.

"But why?" urged Strong.  "I'm absolutely
certain that if M----, er--that is--this chap--could
have his faculties for a minute he would tell you not
to do it....  You'll take him from a sort of negative
happiness to the most positive and acute unhappiness,
and you'll simply blast the lives of his wife and the
most excellent chap she's married....  She waited
a year after this chap 'died' in--er--that last Polar
expedition--as was supposed....  Think of the poor
little kid too....  And there's estates and a ti----
so on...."

"No good, Strong.  My duty in the matter is
perfectly clear, and it is to the sick man, as such."

"Well, you'll do a damned cruel thing ... er--sorry,
old chap, I mean *do* think it over a bit and look
at it from the point of view of the unfortunate lady,
the second husband, and the child....  And of the
chap himself....  By God!  He won't thank you."

"I look at it from the point of view of the doctor
and I'm not out for thanks," was the reply.

"Is that your last word, Williams?"

"It is.  I have here a man mentally maimed,
mangled and suffering.  My first and only duty is to
heal him, and I shall do it."

"Right O!" replied Strong, who knew that further
words would be useless.  He knew that his friend's
intelligence was clear as crystal and his will as firm,
and that he accepted no other guide than his own
conscience....

As the three men sat in the moonlight that night,
after dinner, Captain Strong was an uncomfortable
man.  That tragedy must find a place in the human
comedy he was well aware.  It had its uses like the
comic relief--but for human tragedy, undilute, black,
harsh, and dreadful, he had no taste.  He shivered.
The pretty little comedy of Lord Huntingten and Sir
Montague and Lady Merline, of two years ago, had
greatly amused and deeply interested him.  This
tragedy of the same three people was unmitigated
horror....  Poor Lady Merline!  He conjured up her
beautiful face with the wonderful eyes, the rose-leaf
complexion, the glorious hair, the tender, lovely
mouth--and saw the life and beauty wiped from it
as she read, or heard, the ghastly news ... bigamy
... illegitimacy....

The doctor's "bearer" came to take the patient to
bed.  He was a remarkable man who had started life
as a ward-boy in Madras.  He it was who had cut the
half-witted white man's hair, shaved his beard and
dressed him in his master's spare clothes.  When the
patient was asleep that night, he was going to endeavour
to shave the top of his head without waking him,
for he was to be operated on, in the morning....

"Yes, I fully understand and I give you my solemn
promise, Strong," said the doctor as the two men rose
to go in, that night.  "The moment the man is sane
I will tell him that he is not to tell me his name, nor
anything else until he has heard what I have to say.
I will then break it to him--using my own discretion
as to how and when--that he was reported dead,
that his will was proved, that his widow wore mourning
for a year and then married again, and had a son a
year later....  I undertake that he shall not leave
this house, *knowing that*, unless he is in the fullest
possession of his faculties and able to realise with the
utmost clearness *all* the bearings of the case and *all*
the consequences following his resumption of identity.
And I'll let him hide here for just as long as he cares
to conceal himself--if he wishes to remain 'dead' for
a time."

"Yes ... And as I can't possibly stay till he
recovers, nor, in fact, over to-morrow without gross
dereliction of duty, I will leave a letter for you to
give him at the earliest safe moment....  I'll tell him
that I am the only living soul who knows his name
as well as his secret.  He'll understand that no one else
will know this--from me."

As he sat on the side of his bed that night, Captain
Strong remarked unto his soul, "Well--one thing--if
I know Monty Merline as well as I think, 'Sir
Montague Merline' died two years ago, whatever
happens....  And yet I can't imagine Monty
committing suicide, somehow.  He's a chap with a
conscience as well as the soul of chivalry....  Poor, poor,
old Monty Merline!..."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`SOAP AND SIR MONTAGUE MERLINE`:

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   THE WAGES OF VIRTUE

.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER I

.. class:: center medium

   SOAP AND SIR MONTAGUE MERLINE

.. vspace:: 2

Sir Montague Merline, second-class private
soldier of the First Battalion of the Foreign Legion
of France, paused to straighten his back, to pass his
bronzed forearm across his white forehead, and to put
his scrap of soap into his mouth--the only safe receptacle
for the precious morsel, the tiny cake issued once
a month by Madame La République to the Legionary
for all his washing purposes.  When one's income is
precisely one halfpenny a day (paid when it has totalled
up to the sum of twopence halfpenny), one does not
waste much, nor risk the loss of valuable property;
and to lay a piece of soap upon the concrete of *Le
Cercle d'Enfer* reservoir, is not so much to risk the loss
of it as to lose it, when one is surrounded by gentlemen
of the Foreign Legion.  Let me not be misunderstood,
nor supposed to be casting aspersions upon the said
gentlemen, but their need for soap is urgent, their
income is one halfpenny a day, and soap is of the things
with which one may "decorate oneself" without
contravening the law of the Legion.  To steal is to steal,
mark you (and to deserve, and probably to get, a
bayonet through the offending hand, pinning it to the
bench or table), but to borrow certain specified articles
permanently and without permission is merely, in the
curious slang of the Legion, "to decorate oneself."

Contrary to what the uninitiated might suppose, *Le
Cercle d'Enfer*--the Circle of Hell--is not a dry, but a
very wet place, it being, in point of fact, the *lavabo*
where the Legionaries of the French Foreign Legion
stationed in Algeria at Sidi-bel-Abbès, daily wash their
white fatigue uniforms and occasionally their underclothing.

Oh, that *Cercle d'Enfer*!  I hated it more than I
hated the *peloton des hommes punis, salle de police,
cellules*, the "Breakfast of the Legion," the awful heat,
monotony, flies, Bedouins; the solitude, hunger, and
thirst of outpost stations in the south; I hated it more
than I hated *astiquage*, *la boîte*, the *chaussettes russes*,
hospital, the terrible desert marches, sewer-cleaning
fatigues, or that villainous and vindictive ruffian of a
*cafard*-smitten *caporal* who systematically did his very
able best to kill me.  Oh, that accursed *Cercle d'Enfer*,
and the heart-breaking labour of washing a filthy
alfa-fibre suit (stained perhaps with rifle-oil) in cold
water, and without soap!

Only the other day, as I lay somnolent in a long
chair in the verandah of the Charmingest Woman
(she lives in India), I heard the regular *flop, flop, flop*
of wet clothes, beaten by a distant *dhobi* upon a slab
of stone, and at the same moment I smelt wet concrete
as the *mali* watered the maidenhair fern on the steps
leading from Her verandah to the garden.  Odours
call up memories far more distinctly and readily than
do other sense-impressions, and the faint smell of wet
concrete, aided as it was by the faintly audible sound
of wet blows, brought most vividly before my mind's
eye a detailed picture of that well-named Temple of
Hygiea, the "Circle of Hell."  Sleeping, waking, and
partly sleeping, partly waking, I saw it all again;
saw Sir Montague Merline, who called himself John
Bull; saw Hiram Cyrus Milton, known as The Bucking
Bronco; saw "Reginald Rupert"; the infamous Luigi
Rivoli; the unspeakable Edouard Malvin; the
marvellous Mad Grasshopper, whose name no one
knew; the truly religious Hans Djoolte; the Russian
twins, calling themselves Mikhail and Feodor
Kyrilovitch Malekov; the terrible Sergeant-Major
Suicide-Maker, and all the rest of them.  And finally, waking
with an actual and perceptible taste of soap in my
mouth, I wished my worst enemy were in the *Cercle
d'Enfer*, soapless, and with much rifle-oil, dust, leather
marks and wine stains on his once-white uniform--and
then I thought of Carmelita and determined to write
this book.

For Carmelita deserves a monument (and so does
John Bull), however humble....  To continue....

Sir Montague Merline did not put his precious
morsel of soap into his pocket, for the excellent reason
that there was no pocket to the single exiguous
garment he was at the moment wearing--a useful piece
of material which in its time played many parts, and
knew the service of duster, towel, turban, tablecloth,
polishing pad, tea-cloth, house-flannel, apron,
handkerchief, neckerchief, curtain, serviette, holder,
fly-slayer, water-strainer, punkah, and, at the moment,
nether garment.  Having *cached* his soup and having
observed "*Peste!*" as he savoured its flavour, he
proceeded to pommel, punch, and slap upon the
concrete, the greyish-white tunic and breeches, and
the cotton vest and shirt which he had generously
soaped before the hungry eyes of numerous soapless
but oathful fellow-labourers, who less successfully
sought that virtue which, in the Legion, is certainly
next to, but far ahead of, mere godliness.

In due course, Sir Montague Merline rinsed his
garments in the reservoir, wrung them out, bore them
to the nearest clothes-line, hung them out to dry, and
sat himself down in their shadow to stare at them
unwaveringly until dried by the fierce sun--the
ancient enemy, for the moment an unwilling friend.
To watch them unwaveringly and intently because he
knew that the turning of his head for ten seconds
might mean their complete and final disappearance--for,
like soap, articles of uniform are on the list of things
with which a Legionary may "decorate" himself,
if he can, without incurring the odium of public
opinion.  (He may steal any article of equipment,
clothing, kit, accoutrement, or general utility, but
his patron saint help him and Le Bon Dieu be merciful
to him, if he be caught stealing tobacco, wine, food,
or money.)

Becoming aware of the presence of Monsieur le
Légionnaire Edouard Malvin, Sir Montague Merline
increased the vigilance of his scrutiny of his pendent
property, for ce cher Edouard was of pick-pockets
the very prince and magician; of those who could
steal the teeth from a Jew while he sneezed and would
steal the scalp from their grandmamma while she
objected.

"Ohé!  Jean Boule, lend me thy soap," besought
this stout and dapper little Austrian, who for some
reason pretended to be a Belgian from the Congo.
"This cursed alfa-fibre gets dirtier the more you wash
it in this cursed water," and he smiled a greasy and
ingratiating grin.

Without for one second averting his steady stare
from his clothes, the Englishman slowly removed
the soap from his mouth, expectorated, remarked
"*Peaudezébie*,"[#] and took no further notice of the
quaint figure which stood by his side, clad only in
ancient red Zouave breeches and the ingratiating
smile.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

   [#] An emphatic negative.

.. vspace:: 2

"Name of a Name!  Name of the Name of a Pipe!
Name of the Name of a Dirty Little Furry Red
Monkey!" observed Monsieur le Légionnaire Edouard
Malvin as he turned to slouch away, twirling the
dripping grey-white tunic.

"Meaning me?" asked Sir Montague, replacing the
soap in its safe repository and preparing to rise.

"But no!  But not in the least, old cabbage.  Thou
hast the *cafard*.  Mais oui, tu as le cafard," replied
the Belgian and quickened his retreat.

No, the grey Jean Boule, so old, so young, doyen
of Légionnaires, so quick, strong, skilful and enduring
at *la boxe*, was not the man to cross at any time, and
least of all when he had *le cafard*, that terrible Legion
madness that all Legionaries know; the madness that
drives them to the cells, to gaol, to the Zephyrs, to
the firing-party by the open grave; or to desertion
and death in the desert.  The grey Jean Boule had
been a Zephyr of the Penal Battalions once, already,
for killing a man, and Monsieur Malvin, although a
Legionary of the Foreign Legion, did not wish to die.
No, not while Carmelita and Madame la Cantinière
lived and loved and sold the good Algiers wine at
three-halfpence a bottle....  No, bon sang de sort!

M. le Légionnaire Malvin returned to the dense ring
of labouring perspiring washers, and edged in behind
a gigantic German and a short, broad, burly Alsatian,
capitalists as joint proprietors of a fine cake of soap.

Sacré nom de nom de bon Dieu de Dieu de sort!
Dull-witted German pigs might leave their soap
unguarded for a moment, and, if they did not, might
be induced to wring some soapy water from their little
pile of washing, upon the obstinately greasy tunic of
the good M. Malvin.

Légionnaire Hans Schnitzel, late of Berlin, rinsed
his washing in clean water, wrung it, and took it to
the nearest drying line.  Légionnaire Alphonse Dupont,
late of Alsace, placed his soap in the pocket of the
dirty white fatigue-uniform which he wore, and which
he would wash as soon as he had finished the present
job.  Immediately, Légionnaire Edouard Malvin
transferred the soap from the side pocket of the tunic
of the unconscious Légionnaire Alphonse Dupont to
that of his own red breeches, and straightway begged
the loan of it.

"*Merde!*" replied Dupont.  "Nombril de Belzébutt!
I will lend it thee *peaudezébie*.  Why should
I lend thee soap, *vieux dégoulant*?  Go decorate
thyself, *sale cochon*.  Besides 'tis not mine to lend."

"And that is very true," agreed M. Malvin, and
sauntered toward Schnitzel, who stood phlegmatically
guarding his drying clothes.  In his hand was an object
which caused the eyebrows of the good M. Malvin
to arch and rise, and his mouth to water--nothing
less than an actual, real and genuine scrubbing-brush,
beautiful in its bristliness.  Then righteous anger filled
his soul.

"Saligaud!" he hissed.  "These pigs of filthy
Germans!  Soap *and* a brush.  Sacripants!  Ils me
dégoutant à la fin."

As he regarded the stolid German with increasing
envy, hatred, malice and all uncharitableness, and
cast about in his quick and cunning mind for means
of relieving him of the coveted brush, a sudden roar
of wrath and grief from his Alsatian partner, Dupont,
sent Schnitzel running to join that unfortunate man
in fierce and impartial denunciations of his left-hand
and right-hand neighbours, who were thieves, pigs,
brigands, dogs, Arabs, and utterly *merdant* and
*merdable*.  Bursting into the fray, Herr Schnitzel
found them, in addition, *bloedsinnig* and *dummkopf*
in that they could not produce cakes of soap from
empty mouths.

As the rage of the bereaved warriors increased,
more and more Pomeranian and Alsatian patois
invaded the wonderful Legion-French, a French
which is not of Paris, nor of anywhere else in the world
save La Légion.  As Dupont fell upon a laughing
Italian with a cry of "Ah! zut!  Sacré grimacier,"
Schnitzel spluttered and roared at a huge slow-moving
American who regarded him with a look of pitying
but not unkindly contempt....

"Why do the 'eathen rage furious *to*\gether and
*im*\agine a vain thing?" he enquired in a slow drawl
of the excited "furriner," adding "Ain't yew some
*schafs-kopf*, sonny!" and, as the big German began
to whirl his arms in the windmill fashion peculiar
to the non-boxing foreigner who meditates assault
and battery, continued--

"Now yew stop *zanking* and playing *versteckens*
with me, yew pie-faced Squarehead, and be *schnell*
about it, or yew'll git my goat, see?  *Vous obtiendrez
mon chèvre*, yew perambulating *prachtvoll bierhatte*,"
and he coolly turned his back upon the infuriated
German with a polite, if laborious, "Guten tag, mein
Freund."

Mr. Hiram Cyrus Milton (late of Texas, California,
the Yukon, and the "main drag" generally of the
wild and woolly West) was exceeding proud of his
linguistic knowledge and skill.  It may be remarked,
en passant, that his friends were even prouder of it.

At this moment, le bon Légionnaire Malvin, hovering
for opportunity, with a sudden *coup de savate* struck
the so-desirable scrubbing-brush from the hand of
Herr Schnitzel with a force that seemed like to take
the arm from the shoulder with it.  Leaping round
with a yell of pain, the unfortunate German found
himself, as Malvin had calculated, face to face with
the mighty Luigi Rivoli, to attack whom was to be
brought to death's door through that of the hospital.

Snatching up the brush which was behind Schnitzel
when he turned to face Rivoli, le bon M. Malvin
lightly departed from the vulgar scuffle in the direction
of the drying clothes of Herren Schnitzel and Dupont,
the latter, last seen clasping, with more enthusiasm
than love, a wiry Italian to his bosom.  The luck of
M. Malvin was distinctly in, for not only had he the
soap and a brush for the easy cleansing of his own
uniform, but he had within his grasp a fresh uniform
to wear, and another to sell; for the clothing of ce
bon Dupont would fit him to a marvel, while that of
the pig-dog Schnitzel would fetch good money, the
equivalent of several litres of the thick, red Algerian
wine, from a certain Spanish Jew, old Haroun Mendoza,
of the Sidi-bel-Abbès ghetto.

Yes, the Saints bless and reward the good Dupont
for being of the same size as M. Malvin himself, for it
is a most serious matter to be short of anything when
showing-down kit at kit-inspection, and that thrice
accursed Sacré Chien of an *Adjudant* would, as likely
as not, have spare white trousers shown-down on the
morrow.  What can a good Légionnaire do, look you,
when he has not the article named for to-morrow's
*Adjutant's* inspection, but "decorate himself"?  Is
it easy, is it reasonable, to buy new white
fatigue-uniform on an income of one halfpenny per diem?
Sapristi, and Sacré Bleu, and Name of the Name of a
Little Brown Dog, a litre of wine costs a penny, and
a packet of tobacco three-halfpence, and what is
left to a gentleman of the Legion then, on pay-day,
out of his twopence-halfpenny, nom d'un pétard?
As for ce bon Dupont, he must in his turn "decorate"
himself.  And if he cannot, but must renew acquaintance
with *la boîte* and *le peloton des hommes punis*,
why--he must regard things in their true light, be
philosophical, and take it easy.  Is it not proverbial
that "Toutes choses peut on souffrir qu'aise"?  And
with a purr of pleasure, a positive licking of chops,
and a murmur of "Ah!  Au tient frais," he deftly
whipped the property of the embattled Legionaries
from the line, no man saying him nay.  For it is not
the etiquette of the Legion to interfere with one who,
in the absence of its owner, would "decorate" himself
with any of those things with which self-decoration
is permissible, if not honourable.  Indeed, to Sir
Montague Merline, sitting close by, and regarding his
proceedings with cold impartial eye, M. Malvin
observed--

"'Y a de bon, mon salop!  I have heard that le bon
Dieu helps those who help themselves.  I do but help
myself in order to give le bon Dieu the opportunity
He doubtless desires.  I decorate myself incidentally.
Mais oui, and I shall decorate myself this evening
with a p'tite ouvrière and to-morrow with une
réputation d'ivrogne," and he turned innocently to saunter
with his innocent bundle of washing from the *lavabo*,
to his *caserne*.  Ere he had taken half a dozen steps,
the cold and quiet voice of the grey Jean Boule broke
in upon the resumed day-dreams of the innocently
sauntering M. Malvin.

"Might one aspire to the honour of venturing to
detain for a brief interview Monsieur le Légionnaire
Edouard Malvin?" said the soft metallic voice.

"But certainly, and without charge, mon gars,"
replied that gentleman, turning and eyeing the
incomprehensible and dangerous Jean Boule, *à coin
de l'oeil*.

"You seek soap?"

"I do," replied the Austrian "Belgian" promptly.
The possession of one cake of soap makes that of
another no less desirable.

"Do you seek sorrow also?"

"But no, dear friend.  'J'ai eu toutes les folies.'  In
this world I seek but wine, woman, and peace.  Let
me avoid the 'gros bonnets' and lead my happy
tumble life in peaceful obscurity.  A modest violet,
I.  A wayside flow'ret, a retiring primrose, such as you
English love."

"Then, cher Malvin, since you seek soap and not
sorrow, let not my little cake of soap disappear from
beneath the polishing-rags in my sack.  The little
brown sack at the head of my cot, cher Malvin.
Enfin!  I appoint you guardian and custodian of
my little cake of soap.  But in a most evil hour for
le bon M. Malvin would it disappear.  Guard it then,
cher Malvin.  Respect it.  Watch over it as you value,
and would retain, your health and beauty, M. Malvin.
And when *I* have avenged *my* little piece of soap, the
true history of the last ten minutes will deeply interest
those earnest searchers after truth, Legionaries
Schnitzel and Dupont.  Depart in peace and enter
upon your new office of Guardian of my Soap!  Vous
devez en être joliment fier."

"Quite a speech, in effect, mon drôle," replied the
stout Austrian as he doubtfully fingered his short
beard *au poinçon*, and added uneasily, "I am not
the only gentleman who 'decorates' himself with
soap."

"No?  Nor with uniforms.  Go in peace, Protector
of my Soap."

And smiling wintrily M. Malvin winked, broke into
the wholly deplorable ditty of "Pére Dupanloup en
chemin de fer," and pursued his innocent path to
barracks, whither Sir Montague Merline later followed
him, after watching with a contemptuous smile some
mixed and messy fighting (beside the apparently
dead body of the Legionary Schnitzel) between an
Alsatian and an Italian, in which the Italian kicked
his opponent in the stomach and partly ate his ear,
and the Alsatian used his hands solely for purpose
of throttling.

Why couldn't they stand up and fight like gentlemen
under Queensberry rules, or, if boxing did not appeal
to them, use their sword-bayonets like soldiers and
Legionaries--the low rooters, the vulgar, rough-and-tumble
gutter-scrappers....

Removing his almost dry washing from the line,
Sir Montague Merline marched across to his barrack-block,
climbed the three flights of stone stairs, traversed
the long corridor of his Company, and entered the big,
light, airy room wherein he and twenty-nine other
Legionaries (one of whom held the very exalted and
important rank of *Caporal*) lived and moved and had
their monotonous being.

Spreading his tunic and breeches on the end of the
long table he proceeded to "iron" them, first with
his hand, secondly with a tin plate, and finally with
the edge of his "quart," the drinking-mug which
hung at the head of his bed ready for the reception of
the early morning *jus*, the strong coffee which most
effectively rouses the Legionary from somnolence and
most ineffectively sustains him until midday.

Anon, having persuaded himself that the result of
his labours was satisfactory, and up to Legion
standards of smartness--which are as high as those of
the ordinary *piou-piou* of the French line are low--he
folded his uniform in elbow-to-finger-tip lengths,
placed it with the *paquetage* on the shelf above his
bed, and began to dress for his evening walk-out.
The Legionary's time is, in theory, his own after
5 p.m., and the most sacred plank in the most sacred
platform of all his sacred tradition is his right to
promenade himself at eventide and listen to the
Legion's glorious band in the Place Sadi Carnot.

Having laid his uniform, belt, bayonet, and képi
on his cot, he stepped across to the next but one
(the name-card at the head of which bore the
astonishing legend "Bucking Bronco, No. 11356.  Soldat
1ère Classe), opened a little sack which hung at the
head of it, and took from it the remains of an ancient
nail-brush, the joint property of Sir Montague Merline,
alias Jean Boule, and Hiram Cyrus Milton, alias
Bucking Bronco, late of Texas, California, Yukon,
and "the main drag" of the United States of America.

Even as Sir Montague's hand was inserted through
the neck of the sack, the huge American (who had
been wrongfully accused and rashly attacked by
Legionary Hans Schnitzel) entered the barrack-room,
caught sight of a figure bending over his rag-sack, and
crept on tiptoe towards it, his great gnarled fists
clenched, his mouth compressed to a straight thin
line beneath his huge drooping moustache, and his
grey eyes ablaze.  Luckily Sir Montague heard the
sounds of his stealthy approach, and turned just in
time.  The American dropped his fists and smiled.

"Say," he drawled, "I thought it was some herring-gutted
weevil of a Dago or a Squarehead shenannikin
with my precious jools.  An' I was jest a'goin' ter
plug the skinnamalink some.  Say, Johnnie, if yew
hadn't swivelled any, I was jest a'goin' ter slug yew,
good an' plenty, behind the yeer-'ole."

"Just getting the tooth-nail-button-boot-dandy-brush,
Buck," replied Sir Montague.  "How are you
feeling?"

"I'm feelin' purty mean," was the reply.  "A dirty
Squarehead of a dod-gasted Dutchy from the
Farterland grunted in me eye, an' I thought the shave-tail
was fer rough-housin', an' I slugged him one, just ter
start 'im gwine.  The gosh-dinged piker jest curled
up.  He jest wilted on the floor."

The Bucking Bronco, in high disgust, expectorated
and then chid himself for forgetting that he was
no longer on the free soil of America, where a gentleman
may spit as he likes and be a gentleman for a' that
and a' that.

"I tell yew, Johnnie," he continued, "he got me
jingled, the lumberin' lallapaloozer!  There he lay
*an'* lay--and then some.  'Git up, yew rubberin'
rube,' I ses, 'yew'll git moss on your teeth if yew lie
so quiet; git up, an' deliver the goods,' I ses, 'I had
more guts then yew when I was knee high to a June
bug.'  Did he arise an' make good?   *I* should worry.
Nope.  Yew take it from Uncle, that bonehead is
there yit, an' afore I could make him wise to it thet
he didn't git the bulge on Uncle with *thet* bluff, another
Squarehead an' a gibberin' Dago put up a dirty kind
o' scrap over his body, gougin' and kickin' an' earbitin'
an' throttlin', an' a whole bunch o' boobs jined in
an' I give it up an' come 'ome."  And the Bucking
Bronco sat him sadly on his bed and groaned.

"Cheer up, Buck, we'll all soon be dead," replied his
comrade, "don't *you* go getting cafard," and he
looked anxiously at the angry-lugubrious face of his
friend.  "What's the *ordre du jour* for walking-out
dress to-day?" he added.  "Blue tunic and red
trousers?  Or tunic and white?  Or *capote*, or what?"

"It was tunic an' white yesterday," replied the
American, "an' I guess it is to-day too."

"It's my night to howl," he added cryptically
"Let's go an' pow-wow Carmelita ef thet fresh gorilla
Loojey Rivoli ain't got 'er in 'is pocket.  I'll shoot
'im up some day, sure...."

A sudden shouting, tumult, and running below,
and cries of "Les bleus!  Les bleus!" interrupted
the Bronco's monologue and drew the two old soldiers
to a window that overlooked the vast, neat, gravelled
barrack-square, clean, naked, and bleak to the eye as
an ice-floe.

"Strike me peculiar," remarked the Bucking
Bronco.  "It's another big gang o' tenderfeet."

"A draft of rookies!  Come on--they'll all be for
our Company in place of those *poumpists*,[#] and there
may be something Anglo-Saxon among them," said
Legionary John Bull, and the two men hastily flung
their capotes over their sketchy attire and hurried
from the room, buttoning them as they went.


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

   [#] Deserters.

.. vspace:: 2

Like Charity, the Legionary's overcoat covers a
multitude of sins--chiefly of omission--and is a most
useful garment.  It protects him from the cold dawn
wind, and keeps him warm by night; it protects
him from the cruel African sun, and keeps him cool
by day, or at least, if not cool, in the frying-pan
degree of heat, which is better than that of the fire.
He marches in it without a tunic, and relies upon it
to conceal the fact when he has failed to "decorate"
himself with underclothing.  Its skirts, buttoned
back, hamper not his legs, and its capacious pockets
have many uses.  Its one drawback is that, being
double-breasted, it buttons up on either side, a fact
which has brought the grey hairs of many an honest
Legionary in sorrow to the cellules, and given many
a brutal and vindictive Sergeant the chance of that
cruelty in which his little tyrant soul so revels.  For,
incredible as it may seem to the lay mind, the
ingenious devil whose military mind concocts the ordres
du jour, changes, by solemn decree, and almost daily,
the side upon which the overcoat is to be buttoned up.

Clattering down the long flights of stone stairs, and
converging across the barrack-square, the Legionaries
came running from all directions, to gaze upon, to
chaff, to delude, to sponge upon, and to rob and
swindle the "Blues"--the recruits of the *Légion
Étrangère*, the embryo *Légionnaires d'Afrique*.

In the incredibly maddeningly dull life of the
Legion in peace time, the slightest diversion is a
god-send and even the arrival of a batch of recruits a
most welcome event.  To all, it is a distraction; to
some, the hope of the arrival of a fellow-countryman
(especially to the few English, Americans, Danes,
Greeks, Russians, Norwegians, Swedes, and Poles
whom cruel Fate has sent to La Légion).  To some,
a chance of passing on a part of the brutality and
tyranny which they themselves suffer; to some, a
chance of getting civilian clothes in which to desert;
to others, an opportunity of selling knowledge of
the ropes, for litres of canteen wine; to many, a
hope of working a successful trick on a bewildered
recruit--the time-honoured villainy of stealing his
new uniform and pretending to buy him another
*sub rosa* from the dishonest quartermaster, whereupon
the recruit buys back his own original uniform at
the cost of his little all (for invariably the alleged
substitute-uniform costs just that sum of money
which the poor wretch has brought with him and
augmented by the compulsory sale of his civilian kit
to the clothes-dealing harpies and thieves who infest
the barrack-gates on the arrival of each draft).

As the tiny portal beside the huge barrack-gate
was closed and fastened by the Corporal in charge
of the squad of "blues" (as the French army calls
its recruits[#]), the single file of derelicts halted at the
order of the Sergeant of the Guard, who, more in
sorrow than in anger, weighed them and found them
wanting.


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

   [#] In the days of the high, tight stock
   and cravat, the recruit was
   supposed to be livid and blue in the face
   until he grew accustomed to them.

.. vspace:: 2


"Sweepings," he summed them up in passing
judgment.  "Foundlings.  Droppings.  Crumbs.
Tripe.  Accidents.  Abortions.  Cripples.  Left by the
tide.  Blown in by the wind.  Born pékins.[#]  Only one
man among them, and he a pig of a Prussian--or
perhaps an Englishman.  Let us hope he's an Englishman...."


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

   [#] Civilians.

.. vspace:: 2


In speaking thus, the worthy Sergeant was behaving
with impropriety and contrary to the law and
tradition of the Legion.  What nouns and adjectives a
non-commissioned officer may use wherewith to
stigmatise a Legionary, depend wholly and solely
upon his taste, fluency and vocabulary.  But it is
not etiquette to reproach a man with his nationality,
however much a matter for reproach that nationality
may be.

"Are you an Englishman, most miserable *bleu*?"
he suddenly asked of a tall, slim, fair youth, dressed
in tweed Norfolk-jacket, and grey flannel trousers,
and bearing in every line of feature and form, and in
the cut and set of his expensive clothing, the stamp
of the man of breeding, birth and position.

"By the especial mercy and grace of God, I am an
Englishman, Sergeant, thank you," he replied coolly
in good, if slow and careful French.

The Sergeant smiled grimly behind his big moustache.
Himself a cashiered Russian officer, and once
a gentleman, he could appreciate a gentleman and
approve him in the strict privacy of his soul.

"*Slava Bogu!*" he roared.  "Vile *bleu*!  And now
by the especial mercy and grace of the Devil you are
a Légionnaire--or will be, if you survive the
making...." and added *sotto voce*, "Are you a degraded
dog of a broken officer?  If so, you can claim to be
appointed to the *élèves caporaux* as a non-commissioned
officer on probation, if you have a photo of yourself
in officer's uniform.  Thus you will escape all recruit-drill
and live in hope to become, some day, Sergeant,
even as I," and the (for a Sergeant of the Legion)
decent-hearted fellow smote his vast chest.

"I thank you, Sergeant," was the drawled reply.
"You really dazzle me--but *I* am not a degraded
dog of a broken officer."

"*Gospodi pomilui!*" roared the incensed Sergeant.
"Ne me donnez de la gabatine, pratique!" and, for
a second, seemed likely to strike the cool and insolent
recruit who dared to bandy words with a Sergeant
of the Legion.  His eyes bulged, his moustache bristled,
and his scarlet face turned purple as he literally
showed his teeth.

"Go easy, old chap," spoke a quiet voice, in English,
close beside the Englishman.  "That fellow can do
you to death if you offend him," and the recruit,
turning, beheld a grey-moustached, white-haired
elderly man, bronzed, lined, and worn-looking--a
typical French army *vielle moustache*--an "old sweat"
from whose lips the accents of a refined English
gentleman came with the utmost incongruity.

The youth's face brightened with interest.  Obviously
this old dear was a public-school, or 'Varsity
man, or, very probably, an *ex*-British officer.

"Good egg," quoth he, extending a hand behind him
for a surreptitious shake.  "See you anon, what?"

"Yes, you'll all come to the Seventh Company.  We
are below strength," said Legionary John Bull, in
whose weary eyes had shone a new light of interest
since they fell upon this compatriot of his own caste
and kidney.

A remarkably cool and nonchalant recruit--and
surely unique in the history of the Legion's "blues"
in showing absolutely no sign of privation, fear,
stress, criminality, poverty, depression, anxiety, or
bewilderment!

"Now, what'n hell is he doin' in thet bum outfit?"
queried the Bucking Bronco of his friend John Bull,
who kept as near as possible to the Englishman whom
he had warned against ill-timed causticity of humour.

"He's some b'y, thet b'y, but he'd better quit
kickin'.  He's a way-up white man I opine.  What's
'e a'doin' in this joint?  He's a gay-cat and a looker.
He's a fierce stiff sport.  He has sand, some--sure.
Yep," and Mr. Hiram Cyrus Milton checked himself
only just in time from defiling the immaculate and
sacred parade-ground, by "signifying in the usual
manner" that he was mentally perturbed, and
himself in these circumstances of expectoration-difficulty
by observing that the boy was undoubtedly
"some" boy, and worthy to have been an American
citizen had he been born under a luckier star--or
stripe.

"I can't place him, Buck," replied the puzzled
John Bull, his quiet voice rendered almost inaudible
by the shouts, howls, yells and cries of the seething
mob of Legionaries who swarmed round the line of
recruits, assailing their bewildered ears in all the tongues
of Europe, and some of those of Asia and Africa.

"He doesn't look hungry, and he doesn't look
hunted.  I suppose he is one of the few who don't
come here to escape either starvation, creditors,
or the Law.  And he doesn't look desperate like the
average turned-down lover, ruined gambler, deserted
husband, or busted bankrupt....  Wonder if he's
come here in search of 'Romance'?"

"Wal, ef he's come hyar for his health an' amoosement
he'd go to Hell to cool himself, or ter the den of
a grizzly b'ar fer gentle stimoolation and recreation.
Gee whiz!  Didn't he fair git ole Bluebottle's goat?
He sure did git nixt him."

"Bit of a contrast to the rest of the gang, what?"
remarked John Bull, and indeed the truth of his
remark was very obvious.

"Ain't they a outfit o' dodgasted hoboes an'
bindlestiffs!" agreed his friend.

Straight as a lance, thin, very broad in the shoulders
and narrow of waist and hip; apparently as clean
and unruffled as when leaving his golf-club pavilion
for a round on the links; cool, self-possessed, haughty,
aristocratic and clean-cut of feature, this Englishman
among the other recruits looked like a Derby winner
among a string of equine ruins in a knacker's yard;
like a panther among bears--a detached and separated
creature, something of different flesh and blood.
Breed is a very remarkable thing, even more distinctive
than race, and in this little band of derelicts was
another Englishman, a Cockney youth who had passed
from street-arab and gutter-snipe, *via* Reformatory, to
hooligan, coster and soldier.  No man in that collection
of wreckage from Germany, Spain, Italy, France,
and the four corners of Europe looked less like the
tall recruit than did this brother Englishman.

To Sir Montague Merline, fallen and shattered star
of the high social firmament, the sight of him was as
welcome as water in the desert, and he thanked Fate for
having brought another Englishman to the Legion--and
one so debonair, so fine, so handsome, cool and strong.

"There's Blood there," he murmured to himself.

"His shoulders hev bin drilled somewheres, although
he's British," added the Bucking one.  "Yep.  He's
one o' the flat-backed push."

"I wonder if he can be a cashiered officer.  He's
drilled as you say....  If he has been broke for
something it hasn't marked him much.  Nothing
hang-dog there," mused Legionary John Bull.

"Nope.  He's a blowed-in-the-glass British
aristocrat," agreed the large-minded Hiram Cyrus, "and
I opine an ex-member of the commishunned ranks o'
the British Constitootional Army.  He ain't niver
bin batterin' the main-stem for light-pieces like them
other hoodlums an' toughs an' smoudges.  Nope.
He ain't never throwed his feet fer a two-bit poke-out....
Look at that road-kid next 'im!  Ain't he a
peach?  I should smile!  Wonder the medicine-man
didn't turn down some o' them chechaquos...."

And, truly, the draft contained some very queer
odd lots.  By the side of the English gentleman stood
a big fat German boy in knicker-bockers and jersey,
bare-legged and wearing a pair of button-boots that
had belonged to a woman in the days when they still
possessed toe-caps.  Pale face, pale hair, and pale
eyes, conspired to give him an air of terror--the first
seeming to have the hue of fright, the second to stand
*en brosse* with fear, and the last to bulge like those of
a hunted animal.

Presumably M. le Médicin-Major must have been
satisfied that the boy was eighteen years of age, but,
though tall and robust, he looked nearer fifteen--an
illusion strengthened, doubtless, by the knickerbockers,
bare calves, and button-boots.  If he had enlisted
in the Foreign Legion to avoid service in the
Fatherland, he had quitted the frying-pan for a furnace
seven times heated.  Possibly he hoped to emulate
Messieurs Shadrach, Meshach, and Abed-Nego.  In
point of fact, he was a deserter (driven to the desperate
step of fleeing across the French frontier by a typical
Prussian non-commissioned officer), and already
wishing himself once more *zwei jahriger* in the happy
Fatherland.

Already, to his German soul and stomach, the
lager-bier of Munich, the sausage, *zwieback*, and *kalte
schnitzel* of home, seemed things of the dim and distant
past, and unattainable future.

Next to him stood a gnarled and knotted Spaniard,
whose face appeared to be carven from his native
mahogany, and whose ragged clothing--grimy, oily,
blackened--proclaimed him wharfside coal-heaver,
dock-rat, and longshoreman.  What did he among the
Legion's blues?  Was it lack of work, was it slow
starvation?  Or excess of temper and a quick blow
with a coal-shovel upon the head of an enemy in some
Marseilles coal-barge--that had brought him to
Sidi-bel-Abbès in the sands of Africa?

By his side slouched a dark-faced, blunt-featured
Austrian youth, whose evil-looking mouth was
unfortunately in no wise concealed by a sparse and
straggling moustache, laboriously pinched into two
gummed spikes, and whose close-set eyes were not in
harmony of focus.  His dress appeared to be that of
a lower-class clerk, ill-fitting black cloth of lamentable
cut, the type of suit that, in its thousands, renders
day horrible in European and American cities, and
is, alas, spreading to many Asiatic.  His linen was
filthy, his crinkly hair full of dust, his boots cracked and
shapeless.  He looked what he was--an absconding
Viennese tout who had had a very poor time of it.
He proved to be a highly objectionable and despicable
scoundrel.

His left-hand neighbour was a weedy, olive-faced
youth, wearing a velvet tam-o'-shanter cap, and a
brown corduroy suit, of which the baggy, peg-top
trousers fitted tightly at the ankles over pearl-buttoned
spring-side patent boots.  He had long fluffy brown
hair, long fluffy brown beard, whiskers, and moustache!
long filthy finger nails, and no linen.  Apparently
a French student of the Sorbonne, or artist from The
Quarter, overwhelmed by some terrible cataclysm,
some *affaire* of the heart, the pocket, or *l'honneur*.

Beside this gentleman, whose whole appearance
was highly offensive to the prejudiced insular eye
of the Englishman, stood a typical *Apache*--a
horrible-looking creature whose appalling face showed the
cunning of the fox, the ferocity of the panther, the
cruelty of the wolf, the treachery of the bear, the hate
of the serpent, and the rage of the boar.  Monsieur
l'Apache had evidently chosen the Legion as a
preferable alternative to the hulks and the
chain-gang--Algeria rather than Noumea.  He lived to doubt the
wisdom of his choice.

Beside him, and evidently eyeing him askance,
stood two youths as extraordinarily similar as were
ever twins in this world.  Dark, slightly "rat-faced,"
slender, but decidedly athletic looking.

"Cheer up, *golubtchik*!  If one cannot get *vodka*
one must drink *kvass*," whispered one.

"All right, Fedia," replied the other.  "But I am
so hungry and tired.  What wouldn't I give for some
good hot tea and *blinni*!"

"We're bound to get something of some sort before
long--though it won't be *zakuska*.  Don't give way
on the very threshold now.  It is our one chance, or
I would not have brought you here, Olichka."

"Ssh!" whispered back the other.  "Don't call
me that here, Feodor."

"Of course not, Mikhail, stout fellow," replied
Feodor, and smote his companion on the back.

Regarding them, sharp-eyed, stood the Cockney,
an undersized, narrow-chested, but wiry-looking
person--a typical East End sparrow; impudent, assertive,
thoroughly self-reliant, tenacious, and courageous; of
the class that produces admirable specimens of the
genus "Tommy."

In curious contrast to his look of *gamin* alertness
was that of his neighbour, a most stolid, dull and
heavy-looking Dutchman, whose sole conversational
effort was the grunt "*Verstaan nie*," whenever
addressed.  Like every other member of the draft he
appeared "to feel his position" keenly, and distinctly
to deplore it.  Such expression as his bovine face
possessed, suggested that Algerian sun and sands
compared unfavourably with Dutch mists and polders,
and the barrack-square of the Legion with the fat
and comfortable stern of a Scheldt canal boat.

Square-headed, flat-faced Germans, gesticulating
Alsatians and Lorraines, fair Swiss, and Belgians,
with a sprinkling of Italians, swarthy Spaniards,
Austrians and French, made up the remainder of the
party, men whose status, age, appearance, bearing,
and origins were as diverse as their nationalities
levelled by a common desperate need (of food, or
sanctuary, or a fresh start in life), and united by a
common filthiness, squalor, and dejection--a gang
powerless in the bonds of hunger and fear, delivered
bound into the relentless, grinding mills of the Legion.

And thus, distinguished and apart, though in their
midst, stood the well-dressed Englishman, apparently
calm, incurious, with equal mind; his linen fresh,
his face shaven, his clothing uncreased, his air rather
that of one who awaits the result of the footman's
enquiry as to whether Her Ladyship is "at home"
to him.

More and more, the heart of Sir Montague Merline
warmed to this young man of his own race and class,
with his square shoulders, flat back, calm bearing, and
hard high look.  He approved and admired his air
and appearance of being a Man, a Gentleman, and a
Soldier.  Had he a son, it was just such a youth as this
he would have him be.

"Any 'Murricans thar?" suddenly bawled the
Bucking Bronco.

"Nao," replied the Cockney youth, craning forward.
"But I'm Henglish--which is better any d'y
in the week, ain't it?"

The eye of the large American travelled slowly and
deliberately from the crown of the head to the tip of
the toe of the Cockney, and back.  He then said
nothing--with some eloquence.

"Say, ma honey, yew talk U.S. any?" queried a
gigantic Negro, in the uniform of the Legion
(presumably recruited in France as a free American citizen
of Anglo-Saxon speech), addressing himself to the tall
Englishman.  "Youse ain't Dago, nor Dutchie, nor
French.  Cough it up, Bo, right hyar ef youse U.S."

The eyes of the young Englishman narrowed
slightly, and his naturally haughty expression
appeared to deepen toward one of contempt and disgust.
Otherwise he took no notice of the Negro, nor of his
question.

Remarking, "Some poah white trash," the Negro
turned to the next man with the same query.

Cries in various tongues, such as "Anybody from
Spain?" "Anyone from Vienna?" "Any Switzers
about?" and similar attempts by the crowding,
jostling Legionaries to discover a compatriot, and
possibly a "towny," evoked gleams and glances of
interest from the haggard, wretched eyes of the
"blues," and, occasionally, answering cries from their
grim and grimy lips.

A swaggering, strutting Sergeant emerged from the
neighbouring regimental offices, roared "*Garde à
vous*," brought the recruits to attention, and called
the roll.  As prophesied by Legionary John Bull, the
whole draft was assigned to the Seventh Company,
recently depleted by the desertion, en masse, of a
*cafard*-smitten German *escouade*, or section, who had
gone "on pump," merely to die in the desert at the
hands of the Arabs--several horribly tortured, all
horribly mangled.

Having called the roll, this Sergeant, not strictly
following the example of the Sergeant of the Guard,
looked the draft over more in anger than in sorrow.

"Oh, Name of the Name of Beautiful Beelzebub,"
bawled he, "but what have we here?  To *drill* such
worm-casts!  Quel métier!  Quel chien d'un métier!
Stand up, stand up, oh sons of Arab mothers and
pariah dogs," and then, feigning sudden and
unconquerable sickness, he turned upon the Corporal in
charge with a roar of--

"March these sacred pigs to their accursed sties."

As the heterogeneous gang stepped off at the word
of command, "*En avant.  Marche!*" toward the
Quartermaster's store of the Seventh Company, it
was clear to the experienced eye that the great majority
were "Back to the army again," and were either
deserters, or men who had already put in their military
service in the armies of their own countries.

In the store-room they were endowed by the
*Fourrier-Sergent*, to the accompaniment of torrential
profanity, with white fatigue-uniforms, night-caps,
rough shirts, harsh towels, and scraps of soap.  From
the store-room the squad was "personally conducted"
by another, and even more terrible, Sergeant to a
washing-shed beyond the drill-ground, and bidden
to soap and scour itself, and then stand beneath the
primitive shower-baths until purged and clean as
never before in its unspeakable life.

As they neared the washing-shed, the bare idea of
ablutions, or the idea of bare ablutions, appeared to
strike consternation, if not positive terror, into the
heart of at least one member of the squad, for the
young Russian who had been addressed by his twin
as Mikhail suddenly seized the other's arm and said
with a gasp--

"Oh, Fedichka, how can I?  Oh Fedia, Fedia,
what shall I do?"

"We must trust in God, and use our wits, Olusha.
I will..."

But a roar of "Silence, Oh Son of Seven Pigs,"
from the Sergeant, cut him short as they reached the
shed.

"Now strip and scrub your mangy skins, you dogs.
Scrape your crawling hides until the floor is thick in
hog-bristles and earth, oh Great-grandsons of Sacréd
Swine," he further adjured the wretched "blues,"
with horrible threats and fearful oaths.

"Wash, you mud-caked vermin, wash, for the
carcase of the Legionary must be as spotless as the
Fame of the Legion, or the honour of its smartest
Sergeant--Sergeant Legros," and he lapped his
bulging chest lest any Boeotian present should be
ignorant of the identity of Sergeant Legros of the
Legion.

Walking up and down before the doorless stalls in
which the naked recruits washed, Sergeant Legros
hurled taunts, gibes, insults, and curses at his charges,
stopping from time to time to give special attention
to anyone who had the misfortune to acquire his
particular regard.  Pausing to stare at the tall Englishman
in affected disgust at the condition of his brilliant
and glowing skin, he enquired--

"Is that a vest, disclosed by scrubbing and the
action of water?  Or is it your hide, pig?"  And was
somewhat taken aback by the cool and pleasant reply,

"No, that is not a new, pink silk vest that you see,
Sergeant, it really is my own skin--but many thanks
for the kind compliment, none the less."

Sergeant Legros eyed the recruit with something
dimly and distantly akin to pity.  Mad as a March
hare, poor wretch, of course--it could not be intentional
impudence--and the Sergeant smiled austerely--he
would probably die in the cells ere long, if *le cafard*
did not send him to the Zephyrs, the firing-platoon,
or the Arabs.  Mad to begin with!  Ho!  Ho!  What
a jest!--and the Sergeant chuckled.

But what was this?  Did the good Sergeant's eyes
deceive him?  Or was there, in the next compartment,
a lousy, lazy "blue" pretending to cleanse his foul
and sinful carcase without completely stripping?  The
young Russian, Mikhail, standing with his back to the
doorway, was unenthusiastically washing the upper
part of his body.

Sergeant Legros stiffened like a pointer, at the sight.
Rank disobedience!  Flagrant defiance of orders,
coupled with the laziest and filthiest indifference
to cleanliness!  This vile "blue" would put the
Legion's clean shirt and canvas fatigue-suit on an
indifferently washen body, would he?  Let him wait
until he was a Legionary, and no longer a recruit--and
he should learn something of the powers of the
Sergeant Legros.

"Off with those trousers, thou mud-caked
flea-bitten scum," he thundered, and then received
perhaps the greatest surprise of a surprising life.
For, ere the offending recruit could turn, or obey,
there danced forth from the next cubicle, with a wild
whoop, his exact double, who, naked as he was born,
turned agile somersaults and Catherine-wheels past
the astounded Sergeant, down the front of the
bathing-shed, and round the corner.

"Sacré Nom de Nom de Bon Dieu-de-Dieu!"
ejaculated Sergeant Legros, and rubbed his eyes.
He then displayed a sample of the mental quickness
of the trained Legionary in darting to the neighbouring
corner of the building instead of running down the
entire front in the wake of the vanished acrobat.

Dashing along the short side-wall, Sergeant Legros
turned the corner and beheld the errant lunatic
approaching in the same literally revolutionary
manner.

On catching sight of the Sergeant, the naked recruit
halted, and broke into song and dance, the latter
being of that peculiarly violent Cossack variety which
constrains the performer to crouch low to earth and
fling out his legs, alternately, straight before him.

For the first time in his life, words failed Sergeant
Legros.  For some moments he could but stand over
the dancer and gesticulate and stutter.  Rising to his
feet with an engaging smile--.

"Ça va mieux, mon père?" observed the latter amiably.

Seizing him by arm and neck, the apoplectic
Sergeant Legros conducted this weird disciple of
Terpsichore back to his cubicle, while his mazed mind
fumbled in the treasure-house of his vocabulary,
and the armoury of his weapons of punishment.

Apparently there was method, however, in the
madness of Feodor Kyrilovitch Malekov, for a distinct
look of relief and satisfaction crossed his face as, in
the midst of a little crowd of open-mouthed, and
half-clothed recruits, he caught sight of his brother in
complete fatigue-uniform.

Gradually, and very perceptibly the condition of
Sergeant Legros improved.  His halting recriminations
and imprecations became a steady trickle, the trickle
a flow, the flow a torrent, and the torrent an
overwhelming deluge.  By the time he had almost exhausted
his vocabulary and himself, he began to see the
humorous and interesting aspect of finding two
lunatics in one small draft.  He would add them to
his collection of butts.  Possibly one, or both of them,
might even come to equal the Mad Grasshopper in
that rôle.  Fancy more editions of La Cigale--who
had provided him with more amusement and opportunities
for brutality than any ten sane Legionaries!

"Now, do great and unmerited honour to your vile,
low carcases by putting on the fatigue-uniform of the
Legion.  Gather up your filthy civilian rags, and
hasten," he bawled.

And when the, now wondrously metamorphosed,
recruits had all dressed in the new canvas uniforms,
they were marched to a small side gate in the wall of
the barrack-square, and ordered to sell immediately
everything they possessed in the shape of civilian
clothing, including boots and socks.  Civilian clothing
is essential to the would-be deserter, and La Légion
does not facilitate desertion.

That the unfortunate recruits got the one or two
francs they did receive was solely due to the absence
of a "combine" among the scoundrelly Arabs,
Greeks, Spanish Jews, Negroes, and nondescript rogues
who struggled for the cast-off clothing.  For the
Englishman's expensive suit a franc was offered, and
competition advanced this price to four.  For the sum
of five francs he had to sell clothes, hat, boots, collar,
tie, and underclothing that had recently cost him over
fifty times as much.  That he felt annoyed, and that,
in spite of his apparent nonchalance, his temper was
wearing thin, was evidenced by the fact that a big
Arab who laid a grimy paw upon his shoulder and
snatched at his bundle, received the swift blow of
dissuasion--a sudden straight-left in the eye, sending
him flying--to the amusement and approval of the
sentry whose difficult and arduous task it was to
keep the scrambling, yelling thieves of old-clo' dealers
from invading the barrack-square, and repentant
recruits from quitting it.

When the swindle of the forced sale was complete,
and several poor wretches had parted with their all
for a few *sous*, the gate was shut and the weary squad
marched to the offices of the Seventh Company that
each man's name and profession might be entered in
the Company Roll, and that he might receive his
*matricule* number, the number which would henceforth
hide his identity, and save him the trouble of retaining
a personality and a name.

To Colour-Sergeant Blanc, the tall English youth,
like most Legionaries, gave a *nom d'emprunt*, two of his
own names, Reginald Rupert.  He concealed his
surname and sullied the crystal truth of fact by stating
that his father was the Commander-in-Chief of the
Horse Marines of Great Britain and Inspector-General
of the Royal Naval Horse Artillery; that he himself
was by profession a wild-rabbit-tamer, and by
conviction a Plymouth Rock--all of which was duly and
solemnly entered in the great tome by M. Blanc, a
man taciturn, *très boutonné*, and of no imagination.

Whatever the recruit may choose to say is written
down in the Company lists, and should a recruit wax
a little humorous, why--the Legion will very soon
cure him of any tendency to humour.  The Legion
asks no questions, answers none, takes the recruit
at his own valuation, and quickly readjusts it for him.
Reconducted to the Store-room of the Seventh
Company, the batch of recruits, again to the
accompaniment of a fusillade of imprecations, and beneath
a torrential deluge of insults and oaths, was violently
tailored by a number of non-commissioned officers,
and a fatigue-party of Légionnaires.

To "Reginald Rupert," at any rate, the badges of
rank worn by the non-commissioned officers were
mysterious and confusing--as he noted a man with
one chevron giving peremptory orders in loud tone
and bullying manner to a man who wore two chevrons.
It also puzzled him that the fat man, who was
evidently the senior official present, was addressed by
the others as "*chef*," as though he were a cook.  By
the time he was fitted out with kit and accoutrement,
he had decided that the "chef" (who wore two gold
chevrons) was a Sergeant-Major, that the men wearing
one gold chevron were Sergeants, and that those
wearing two red ones were Corporals; and herein
he was entirely correct.

Every man had to fit (rather than be fitted with)
a red képi having a brass grenade in front; a
double-breasted, dark blue tunic with red facings and
green-fringed red epaulettes; a big blue greatcoat, or
*capote*; baggy red breeches; two pairs of boots; two
pairs of linen spats, and a pair of leather gaiters.
He also received a long blue woollen cummerbund, a
knapsack of the old British pattern, a bag of cleaning
materials, belts, straps, cartridge-pouches, haversack,
and field flask.

To the fat Sergeant-Major it was a personal insult,
and an impudence amounting almost to blasphemy,
that a képi, or tunic should not fit the man to whom
it was handed.  The idea of adapting a ready-made
garment to a man appeared less prominent than that
of adapting a ready-made man to a garment.

"What!" he roared in Legion French, to the fat
German boy who understood not a word of the tirade.
"What?  Nom d'un pétard!  Sacré Dieu!  The tunic
will not easily button?  Then contract thy vile body
until it will, thou offspring of a diseased pig and a
dead dog.  I will fit thee to that tunic, and none other,
within the week.  Wait!  But wait--till thou has eaten
the Breakfast of the Legion once or twice, fat sow...."

A gloomy, sardonic Legionary placed a képi upon
the crisply curling hair of Reginald Rupert.  It was
miles too big--a ludicrous extinguisher.  The
Englishman removed it, and returned it with the remark,
"Ça ne marche pas, mon ami."

"*Merde!*" ejaculated the liverish-looking soldier,
and called Heaven to witness that he was not to blame
if the son of a beetle had a walnut for a head.

Throwing the képi back into the big box he fished
out another, banged it on Rupert's head, and was
about to bring his open hand down on the top of it,
when he caught the cold but blazing eye of the recruit,
and noticed the clenched fist and lips.  Had the
Legionary's right hand descended, the recruit's left
hand would have risen with promptitude and force.

"If that is too big, let the sun boil thy brains and
bloat thy skull till it fits, and if it be too small, sleep
in it," he remarked sourly, and added that thrice-accursed
"blues" were creatures of the kind that ate
their young, encumbered the earth, polluted the air,
loved to *faire Suisse*,[#] and troubled Soldiers of the
Legion who might otherwise have been in the Canteen,
or at Carmelita's--instead of being the valets of sons
of frogs, nameless excrescences....


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

   [#] To drink alone; to sulk.

.. vspace:: 2

"Too small," replied Rupert coolly, and flung
the cap into the box.  "Valet?  I should condole
with a crocodile that had a clumsy and ignorant
yokel like you for a valet," he added, in slow and careful
French as he tried on a third cap, which he found more
to his liking.

The old Legionary gasped.

"Il m'enmerde!" he murmured, and wiped his
brow.  He, Jules Duplessis, Soldat 1ère Classe, with
four years' service and the *medaille militaire*, had been
outfaced, browbeaten, insulted by a miserable "blue."  What
were the World and La Légion coming to?  "*Merde!*"

While trying on his tunic, Rupert saw one of
the Russians hand to the other the tunic and trousers
which he had tried on.  Apparently being as alike as
two pins in every respect they had adopted the
labour-saving device of one "fitting on" for both.

Having put on the képi, Mikhail bundled up the
uniform, struck an attitude with arms akimbo, and
inquired of the other--

"Do I look *very* awful in this thing, Fedia?"

"Shut up, you little fool," replied Feodor, with a
quick frown.  "Try and look more like a *mujik* in
*maslianitza*,[#] and less like a young student at private
theatricals.  You're a Legionary now."


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

   [#] The week before Lent, or "mad week," when all good *mujiks*
   get drunk--or used to do.

.. vspace:: 2

When, at length, the recruits had all been fitted
into uniforms, and were ready to depart, they were
driven forth with the heart-felt curse and
comprehensive anathema of the Sergeant-Major--

"Sweep the room clear of this offal, Corporal,"
quoth he.  "And if thou canst make a Légionnaire's
little toe out of the whole draft--thou shalt have the
Grand Cross of the Legion of Honour--I promise it."

"*En avant.  Marche!*" bawled the Corporal, and
the "blues" were led away, up flights of stairs, and
along echoing corridors to their future home, their
new quarters.  A Légionnaire, carrying a huge
earthenware jug, encountering them outside the door thereof,
gave them their first welcome to the Legion.

"Oh thrice-condemned souls, welcome to Hell," he
cried genially, and kicking open the door of a huge
room, he liberally sprinkled each passing recruit,
murmuring as he did so--

"Le diable vous bénisse."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A BARRACK-ROOM OF THE LEGION`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER II


.. class:: center medium

   A BARRACK-ROOM OF THE LEGION

.. vspace:: 2

The room which Reginald Rupert entered,
with a dozen of his fellow "blues," was long
and lofty, painfully orderly, and spotlessly clean.
Fifteen cots were exactly aligned on each long side,
and down the middle of the floor ran long wooden
tables and benches, scoured and polished to
immaculate whiteness.  Above each bed was a shelf on which
was piled a very neat erection of uniforms and kit.
To the eye of Rupert (experienced in barrack-rooms)
there was interesting novelty in the absence
of clothes-boxes, and the presence of hanging-cupboards
suspended over the tables from the ceiling.

Evidently the French authorities excelled the
English in the art of economising space, as nothing
was on the floor that could be accommodated above it.
In the hanging cupboards were tin plates and cups and
various utensils of the dinner-table.

The Englishman noted that though the Lebel rifles
stood in a rack in a corner of the room, the long
sword-bayonets hung by the pillows of their owners, each
near a tin quart-pot and a small sack.

On their beds, a few Légionnaires lay sleeping, or
sat laboriously polishing their leatherwork--the
senseless, endless and detested *astiquage* of the Legion--or
cleaning their rifles, bayonets, and buttons.  Whatever
else the Légionnaire is, or is not, he is meticulously
clean, neat, and smart, and when his day's work is
done (at four or five o'clock) he must start a half-day's
work in "making *fantasie*"--in preparation for the
day's work of the morrow.

Rising from his bed in the corner as the party
entered, Legionary John Bull approached the Corporal
in charge of the room and suggested that the English
recruit should be allotted the bed between his own
and that of Légionnaire Bronco, as he was of the same
mother-tongue, and would make quicker progress in
their hands than in those of foreigners.  As the Corporal,
agreeing, indicated the second bed from the window,
to Rupert, and told him to take possession of it and
make his *paquetage* on the shelf above, the Cockney
recruit pushed forward:

"'Ere, I'm Henglish too!  I better jine these blokes."

"Qu'est-ce-qu'il dit, Jean Boule?" enquired the
Corporal.

On being informed, Corporal Achille Martel allotted
the fourth bed, that on the other side of the Bucking
Bronco, to Recruit Higgins with an intimation that
the sooner he learnt French, and ceased the use of
barbarous tongues the better it would be for his
welfare.  The Corporal then assigned berths to the
remaining recruits, each between those of two old soldiers, of
whom the right-hand man was to be the new recruit's
guide, philosopher and friend, until he, in his turn,
became a prideful, full-blown Legionary.

The young Russian who had given his name as
Mikhail Kyrilovitch Malekov observed that the card at
the head of the cot on his right-hand bore the
inscription: "Luigi Rivoli, No. 13874, Soldat 2ième
Classe."

As he stood, irresolute, and apparently in great
anxiety and perturbation, nervously opening and
shutting a cartridge-pouch, his face suddenly brightened
as his twin entered the room and intercepted the
departing Corporal.

"*Mille pardons*, Monsieur," he said, saluting
smartly and respectfully.  "But I earnestly and
humbly request that you will permit me to inhabit this
room in which is my brother.  As we reached this door
another *sous-officier* took me and the remainder to the
next room when twelve had entered here....  Alas!
My brother was twelfth, and I thirteenth," he added
volubly.  "Look you, Monsieur, he is my twin, and we
have never been separated yet.  We shall get on much
faster and better, helping each other, and be more
credit to you and your room, *petit père*."

"Sacré Dieu, and Name of a Purple Frog!  Is this
a scurvy and lousy beggar, whining for alms at a
mosque door?  And am I a God-forsaken and
disgusting *pékin* that you address me as 'Monsieur'?
Name of a Pipe!  Have I no rank?  Address me
henceforth as Monsieur le Caporal, thou kopeck-worth
of Russian."

"Oui, oui; milles pardons, Monsieur le Caporal.
But grant me this favour and I and my brother will be
your slaves."

"Va t'en, babillard!  Rompez, jaseur!" snarled
the Corporal.

But the Russian, true to type, was tenacious.
Producing a five-franc piece he scratched his nose
therewith, and dropping the wheedling and suppliant tone,
asked the testy Corporal if he thought it likely
Messieurs les Caporaux of the Seventh Company could
possibly be induced to drink the health of so insignificant
an object as Recruit Feodor Kyrilovitch Malekov.

"Corporals do not drink with Légionnaires," was
the answer, "but doubtless Corporal Gilles of the next
room will join me in a drink to the health of a worthy
and promising 'blue,'" and, removing his képi, he
stretched his gigantic frame and yawned hugely as
the Russian dexterously, and apparently unnoticed,
slipped the coin into the képi.  Having casually
examined the lining of his képi, Monsieur le Caporal
Martel replaced it on his head, and with astounding
suddenness and ferocity pounced upon an ugly,
tow-haired German, and with a shout of "Out, pig!  Out
of my beautiful room!  Thy face disfigures it," he
hunted him forth and bestowed him upon the
neighbouring Corporal, M. Auguste Gilles, together with a
promise of ten bottles of Madame la Cantinière's best,
out of the thirty-and-five which the Russian's
five-franc piece would purchase.

In a moment the Russian had opened negotiations
with the Spaniard who had taken the bed next but one
to that of Mikhail.

Like all educated Russians, Feodor Kyrilovitch was
an accomplished linguist, and, while speaking French
and English idiomatically, could get along very
comfortably in Spanish, Italian, and German.

A very few minutes enabled him to make it clear to
the Spaniard that an exchange of beds would do him
no harm, and enrich him by a two-franc piece.

"No hay de que, Señor.  Gracias, muchas gracias,"
replied the Spaniard.  "En seguida, con se permiso,"
and transferred himself and his belongings to the
berth vacated by the insulted and dispossessed German.

Meanwhile, Reginald Rupert, with soldierly promptitude,
lost no time in setting about the brushing and
arrangement of his kit, gathering up, as he did so, the
pearls of local wisdom that fell from the lips of his
kindly mentor, whose name and description he observed
to be "Légionnaire John Bull, No. 11867, Soldat
2ième Classe."

Having shown his pupil the best and quickest way
of folding his uniform in elbow-to-finger-tip lengths,
and so arranging everything that he could find it in
the dark, and array himself *en tenue de campagne
d'Afrique* in ten minutes without a light, he invited
him to try his own hand at the job.

"Now you try and make that '*paquetage* of the
Legion,'" observed the instructor, "and the sooner
you learn to make it quickly, the better.  As you see,
you have no chest for your kit as you had in the British
Army, and so you keep your uniform on your shelf, *en
paquetage*, for tidiness and smartness, without creases.
The Légionnaire is as *chic* and particular as the best
trooper of the crackest English cavalry-corps.  We
look down on the *piou-piou* from a fearful height, and
swagger against the *Chasseur d'Afrique* himself.  I wish
to God we had spurs, but there's no cavalry in the
Legion--though there are kinds of Mounted-Rifle
Companies on mules, down South.  I miss spurs damnably,
even after fourteen years of foot-slogging in the
Legion.  You can't really swagger without spurs--not
that the women will look at a Legionary in any
case, or the men respect him, save as a fighter.  But
you can't swing without spurs."

"No," agreed Rupert, "I was just thinking I
should miss them, and it'll take me some time to get
used to a night-cap, a neck-curtained képi, a
knapsack, and a steel bayonet-scabbard."

"You'll appreciate the first when you sleep out, and
the second when you march, down South.  The nights
are infernally cold, and the days appallingly hot--and
yet sunstroke is unknown in the Legion.  Some put
it down to wearing the overcoat to march in.  The
steel scabbard is bad--noisy and heavy.  The
knapsack is the very devil on the march, but it's the one
and only place in the world in which you can keep a
photo, letter, book, or scrap of private property,
besides spare uniform and small kit.  You'll soon learn
to pack it, to stow underclothing in the haversack, and
to know the place for everything, so that you can get
from bed to barrack-square, fully equipped and
accoutred in nine minutes from the bugle....  And
don't, for Heaven's sake, lose anything, for a spiteful
N.C.O. can send you to your death in Biribi--that's
the Penal Battalion--by running you in two or three
times for 'theft of equipment.'  Lost kit is regarded
as stolen kit, and stolen kit is sold kit (to a
court-martial), and the penalty is six months with the
Zephyrs.  It takes a good man to survive that....  If
you've got any money, try and keep a little in hand,
so that you can always replace missing kit.  The fellows
here are appalling thieves--of uniform.  It is regarded
as a right, natural and proper thing to steal uniforms
and kit, and yet we'd nearly kill a man who stole money,
tobacco, or food.  The former would be 'decorating'
yourself, the latter disgracing yourself.  We've some
queer beasts here, but we're a grand regiment."

The disorderly heap of garments having become an
exceedingly neat and ingenious little edifice, compact,
symmetrical, and stable, Rupert's instructor
introduced the subject of that bane of the Legionary's
life--the eternal *astiquage*, the senseless and eternal
polishing of the black leather straps and large
cartridge-pouches.

"This stuff looks as though it had been left here by
the Tenth Legion of Julius Cæsar, rather than made
for the Foreign Legion," he remarked.  "Let's see
what we can make of it.  Watch me do this belt, and
then you can try the cartridge-cases.  Don't mind
firing off all the questions you've got to ask, meanwhile."

"Thanks.  What sort of chaps are they in this
room?" asked Rupert, seating himself on the bed
beside his friendly preceptor, and inwardly congratulating
himself on his good luck in meeting, on the
threshold of his new career, so congenial and
satisfactory a bunk-mate.

"Very mixed," was the reply.  "The fellow on the
other side of your berth is an American, an *ex*-U.S.A.
army man, miner, lumber-jack, tramp, cow-boy,
bruiser, rifle and revolver trick-shooter, and my very
dear friend, one of the whitest men I ever met, and one
of the most amusing.  His French conversation keeps
me alive by making me laugh, and he's learning Italian
from a twopenny dictionary, and a Travellers' Phrase
Book, the better to talk to Carmelita.  The next but
one is a Neapolitan who calls himself Luigi Rivoli.  He
used to be a champion Strong Man, and music-hall
wrestler, acrobat, and juggler.  Did a bit of lion-taming
too, or, at any rate, went about with a show that had
a cageful of mangy performing lions.  He is not really
very brave though, but he's a most extraordinary
strong brute.  Quite a millionaire here too, for
Carmelita gives him a whole franc every day of his life."

"What made him enlist then?" asked Rupert, carefully
watching the curious *astiquage* methods, so different
from the pipe-clay to which he was accustomed.

"This same girl, and she's worth a thousand of
Rivoli.  It seems she pretended to turn him down,
and take up with some other chap to punish Rivoli
after some lover's quarrel or other, and our Luigi in a
fit of jealous madness stabbed the other chap in the
back, and then bolted and enlisted in the Legion,
partly to pay her out, but chiefly to save himself.  He
was doing a turn at a *café-chantant* over in Algiers at
the time.  Of course, Carmelita flung herself in
transports of grief, repentance, and self-accusation upon
Luigi's enormous bosom, and keeps him in pocket-money
while she waits for him.  She followed him,
and runs a *café* for Légionnaires here in Sidi-bel-Abbès.
She gets scores of offers from our Non-coms.,
and from Frenchmen of the regular army stationed
in Sidi, and her *café* is a sort of little Italian club.  My
friend, the Bucking Bronco, proposes to her once a
week, but she remains true to Luigi, whom she
intends to marry as soon as he has done his time.  The
swine's carrying on at the same time with Madame la
Cantinière, who is a widow, and whose canteen he
would like to marry.  Between the two women he has
a good time, and, thanks to Carmelita's money, gets all
his work done for him.  The brute never does a stroke.
Pays substitutes for all fatigues and corvées, has his
kit and accoutrements polished, and his clothes
washed.  Spends the balance of Carmelita's money at
the Canteen, ingratiating himself with Madame!
Keeps up his great strength with extra food too.  He
is a Hercules, and, moreover, seems immune from
African fever and *le cafard*, which is probably due to
his escaping three-parts of the work done by the
average penniless.  And he's as nasty as he is strong."

"What's his particular line of nastiness--besides
cheating women I mean?" asked Rupert, who already
knew only too well how much depends on the
character, conduct, manners, and habits of room-mates
with whom one is thrown into daily and nightly
intimate contact, year after year, without change, relief,
or hope of improvement.

"Oh, he's the Ultimate Bounder," replied the other,
as he struck a match and began melting a piece of wax
with which to rub his leather belt.  "He's the
Compleat Cad, and the Finished Bully.  He's absolute
monarch of the rank-and-file of the Seventh Company
by reason of his vast wealth, and vaster strength.
Those he does not bribe he intimidates.  Remember
that the Wages of Virtue here is one halfpenny a day
as opposed to the Wages of Sin which is rather worse
than death.

"Think of the position of a man who has the income
of all in this room put together, in addition to the run
of his best girl's own *café*.  What with squaring
Non-coms., hiring substitutes, and terrorising 'fags,' he
hasn't done a stroke, outside parades of course, since
he joined--except hazing recruits, and breaking up
opponents of his rule."

"How does he fight?" asked Rupert.

"Well, wrestling's his *forte*--and he can break the
back of any man he gets his arms round--and the
rest's a mixture of boxing, ju-jitsu, and *la savate*,
which, as you know, is kicking.  Yes, he's a dirty
tighter, though it's precious rarely that it comes to
what you could call a fight.  What I'm waiting for is
the most unholy and colossal turn-up that's due to
come between him and Buck sooner or later.  It's
bound to come, and it'll be a scrap worth seeing.  Buck
has been a professional glove-man among other things,
and he holds less conservative views than I do, as to
what is permissible against an opponent who kicks,
clinches, and butts....  No, fighting's apt to be rather
a dirty business here, and, short of a proper duel, a
case of stand face to face and do all you can with all
Nature's weapons, not forgetting your teeth....
'*C'est la Légion.*'"

"How disgustin'!" murmured the young man.
"Will this bird trouble me?"

"He will," answered the other, "but I'll take a
hand, and then Buck will too.  He hates Luigi like
poison, and frequently remarks that he has it in for
him when the time comes, and Luigi isn't over anxious
to tackle him, though he hankers.  Doesn't understand
him, nor like the look in his eye.  Buck is afraid of
angering Carmelita if he 'beats up' Rivoli....  Yes, I
dare say Buck and I can put the gentle Neapolitan off
between us."

Reginald Rupert stiffened.

"I beg that you will in no way interfere," he
observed coldly.  "I should most strongly resent it."

The heart of the old soldier warmed to the youth,
as he contrasted his slim boyish grace with the mighty
strength, natural and developed, of the professional
Strong Man, Wrestler, and Acrobat--most tricky,
cunning, and dangerous of relentless foes.

"You keep clear of Luigi Rivoli as long as you can,"
he said with a kindly smile.  "And at least remember
that Buck and I are with you.  Personally, I'm no
sort of match for our Luigi in a rough-and-tumble
nowadays, should he compel one.  But he has let
me alone since I told him with some definiteness
that he would have to defend himself with either
lead or steel, if he insisted on trouble between him
and me."

"There now," he continued, rising, "now try that
for yourself on a cartridge-pouch....  First melt the wax
a bit, with a match--and don't forget that matches
are precious in the Legion as they're so damned dear--and
rub it on the leather as I did.  Then take this flat
block of wood and smooth it over until it's all evenly
spread.  And then rub hard with the coarse rag for an
hour or two, then harder with the fine rag for about
half an hour.  Next polish with your palm, and then
with the wool.  Buck and I own a scrap of velvet
which you can borrow before Inspection Parades, and
big shows--but we don't use it extravagantly of
course....

"Well, that's the *astiquage* curse, and the other's
washing white kit without soap, and ironing it without
an iron.  Of course, Madame la République couldn't
give us glazed leather, or khaki webbing--nor could
she afford to issue one flat-iron to a barrack-room, so
that we could iron a white suit in less than a couple of
hours....  The devil of it is that it's all done in our
'leisure' time when we're supposed to be resting, or
recreating....  Think of the British 'Tommy' in
India with his *dhobi*, his barrack-sweeper, his
table-servant, and his *syce*--or his share in them.  If we did
nothing in the world but our daily polishing, washing
and ironing, we should be busy men.  However!
'*C'est la Legion!*'  And one won't live for ever....
You won't want any help with the rifle and bayonet,
I suppose?"

"No, thanks, I've 'had some,' though I haven't
handled a Lebel before," and Reginald Rupert settled
down to work while Legionary John Bull proceeded
with his toilet.

"Anything else you want to know?" enquired the
latter, as he put a final polish upon his gleaming
sword-bayonet.  "You know enough not to cut your
rifle-sling stropping your razor on it....  Don't waste your
cake of soap making a candlestick of it.  Too rare and
precious here."

"Well, thanks very much; the more you tell me,
the better for me, if it's not troubling you, Sir."

John Bull paused and looked at the recruit.

"Why do you call me 'Sir'?" he enquired.

"Why? ... Because you are senior and a Sahib, I
suppose," replied the youth.

"Thanks, my boy, but don't.  I am just Légionnaire
John Bull 11867, Soldier of the Second Class.  You'll
be a soldier of the First Class, and my senior in a few
months, I hope....  I suppose you've assumed a *nom
de guerre* too," replied the other, making a mental
note that the recruit had served in India.  He had
already observed that he pointed his toes as he walked,
and had a general cavalry bearing.

"Yes, I gave part of my own name; I'm 'Reginald
Rupert' now.  Didn't see why I should give my own.
I've only come to have a look round and learn a bit.
Very keen on experiences, especially military ones."

"Merciful God!" ejaculated John Bull softly.
"Out for experiences!  You'll get 'em, here."

"Keen on seein' life, y'know," explained the young man.

"Much more likely to see death," replied the other.
"Do you realise that you're in for five years--and that
no money, no influence, no diplomatic representations,
no extradition can buy, or beg, or drag you out; and
that by the end of five years, if alive, you'll be lucky if
you're of any use to the Legion, to yourself, or to
anyone else?  I, personally, have had unusual luck, and
am of unusual physique.  I re-enlisted twice, partly
because at the end of each five years I was turned
loose with nothing in the world but a shapeless blue
slop suit--partly for other reasons...."

"Oh!  I've only come for a year, and shall desert.
I told them so plainly at the enlistment bureau, in
Paris," was the ingenuous reply.

The old Legionary smiled.

"A good many of our people desert, at least once,"
he said, "when under the influence of *le cafard*--especially
the Germans.  Ninety-nine per cent come
to one of three ends--death, capture, or surrender.
Death with torture at the hands of the Arabs; capture,
or ignominious return and surrender after horrible
sufferings from thirst, starvation and exposure."

"Yes; I heard the Legion was a grand military
school, and a pretty warm thing, and that desertion
was a bit of a feat, and no disgrace if you brought it
off--so I thought I'd have a year of the one, and then
a shot at the other," replied the young man coolly.
"Also, I was up against it somewhat, and well--you
know--seeking sorrow."

"You've come to the right place for it then,"
observed Legionary John Bull, sheathing his bayonet
with a snap, as the door banged open....  "Ah!  Enter
our friend Luigi," he added as that worthy swaggered
into the room with an obsequious retinue, which
included le bon Légionnaire Edouard Malvin, looking
very smart and dapper in the uniform of Légionnaire
Alphonse Dupont of the Eleventh Company.

"Pah!  I smell 'blues'!  Disgusting!  Sickening!"
ejaculated Légionnaire Luigi Rivoli in a tremendous
voice, and stood staring menacingly from recruit to
recruit.

Reginald Rupert, returning his hot, insolent glare
with a cold and steady stare, beheld a huge and
powerful-looking man with a pale, cruel face, coarsely
handsome, wherein the bold, heavily lashed black eyes were
set too close together beneath their broad, black,
knitted brows, and the little carefully curled black
moustache, beneath the little plebeian nose, hid
nothing of the over-ripe red lips of an over-small
mouth.

"Corpo di Bacco!" he roared in Italian and Legion
French.  "The place reeks of the stinking 'blues.'  Were
it not that I now go *en ville* to dine and drink
my Chianti wine (none of your filthy Algerian slops for
Luigi Rivoli), and to smoke my *sigaro estero* at my
*café*, I would fling them all down three flights of
stairs," and, like his companions, he commenced
stripping off his white uniform.  Having bared his truly
magnificent arms and chest, he struck an attitude,
ostentatiously contracted his huge right biceps, and
smote it a resounding smack with the palm of his left
hand.

"Aha!" he roared, as all turned to look at him.

"Disgustin' bounder," remarked Reginald Rupert
very distinctly, as, with a second shout of "Aha!"
Rivoli did the same with the left biceps and right
hand, and then bunched the vast *pectoralis major*
muscles of his chest.

"Magnifique:" cried Légionnaire Edouard Malvin,
who was laying out his patron's uniform from his
*paquetage*, preparatory to helping him to dress.

"As thou sayest, my *gallo*, 'C'est magnifique,'"
replied Luigi Rivoli, and for five minutes contracted,
flexed, and slapped the great muscles of his arms,
shoulders, and chest.

"Come hither--thou little bambino Malvin, thou
Bad Wine, thou Cattevo Vino Francese, and stand
behind me....  What of the back?  Canst thou see the
'bull's head' as I set the *trapezius*, *rhomboideus*, and
*latissimus dorsi* muscles?"

"As clearly as I see your own head, Main de Fer,"
replied the Austrian in affected astonishment and
wonder.  "It is the World's Most Wonderful Back!
Why, were Maxick and Saldo, Hackenschmidt, the
three Saxons, Sandow--yea--Samson and Hercules
themselves here, all would be humiliated and
envious."

"Aha!" again bawled Rivoli, "thou art right,
*piccolo porco*," and, sinking to a squatting position
upon his raised heels, he rose and fell like a jack-in-the-box
for some time, before rubbing and smiting his
huge thighs and calves to the accompaniment of
explosive shouts.  Thereafter, he fell upon his hands and
toes, and raised and lowered his stiffened body a few
dozen times.

The display finished, he enquired with lordly boredom:
"And what are the absurd orders for walking-out
dress to-night.  Is it blue and red, or blue and white,
or overcoats buttoned on the left--or what?"

"Tunic and red, Hercule, and all ready, as you see,"
replied Malvin, and he proceeded to assist at the toilet
of the ex-acrobat, the plutocrat and leader of the
rank-and-file of the Seventh Company by virtue of his
income of a franc a day, and his phenomenal strength
and ferocity.

Turning round that Malvin might buckle his belt
and straighten his tunic, the great man's foot touched
that of Herbert Higgins (late of Hoxton and the Loyal
Whitechapel Regiment) who had been earnestly
endeavouring for the past quarter of an hour to follow
the instructions of the Bucking Bronco--instructions
given in an almost incomprehensible tongue, of choice
American and choicer French compact.

Profound disgust, deepening almost to horror, was
depicted on the face of the Italian as he bestowed a vicious,
hacking kick upon the shin of the offending "blue."

"Body of Bacchus, what is this?" he cried.  "Cannot
I move without treading in *vidanges*?  Get beneath
the bed and out of my sight, *cauchemar*!"

But far from retreating as bidden, the undersized
Cockney rose promptly to his feet with a surprised and
aggrieved look upon his face, hitherto expressive only
of puzzled bewilderment.

"'Ere!  'Oo yer fink you're a kickin' of?" he
enquired, adding with dignity, "I dunno' 'oo yer fink
you *are*.  I'm 'Erb 'Iggins, I am, an' don't yer fergit it."

That Mr. Herbert Higgins stood rubbing his injured
shin instead of flying at the throat of the Italian, was
due in no wise to personal fear, but to an utter ignorance
of the rank, importance, and powers of this "narsty-lookin'
furriner."  He might be some sort of an officer,
and to "dot 'im one" might mean lingering gaol,
or sudden death.  Bitterly he regretted his complete
ignorance of the French tongue, and the manners and
customs of this strange place.  Anyhow, he could give
the bloke some lip in good old English.

"Bit too 'andy wiv yer feet, ain't yer?  Pretty
manners, I *don't* fink!  'Manners none, an' customs
narsty's' abart your mark, ain't it?"

But ere he could proceed with further flowers of
rhetoric, and rush in ignorance upon his fate, the huge
hand of the American fell upon his shoulder from
behind and pressed him back upon his cot.

"Hello, Loojey dear!  Throwin' bouquets to yerself
agin, air yew?  Gittin' fresh agin, air yew, yew greasy
Eye-talian, orgin-grindin', ice-cream-barrer-pushin',
back-stabbin', garlic-eatin', street-corner,
pink-spangled-tights ackerobat," he observed in his own
inimitable vernacular, as he unwound his long blue
sash preparatory to dressing for the evening.

"Why don't yew per*chase* a barrel-orgin an' take
yure dear pal Malvin along on it?  Snakes!  I guess
I got my stummick full o' yew an' Mon-seer Malvin
some.  I wish yew'd kiss yureself good-bye, Loojey.
Yew fair git my goat, yew fresh gorilla!  *Oui, vous
gagnez mon chevre proprement*."

"*Qu'est-ce qu'il dit?*" asked Rivoli, his contemptuously
curled lips baring his small, even teeth.

"Keskerdee?  Why, yep!  We uster hev a bunch
o' dirty little' keskerdees' at the ol' Glowin' Star mine,
way back in Californey when I was a road-kid.
Keskerdees!--so named becos they allus jabbered
'Keskerdee' when spoke to.  We uster use their heads fer
cleanin' fryin'-pans.  'Keskerdee' is Eye-talian--a
kind o' sorter low French," observed the Bucking
Bronco.

It is to be feared that his researches into the
ethnological and etymological truths of the European
nations were limited and unprofitable, in spite of the
fact that (like all other Legionaries of any standing)
he spoke fluent Legion French on everyday military
matters, and studied Italian phrases for the benefit of
Carmelita.  The Bucking Bronco's conversational
method was to express himself idiomatically in the
American tongue, and then translate it literally into
the language of the benighted foreigner whom he
honoured at the moment.

The Italian eyed the American malevolently, and,
for the thousandth time, measured him, considered
him, weighed him as an opponent in a boxing-wrestling-kicking
match, remembered his uncanny magic skill
with rifle and revolver, and, for the thousandth time,
postponed the inevitable settlement, misliking his face,
his mouth, his eye, and his general manner, air, and
bearing.

"Give some abominable 'bleu' the honour of lacing
the boots of Luigi Rivoli," he roared, turning with a
contemptuous gesture from the American and the
Cockney, to his henchman, Malvin.  Fixing his eye
upon the swarthy, spike-moustached Austrian, who sat
at the foot of the bed opposite his own, he added:

"Here, dog, the privilege is thine.  Allez schieblos"[#]
and thrust out the unlaced boots that Malvin
had pulled on to his feet.


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

   [#] A curious piece of Legion "French" meaning "Be quick."

.. vspace:: 2

The Austrian, squatting dejected, with his head
between his fists, affected not to understand, and made
no move.

"*Koom.  Adji inna.  Balek! fahesh beghla,*"[#]
adjured the Italian, airing his Arabic, and insulting his
intended victim by addressing him as though he were
a native.


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

   [#] "Get up.  Come here.  Take care!  You ugly mule."

.. vspace:: 2

The Austrian did not stir.

"Quick," hissed the Italian, and pointed to his boots
that there might be no mistake.

The Austrian snarled.

"Bring it to me," said the great man, and, in a
second, the recruit was run by the collar of his tunic,
his ears, his twisted wrists, his woolly hair, and by a
dozen willing hands, to the welcoming arms of the bully.

"Oh, thou deserter from the *Straf Bataillon*,"[#]
growled the latter.  A sudden grab, a swift twist, and
the Austrian was on his face, his elbows meeting and
overlapping behind his back, and his arms drawn
upward and backward.  He shrieked.


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

   [#] Penal battalion.

.. vspace:: 2

A quick jerk and he was on his feet, and then swung
from the ground face downward, his wrists behind him
in one of Rivoli's big hands, his trouser-ends in the
other.  Placing his foot in the small of the Austrian's
back, the Italian appeared to be about to break the
spine of his victim, whose screams were horrible to
hear.  Dashing him violently to the ground, Rivoli
re-seated himself, and thrust forward his right foot.
Groaning and gasping, the cowed Austrian knelt to
his task, but, fumbling and failing to give satisfaction,
received a kick in the face.

Reginald Rupert dropped the cartridge-pouch which
he was polishing, and stepped forward, only to find
himself thrust back by a sweep of the American's huge
arm, which struck him in the chest like an iron bar,
and to be seized by Légionnaire John Bull who quietly
remarked:

"Mind your own business, recruit....  *C'est la Légion*!"

No one noticed that the Russian, Mikhail, was white
and trembling, and that his brother came and led him
to the other end of the room.

"Bungler!  *Polisson*!  *Coquin*!  Lick the soles of
my boots and go," cried Rivoli, and, as the lad
hesitated, he rose to his feet.

Cringing and shrinking, the wretched "blue"
hastened to obey, thrust forth his tongue, and, as the
boot was raised, obediently licked the nether surface
and the edges of the sole until its owner was satisfied.

"Austria's proper attitude to Italy," growled the
bully.  "Now lick the other...."

Le Légionnaire Luigi Rivoli might expect prompt
obedience henceforth from le Légionnaire Franz
Joseph Meyer.

Standing in the ring of amused satellites was the
evil-looking *Apache*, a deeply interested spectator of
this congenial and enjoyable scene.  His hang-dog
face caught the eye of the Italian.

"Come hither, thou *blanc-bec*," quoth he.  "Come
hither and show this *vaurien* how to lace the boots of
a gentleman."

The Apache obeyed with alacrity, and, performing
the task with rapidity and skill, turned to depart.

"A nimble-fingered sharper," observed the Italian,
and, rising swiftly, bestowed a shattering kick upon
the retreating Frenchman.  Recovering his balance
after the sudden forward propulsion, the *Apache*
wheeled round like lightning, bent double, and flew at
his assailant.  Courage was his one virtue, and he was
the finest exponent of the art of butting in all the
purlieus and environs of Montmartre, and had not only
laid out many a good bourgeois, but had overcome
many a rival, by this preliminary to five minutes'
strenuous kicking with heavy boots.  If he launched
himself--a one-hundred-and-fifty pound projectile--with
his hard skull as battering-ram, straight at the
stomach of his tormentor, that astounded individual
ought to go violently to the ground, doubled up,
winded and helpless.  A score of tremendous kicks
would then teach him that an *Apache* King (and he,
none other than Tou-Tou Boil-the-Cat, *doyen* of the
heroes of the Rue de Venise, Rue Pirouette, and Rue
des Innocents, *caveau*-knight and the beloved of the
beauteous Casque d'Or) was not a person lightly to be
trifled with.

But if Monsieur Tou-Tou Boil-the-Cat was a *Roi des
Apaches*, Luigi Rivoli was an acrobat and juggler, and,
to mighty strength, added marvellous poise, quickness
and skill.

"*Ça ne marche pas, gobemouche,*" he remarked, and,
at the right moment, his knee shot up with tremendous
force and crashed into the face of the butting *Apache*.
For the first time the famous and terrible attack of the
King of the Paris hooligans had failed.  When the
unfortunate monarch regained his senses, some minutes
later, and took stock of his remaining teeth and
features, he registered a mental memorandum to the
effect that he would move along the lines of caution,
rather than valour, in his future dealings with the
Légionnaire Luigi Rivoli--until his time came.

"*Je m'en souviendrai*," said he....

An interesting object-lesson in the effect, upon a
certain type of mind, of the methods of the Italian
was afforded by the conduct of a Greek recruit, named
Dimitropoulos.  Stepping forward with ingratiating
bows and smiles, as the unfortunate M. Tou-Tou was
stretched senseless on the floor, he proclaimed himself
to be the best of the *lustroi* of the city of Corinth, and
begged for the honour and pleasure of cleaning the
boots of Il Signor Luigi Rivoli.

Oh, but yes; a *lustros* of the most distinguished,
look you, who had polished the most eminent boots in
Greece at ten *leptas* a time.  Alas! that he had not all
his little implements and sponges, his cloth of velvet,
his varnish for the heel.  Had he but the tools necessary
to the true artist in his profession, the boots of Il
Illustrissimo Signor should be then and thenceforth
of a brightness dazzling and remarkable.

As he gabbled, the Greek scrubbed at Rivoli's boots
with a rag and the palm of his hand.  Evidently the
retinue of the great man had been augmented by one
who would be faithful and true while his patron's
strength and money lasted.  As, at the head of his
band of henchmen and parasites, the latter hero turned
to leave the barrack-room with a shout of "*Allons, mes
enfants d'Enfer,*" he bent his lofty brow upon, cocked
his ferocious eye at, and turned his haughty regard
toward the remaining recruits, finishing with Reginald
Rupert:

"I will teach useful tricks to you little dogs later,"
he promised.  "You shall dance me the *rigolboche*, and
the *can-can*," and swaggered out....

"Nice lad," observed Rupert, looking up from
his work--and wondered what the morrow might
bring forth.  There should be a disappointed Luigi, or
a dead Rupert about, if it came to interference and
trouble.

"Sure," agreed Légionnaire Bronco, seating himself
on the bed beside his beloved John Bull.  "He's some
stiff, that guy, an' I allow it'll soon be up ter me ter
*con*\duct our Loojey ter the bone-orchard.  He's a
plug-ugly.  He's a ward-heeler.  Land sakes!  I wants
ter punch our Loojey till Hell pops; an' when it comes
ter shootin' I got Loojey skinned a mile--sure thing.
*J'ai Loojey écorché un mille*....  Nope, there ain't 'nuff
real room fer Looje an' me in Algery--not while
Carmelita's around....

"Say, John," he continued, turning to his friend,
"she up an' axed me las' night ef he ever went ter the
Canteen an' ef Madam lar Canteenair didn't ever git
amakin' eyes at her beautiful Looje!  Yep!  It *is*
time Loojey kissed hisself good-bye."

"Oh?  What did you tell her?" enquired John
Bull.  "There is no doubt the swine will marry the
Canteen if he can.  More profitable than poor little
Carmelita's show.  He *is* a low stinker, and she's one
of the best and prettiest and pluckiest little women
who ever lived....  She's so *débrouillarde*."

"Wot did I say?  Wal, John, wot I ses was--'Amakin'
eyes at yure Loojey, my dear.'  I ses, 'Madam
lar Canteenair is a woman with horse-sense an' two
eyes in 'er 'ead.  She wouldn't look twice at a boastin',
swankin', fat-slappin', back-stabbin', dime-show
ackerobat,' I ses.  'Yure Loojey flaps 'is mouth too much.
*Il frappe sa bouche trop,*' I ses.  But I didn't tell her as
haow 'e's amakin' up ter Madam lar Canteenaire all his
possible.  She wouldn't believe it of 'im.  She wouldn't
even believe that 'e *goes* ter the Canteen.  I only ses:
'Yure Loojey's a leary lipper so don't say as haow I
ain't warned yer, Carmelita honey,' I ses--an' I puts it
inter copper-bottomed Frencho langwago also.  Yep!"

"What did Carmelita say?" asked John Bull.

"Nix," was the reply.  "It passes my com*pre*\hension
wot she sees in that fat Eye-talian ice-cream
trader.  Anyhaow, it's up ter Hiram C. Milton ter git
upon his hind legs an' *fer*\bid the bangs ef she goes fer
ter marry a greasy orgin-grinder ... serposin' he don't
git Madam lar Canteenair," and the Bucking Bronco
sighed deeply, produced some strong, black Algerian
tobacco, and asked High Heaven if he might hope ever
again to stuff some real Tareyton Mixture (the best
baccy in the world) into his "guley-brooley"--whereby
Legionary John Bull understood him to mean his
*brûle-gueule*, or short pipe--and relapsed into
lethargic and taciturn apathy.

"How would you like a prowl round?" asked John
Bull, of Rupert.

"Nothing better, thank you, if you think I could
pass the Sergeant of the Guard before being dismissed
recruit-drills."

"Oh, that'll be all right if you are correctly dressed.
Hop into the tunic and red breeches and we'll try it.
You're free until five-thirty to-morrow morning, and
can do some more at your kit when we return.  We'll
go round the barracks and I'll show you the ropes
before we stroll round Sidi-bel-Abbès, and admire the
wonders of the Rue Prudon, Rue Montagnac, and Rue
de Jerusalem.  Our band is playing at the Military
Club to-night, and the band of the Première Légion
Étrangère is the finest band in the whole world--largely
Germans and Poles.  We are allowed to listen
at a respectful distance.  We'll look in at the *Village
d'Espagnol*, the *Mekerra*, and the *Faubourg des
Palmiers* another time, as they're out of bounds.  Also
the *Village Négre* if you like, but if we're caught there
we get a month's hard labour, if not solitary confinement
and starvation in the foul and stinking *cellules*--because
we're likely to be killed in the *Village Négre*."

"Let's go there now," suggested Rupert eagerly, as
he buttoned his tunic.

"No, my boy.  Wait until you know what *cellule*
imprisonment really is, before you risk it.  You keep
out of the *trou* just as long as you can.  It's different
from the Stone Jug of a British regiment--very.  Don't
do any *rabiau*\[#] until you must.  We'll be virtuous
to-night, and when you must go out of bounds, go with
me.  I'll take you to see Carmelita this evening at the
Café de la Légion, and we'll look in on Madame la
Cantinière, at the Canteen, before the Last Post at
nine o'clock....  Are you coming, Buck?"


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

   [#] Time spent in prison or in the Penal Battalions--which does not
   count towards the five years period of service.

.. vspace:: 2

And these three modern musketeers left the *chambrée*
of their *caserne* and clattered down the stone stairs
to the barrack-square.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CARMELITA ET CIE`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER III


.. class:: center medium

   CARMELITA ET CIE

.. vspace:: 2

"Those boots comfortable?" asked John Bull
as they crossed the great parade-ground.

"Wonderfully," replied Rupert.  "I could do a
march in them straight away.  Fine boots too."

"Yes," agreed the other.  "That's one thing you
can say for the Legion kit, the boots are splendid--probably
the best military boots in the world.  You'll
see why, before long."

"Long marches?"

"Longest done by any unit of human beings.  Our
ordinary marches would be records for any other
infantry, and our forced marches are incredible--absolute
world's records.  They call us the '*Cavalerie
à pied*' in the Service, you know.  One of the many
ways of killing us is marching us to death, to keep up
the impossible standard.  Buck, here, is our champion."

"Waal, yew see--I strolled crost Amurrica ten
times," apologised the Bronco, "ahittin' the main
drag, so I oughter vamoose some.  Yep!  I can throw
me feet *con*\siderable."

"I've never been a foot-slogger myself," admitted
Rupert, "but I've Mastered a beagle pack, and won
a few running pots at school and during my brief
'Varsity career.  What are your distances?"

"Our minimum, when marching quietly out of
barracks and back, without a halt is forty
kilometres under our present Colonel, who is known in
the Legion as The Marching Pig, and we do it three
or four times a week.  On forced marches we do
anything that is to be done, inasmuch as it is the
unalterable law of the Legion that all forced marches
must be done in one march.  If the next post were
forty miles away or even fifty, and the matter urgent,
we should go straight on without a halt, except the
usual 'cigarette space,' or five minutes in every hour,
until we got there.  I assure you I have very often
marched as much as six hundred kilometres in fifteen
days, and occasionally much more.  And we carry
the heaviest kit in the world--over a hundred-weight,
in full marching order."

"What is a kilometre?" asked the interested Rupert.

"Call it five furlongs."

"Then an ordinary day's march is about thirty
miles without a halt, and you may have to do four
hundred miles straight off, at the rate of twenty-five
consecutive miles a day?  Good Lord above us!"

"Yes, my own personal record is five hundred and
sixty miles in nineteen days, without a rest
day--under the African sun and across sand...."

"I say--what's *this* game?" interrupted Rupert,
as the three turned a corner and entered a small
square between the rear of the *caserne* of the Fourth
Company and the great barrack-wall--a square of
which all exits were guarded by sentries with fixed
bayonets.  Round and round in a ring at a very rapid
quick-step ran a dismal procession of suffering men,
to the monotonously reiterated order of a Corporal--

"A droit, *droit*.  A droit, *droit*.  A droit, *droit*."

Their blanched, starved-looking faces, glazed eyes,
protruding tongues and doubled-up bodies made them
a doleful spectacle.  On each man's back was a burden
of a hundred pounds of stones.  On each man's
emaciated face, a look of agony, and on the canvas-clad
back of one man, a great stain of wet blood from a
raw wound caused by the cutting and rubbing of the
stone-laden knapsack.  Each man wore a
fatigue-uniform, filthy beyond description.

"Why the hell can't they be set ter sutthin'
useful--hoein' pertaties, or splittin' rails, or chewin'
gum--'stead o' that silly strain-me-heart and
break-me-sperrit game on empty stummicks twice a day?"
observed the Bucking Bronco.

Every panting, straining, gasping wretch in that
pitiable *peloton des hommes punis* looked as though
his next minute must be his last, his next staggering
step bring him crashing to the ground.  What could
the dreadful alternative be, the fear of which kept
these suffering, starving wretches on their tottering,
failing legs?  Why would they *not* collapse, in spite of
Nature?  Fear of the Legion's prison?  No, they were
all serving periods in the Legion's prison already, and
twice spending three hours of each prison-day in this
agony.  Fear of the Legion's Hospital?  Yes, and of
the Penal Battalion afterwards.

"What sort of crimes have they committed?"
asked Rupert, as they turned with feelings of
personal shame from the sickening sight.

"Oh, all sorts, but I'm afraid a good many of them
have earned the enmity of some Non-com.  As a rule,
a man who wants to, can keep out of that sort of
thing, but there's a lot of luck in it.  One gets run in
for a lost strap, a dull button, a speck of rust on rifle
or bayonet, or perhaps for being slow at drill, slack
in saluting, being out of bounds, or something of
that sort.  A Sergeant gives him three days' confinement
to barracks, and enters it in the *livre de punitions*.
Very likely, the Captain, feeling liverish when he
examines the book, makes it eight days' imprisonment.
That's not so bad, provided the Commander of the
Battalion does not think it might be good for discipline
for him to double it.  And that again is bearable so
long as the Colonel does not think the scoundrel had
better have a month--and imprisonment, though only
called 'Ordinary Arrest,' carries with it this beastly
*peloton de chasse*.  Still, as I say, a good man and keen
soldier can generally keep fairly clear of *salle de police*
and *cellule*."

"So Non-coms. can punish off their own bat, in the
Legion, can they?" enquired Rupert as they strolled
toward the main gate.

"Yes.  The N.C.O. is an almighty important bird
here, and you have to salute him like an officer.
They can give extra corvée, confinement to barracks,
and up to eight days' *salle de police*, and give you a
pretty bad time while you're doing it, too.  In peace
time, you know, the N.C.O.s run the Legion absolutely.
We hardly see our officers except on marches,
or at manoeuvres.  Splendid soldiers, but they consider
their duty is to lead us in battle, not to be bothered
with us in peace.  The N.C.O.s can do the bothering
for them.  Of course, we're pretty frequently either
demonstrating, or actually fighting on the Southern,
or the Moroccan border, and then an officer's job is no
sinecure.  They are real soldiers--but the weak spot
is that they avoid us like poison, in barracks."

"We're mostly foreigners, of course," he continued,
"half German, and not very many French, and there's
absolutely none of that mutual liking and understanding
which is the strength of the British Army....
And naturally, in a corps like this, they've got to be
severe and harsh to the point of cruelty.  After all,
it's not a girls' school, is it?  But take my advice, my
boy, and leave the Legion's punishment system of
starvation, over-work, and solitary confinement
outside your 'experiences' as much as possible...."

"I say--what a ghastly, charnel-house stink,"
remarked the recipient of this good advice, as the trio
passed two iron-roofed buildings, one on each side of
the closed main-entrance of the barracks.  "I noticed
it when I first came in here, but I was to windward of
it I suppose.  It's the bally limit.  Poo-o-oh!"

"Yes, you live in that charming odour all night,
if you get *salle de police* for any offence, and all day as
well, if you get 'arrest' in the regimental lock-up--except
for your two three-hour turns of *peloton des
hommes punis*.  It's nothing at this distance, but wait
until you're on sentry-go in one of those barrack-prisons.
There's a legend of a runaway pig that took
refuge in one, gave a gasp, and fell dead....  Make
Dante himself envious if he could go inside.  The truth
of that Inferno is much stranger than the fiction of
his."

"Yep," chimed in the American.  "But what gits
my goat every time is *cellules*.  Yew squats on end in
a dark cell fer the whole of yure sentence, an' yew
don't go outside it from start to finish, an' thet may
be thirty days.  Yew gits a quarter-ration o' dry bread
an' a double ration of almighty odour.  'Nuff ter raise
the roof, but it don't do it.  No exercise, no readin',
no baccy, no nuthin'.  There yew sits and there yew
starves, an' lucky ef yew don't go balmy...."

"I hope we get you past the Sergeant of the Guard,"
interrupted John Bull.  "Swank it thick as we go by."

The cold eye of the Sergeant ran over the three
Legionaries as they passed through the little side
wicket without blazing into wrath over any lack of
smartness and *chic* in their appearance.

"One to you," said John Bull, as they found themselves
safe in the shadow of the Spahis' barracks outside.
"If you had looked too like a recruit he'd have
turned you back, on principle...."

To Reginald Rupert the walk was full of interest,
in spite of the fact that the half-vulgar, half-picturesque
Western-Eastern appearance of the town was no
novelty.  He had already seen all that Sidi-bel-Abbès
could show, and much more, in Algiers, Tangiers,
Cairo, Alexandria, Port Said, and Suez.  But, with a
curious sense of proprietorship, he enjoyed listening
to the distant strains of the band--their "own"
band.  To see thousands of Legionaries, Spahis, Turcos,
Chasseurs d'Afrique, Sapeurs, Tirailleurs, Zouaves, and
other French soldiery, from their own level, as one of
themselves, was what interested him.  Here was a
new situation, here were new conditions, necessities,
dangers, sufferings, relationships.  Here, in short,
were entirely new experiences....

"This is the Rue Prudon," observed John Bull.
"It separates the Military goats on the west, from the
Civil sheep on the east.  Not that you'll find them at
all 'civil' though....  Reminds me of a joke I
heard our Captain telling the Colonel at dinner one
night when I was a Mess Orderly.  A new man had
taken over the Grand Hotel, and he wrote to the
Mess President to say he made a speciality of dinner-parties
for Military and *Civilised* officers!  Bit rough
on the Military, what?"

Having crossed the Rue Prudon rubicon, and
invaded the Place de Quinconces with its Palais de
Justice and prison, the Promenade Publique with its
beautiful trees, and the Rue Montagnac with its shops
and life and glitter, the three Legionaries quitted
the quarter of electric arc-lights, brilliant cafés, shops,
hotels, aperitif-drinking citizens, promenading
French-women, newspaper kiosks, loitering soldiers, shrill
hawkers of the *Echo d'Oran*, white-burnoused Arabs
(who gazed coldly upon the hated Franswazi, and
bowed to officials with stately dignity, arms folded
on breast), quick-stepping Chasseurs, scarlet-cloaked
Spahis, and swaggering Turcos, crossed the Place Sadi
Carnot, and made for the maze of alleys, slums, and
courts (the quarter of the Spanish Jews, town Arabs,
*hadris*, *odjar*-wearing women, Berbers, Negroes,
half-castes, semi-Oriental scum, "white trash," and
Legionaries), in one of which was situated Carmelita's Café
de la Légion.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center medium

   §2

.. vspace:: 1

La Belle Carmelita, black-haired, red-cheeked,
black-eyed, red-lipped, lithe, swift, and graceful, sat
at the receipt of custom.  Carmelita's Café de la Légion
was for the Legion, and had to make its profits out
of men whose pay is one halfpenny a day.  It is
therefore matter for little surprise that it compared
unfavourably with Voisin's, the Café de la Paix, the
Pré Catalan, Maxim's, the Café Grossenwahn, the Das
Prinzess Café, the restaurants of the Place Pigalle,
Le Rat Mort, or even Les Noctambules, Le Cabaret
de l'Enfer, the Chat Noir, the Elysée Montmartre,
and the famous and infamous *caveaux* of Le Quartier--in
the eyes of those Legionaries who had tried some,
or all, of these places.

However, it had four walls, a floor, and a roof;
benches and a large number of tables and chairs,
many of which were quite reliable.  It had a bar, it
had Algerian wine at one penny the bottle, it had
*vert-vert* and *tord-boyaud* and *bapédi* and *shum-shum*.  It
had really good coffee, and really bad cigarettes.
It had meals also--but above all, and before all, it
had a welcome.  A welcome for the Legionary.  The
man to whose presence the good people of Sidi-bel-Abbès
(French petty officials, half-castes, Spanish
Jews, Arabs, clerks, workmen, shopkeepers, waiters,
and lowest-class bourgeoisie) took exception at the
bandstand, in the Gardens, in the Cafés, in the very
streets; the man from the contamination of whose
touch the very cocottes, the demi-mondaines, the
joyless *filles de joie*, even the daughters of the
pavement; drew aside the skirts of their dingy finery
(for though the Wages of Virtue are a halfpenny a
day for the famous Legion, the Wages of Sin are more
for the infamous legion); the man at whom even the
Goums, the Arab *gens-d'armes* shouted as at a pariah
dog, this man, the Soldier of the Legion, had a welcome
in Carmelita's Café.  There were two women in all the
world who would endure to breathe the same air as
the sad Sons of the Legion--Madame la Cantinière
(official *fille du régiment*) and Carmelita.  Is it matter
for wonder that the Legion's sons loved them--particularly
Carmelita, who, unlike Madame, was under no
obligation to shed the light of her countenance upon
them?  Any man in the Legion might speak to
Carmelita provided he spoke as a gentleman should speak
to a lady--and did not want to be pinned to her bar
by the ears, and the bayonets of his indignant
brothers-in-arms--any man who might speak to no other
woman in the world outside the Legion.  (Madame la
Cantinière is inside the Legion, *bien entendu*, and
always married to it in the person of one of its sons.)  She
would meet him as an equal for the sake of her
beautiful, wonderful, adored Luigi Rivoli, his
brother-in-arms.  Perhaps one must be such an outcast that
the sight of one causes even painted lips to curl in
contemptuous disdain; such a *thing* that one is
deterred from entering decent Cafés, decent places of
amusement and decent boulevards; so low that one
is strictly doomed to the environment of one's prison,
or the slums, and to the society of one's fellow dregs,
before one can appreciate the attitude of the Sons of
the Legion to Carmelita.  They revered her as they
did not revere the Mother of God, and they, broken
and crucified wretches, envied Luigi Rivoli as they
did not envy the repentant thief absolved by Her Son.

*She*, Carmelita, welcomed *them*, Legionaries!  It is
perhaps comprehensible if not excusable, that the
attitude of Madame la Cantinière was wholly different,
that she hated Carmelita as a rival, and with single
heart, double venom and treble voice, denounced her,
her house, her wine, her coffee, and all those *chenapans*
and *sacripants* her clients.

"*Merde!*" said Madame la Cantiniére.  "That
which makes the slums of Naples too hot for it, is
warm indeed!  Naples!  Ma foi!  Why Monsieur Le
Bon Diable himself must be reluctant when his patrol
runs in a *prisonnier* from Naples to the nice clean
guard-room and *cellules* in his Hell ... Naples!
... La!  La!..." which was unkind and unfair of
Madame, since the very worst she knew of Carmelita
was the fact that she kept a Café whereat the Legionaries
spent their half-pence.  It is not (rightly or wrongly)
in itself an indictable offence to be a Neapolitan.

So the Legion loved Carmelita, Madame la
Cantiniére hated her, the Bucking Bronco worshipped
her, John Bull admired her, le bon M. Edouard
Malvin desired her, and Luigi Rivoli owned
her--body, soul and cash-box--what time he sought to
do the same for Madame la Cantinière whose body
and cash-box were as much larger than those of
Carmelita as her soul was smaller.

Between two fools one comes to the ground--sometimes--but
Luigi intended to come to a bed of roses,
and to have a cash-box beneath it.  One of the fools
should marry and support him, preferably the richer
fool, and meantime, oh the subtlety, the cleverness,
the piquancy--of being loved and supported by both
while marrying neither!  Many a time as he lay on his
cot while a henchman polished the great cartridge-pouches
(that earned the Legion the sobriquet of "the
Leather-Bellies" from the Russians in the Crimea),
the belts, the buttons, the boots, and the rifle and
bayonet of the noble Luigi, while another washed his
fatigue uniforms and underclothing, that honourable
man would chuckle aloud as he saw himself frequently
cashing a ten-franc piece of Carmelita's at Madame's
Canteen, and receiving change for a twenty-franc
piece from the fond, yielding Madame.  Ten francs
too much, a sigh too many, and a kiss too few--for
Madame did not kiss, being, contrary to popular
belief with regard to vivandières in general, and the
Legion's vivandière in particular, of rigid virtue, oh,
but yes, of a respectability profound and colossal--during
"vacation."  Her present vacation had lasted
for three months, and Madame felt it was time to
replace le pauvre Etienne Baptiste--cut in small
pieces by certain Arab ladies.  Madame was a business
woman, Madame needed a husband in her business,
and Madame had an eye for a fine man.  None finer
than Luigi Rivoli, and Madame had never tried an
Italian.  Husbands do not last long in the Legion,
and Madame had had three French, one Belgian,
and one Swiss (seriatim, *bien entendu*).  No, none finer
in the whole Legion than Rivoli.  None, nom de Dieu!
But a foreign husband may be a terrible trial, look
you, and an Italian is a foreigner in a sense that a
French-speaking Belgian or Swiss is not.  No, an
Italian is not a Frenchman even though he be a
Légionnaire.  And there were tales of him and this
vile shameless creature from Naples, who decoyed
les braves Légionnaires from their true and lawful
Canteen to her noisome den in the foul slums, there
to spend their hard-earned sous on her poisonous
red-ink wine, her muddy-water coffee, and her--worse
things.  Yes, that cunning little fox le Légionnaire
Edouard Malvin had thrown out hints to Madame
about this Neapolitan *ragazza*--but then, ce bon
M. Malvin was himself a suitor for Madame's hand--as
well as a most remarkable liar and rogue.  Perhaps
'twould be as well to accept ce beau Luigi at once,
marry him immediately, and see that he spent his
evenings helping in the Canteen bar, instead of
gallivanting after Neapolitan hussies of the bazaar.  Men
are but men--and sirens are sirens.  What would
you?  And Luigi so gay and popular.  Small blame
that he should stray when Madame was unkind or
coy....  Yes, she would do it, if only to spite this
Neapolitan cat....  But--he was a foreigner and
something of a rogue--and incredibly strong.  Still,
Madame had tamed more than one recalcitrant
husband by knocking the bottom off an empty bottle
and stabbing him in the face with it.  And however
strong one's husband might be, he must, like Sisera,
sleep sometimes.

The beautiful Luigi would hate to be awakened
with a bottomless bottle, and would not need it more
than once....  And the business soul of scheming,
but amorous Madame, much troubled, still halted
between two opinions--while the romantic and simple
soul of loving little Carmelita remained steadfast,
and troubled but little.  Just a little, because the fine
*gentilhomme*, Légionnaire Jean Boule, and the great,
kind Légionnaire Bouckaing Bronceau, and certain
others, seemed somehow *to warn her* against her
Luigi; seemed to despise him, and hint at treachery.
She did not count the sly Belgian (or Austrian) Edouard
Malvin.  The big stupid Americano was jealous, of
course, but Il Signor Inglese was not and he was--oh,
like a Reverend Father--so gentle and honest and
good.  But no, her Luigi could not be false, and the
next Légionnaire who said a word against him should
be forbidden Le Café de la Légion, ill as it could
afford to lose even halfpenny custom--what with
the rent, taxes, *bakshish* to gens-d'armes, service,
cooking, lighting, wine, spirits, coffee, and Luigi's
daily dinner, Chianti and franc pocket-money....
If only that franc could be increased--but one must
eat, or get so thin--and the great Luigi liked not
skinny women.  What was a franc a day to such a man
as Luigi, her Luigi, strongest, finest, handsomest of
men?--and but for her he would never have been in
this accursed Legion.  Save for her aggravating
wickedness, he would never have stabbed poor Guiseppe
Longigotto and punished her by enlisting.  How great
and fine a hero of splendid vengeance!  A true
Neapolitan, yet how magnanimous when punishment was
meted!  He had forgiven--and forgotten--the dead
Guiseppe, and he had forgiven her, and he accepted
her miserable franc, dinner and Chianti wine daily.
Also he had allowed her--miserable ingrate that she
had been to annoy him and make him jealous--to find
the money that had mysteriously but materially
assisted in procuring the perpetual late-pass that
allowed him to remain with her till two in the morning,
long after all the other poor Légionnaires had returned
to their dreadful barracks.  Noble Luigi!  Yet there
were people who coupled his name with that of wealthy
Madame la Cantinière in the barrack yonder.

She had overheard Légionnaires doing it, here in
her own Café, though they had instantly and stoutly
denied it when accused, and had looked furtive and
ashamed.  Absurd, jealous wretches, whose heads
Luigi could knock together as easily as she could click
her castanets....

Almost time that the Légionnaires began to drop in
for their litre and their *tasse*--and Carmelita rose and
went to the door of the Café de la Légion and looked
down the street toward the Place Sadi Carnot.  One
of three passing Chasseurs d'Afrique made a remark,
the import of which was not lost on the Italian girl
though the man spoke in Paris slum argot.

"If Monsieur would but give himself the trouble to
step inside and sit down for a moment," said Carmelita
in Legion-French, "Monsieur's question shall be
answered by Luigi Rivoli of La Legion.  Also he will remove
Monsieur's pretty uniform and scarlet *ceinturon* and will
do for Monsieur what Monsieur's mamma evidently
neglected to do for Monsieur when Monsieur was a dirty
little boy in the gutter....  Monsieur will not come in
as he suggested?  Monsieur will not wait a minute?
No?  Monsieur is a very wise young gentleman...."

An Arab Spahi swaggered past and leered.

"*Sabeshad zareefeh chattaha*," said he, "*saada atinee*."

"*Roh!  Imshi!*" hissed Carmelita and Carmelita's
hand went to her pocket in a significant manner, and
Carmelita spat.

A Greek ice-cream seller lingered and ogled.

"*Bros!*" snapped Carmelita with a jerk of her
thumb in the direction in which the young person
should be going.

A huge Turco, with a vast beard, brought his rolling
swagger to a halt at her door and made to enter.

"*Destour!*" said the tiny Carmelita to the giant,
pointed to the street and stared him unwaveringly in
the eye until, grinning sheepishly, he turned and went.

Carmelita did not like Turcos in general, and detested
this one in particular.  He was too fond of coming
when he knew the Café to be empty of Légionnaires.

An old Spanish Jew paused in his shuffle to ask for
a cigarette.

"*Varda!*" replied Carmelita calmly, with the
curious thumb-jerking gesture of negation, distinctive
of the uneducated Italian.

A most cosmopolitan young woman, and able to
give a little of his own tongue to any dweller in Europe
and to most of those in Northern Africa.  Not in the
least a refined young woman, however, and her many
accomplishments not of the drawing-room.  Staunch,
courageous, infinitely loving, utterly honest, loyal,
reliable, and very self-reliant, she was, upon occasion,
it is to be feared, more emphatic than delicate in
speech, and more uncompromising than ladylike in
conduct.  She was not *une maîtresse vierge*, and her
standards and ideals were not those of the Best
Suburbs.  You see, Carmelita had begun to earn her
own living at the unusually early age of three, and
earned it in coppers on a dirty rug, on a dirtier Naples
quay, for a decade or so, until at the age of fourteen,
or fifteen, she, together with her Mamma, her reputed
Papa, her sister and her brother, performed painful
acrobatic feats on the edge of the said quay for the
delectation of the passengers of the big North German
Lloyd and other steamers that tied up thereat for
purposes of embarkation and debarkation, and for the
reception of coal and the discharge of cargo.

At the age of fifteen, Carmelita, most beautiful of
form and coarsely beautiful of face, of perfect health,
grace, poise, and carriage, fell desperately in love with
the great Signor Carlo Scopinaro, born Luigi Rivoli,
a star of her own firmament but of far greater magnitude.

Luigi Rivoli, one of a troupe of acrobats who
performed at the Naples Scala, Vésuvie, and Variétés,
meditating setting up on his own account as Strong
Man, Acrobat, Juggler, Wrestler, Dancer, and
Professor of Physical Culture, was, to the humble
"tumbler" of the quay, as the be-Knighted
Actor-Manager of a West End Theatre to the last joined
chorus girl, or walking-lady on his boards.  And yet
the great Signor Carlo Scopinaro, born Luigi Rivoli,
meditating desertion from his troupe and needing an
"assistant," deigned to accept the services and
whole-souled adoration of the girl who was as much more
skilful as she was less powerful than he.

When, in her perfect, ardent, and beautiful love,
her reckless and uncounting adoration, she gave
herself, mind, body and soul, to her hero and her god,
he accepted the little gift "without prejudice"--as
the lawyers say.  "Without prejudice" to Luigi's
future, that is.

During their short engagement at the Scala--terminated
by the Troupe's earnest endeavour to
assassinate the defaulting and defalcating Luigi,
and her family's endeavour to maim Carmelita for
setting up on her own account, and deserting her
loving "parents"--it was rather the girl whom the
public applauded for her wonderful back-somersaults,
contortions, hand-walking, Catherine-wheels,
trapeze-work, and dancing, than the man for his feats with
dumb-bells of doubtful solidity, his stereotyped
ball-juggling, his chain-breaking, and weight-lifting, his
muscle-slapping and *Ha!* shouting, his posturing and
grimacing, and his issuing of challenges to wrestle
any man in the world for any sum he liked to name,
and in any style known to science.  And, when
engagements at the lower-class halls and cafés of Barcelona,
Marseilles, Toulon, Genoa, Rome, Brindisi, Venice,
Trieste, Corinth, Athens, Constantinople, Port Said,
Alexandria, Messina, Valetta, Algiers, Oran, Tangiers,
or Casa Blanca were obtained, it was always, and
obviously, the girl, rather than the man, who decided
the proprietor or manager to engage them, and who
won the applause of his patrons.

When times were bad, as after Luigi's occasional
wrestling defeats and during the bad weeks of Luigi's
typhoid, convalescence, and long weakness at
Marseilles, it was Carmelita, the humbler and lesser light,
who (the Halls being worked out) tried desperately
to keep the wolf from the door by returning to the
quay-side business, and, for dirty coppers, exhibiting
to passengers, coal-trimmers, cargo-workers, porters
and loafers, the performances that had been subject
of signed contracts and given on fine stages in beautiful
music-halls and *cafés*, to refined and appreciative
audiences.  Incidentally the girl learned much French (little
knowing how useful it was to prove), as well as smatterings
of Spanish, Greek, Turkish, English and Arabic.

So Carmelita had "assisted" the great Luigi in
the times of his prosperity and had striven to maintain
him in eclipse, by quay-side, public-house, workmen's
dinner-hour, low *café*, back-yard, gambling-den, and
wine-shop exhibitions of her youthful skill, grace,
agility, and beauty--and had failed to make enough
by that means.  To the end of her life poor Carmelita
could never, never forget that terrible time at
Marseilles, try as she might to thrust it into the
background of her thoughts.  For there, ever there, in the
background it remained, save when called to cruel
prominence by some mischance, or at rare intervals
by the noble Luigi himself, when displeased by some
failure on the part of Carmelita.  A terrible, terrible
memory, for Carmelita's nature was essentially virginal,
delicate, and of crystal purity.  Where she loved she
gave all--and Luigi was to Carmelita as much her
husband as if they had been married in every church
they had passed, in every cathedral they had seen,
and by every *padre* they had met....

A terrible, terrible memory....  But Luigi's life
was at stake and what true woman, asked Carmelita,
would not have taken the last step of all (when every
other failed) to raise the money necessary for doctors,
medicine, delicacies, food, fuel, and lodging?  If, by
thrusting her right hand into the fire, Carmelita could
have burnt away those haunting and corroding
Marseilles memories, then into the fire her right hand
would have been thrust.  Yet, side by side with the
self-horror and self-disgust was no remorse nor repentance.
If, to-morrow, Luigi's life could only thus again
be saved, thus saved should it be, as when at Marseilles
he lay convalescent but dying for lack of the money
wherewith to buy the delicacies that would save him....
Luigi's life always, and at any time, before
Carmelita's scruples and shrinkings.

In return, Luigi had been kind to her and had often
spoken of matrimony--some day--in spite of what
she had done at Marseilles when he was too ill to look
after her, and provide her with all she needed.  Once
even, when they were on the crest of a great wave of
prosperity, Luigi had gone so far as to mention her
seventeenth birthday as a possibly suitable date for
their wedding.  That had been a great and glorious
time, though all too short, alas! and the sequel to a
brilliant scheme devised by that poor dear Guiseppe
Longigotto in the interests of his beloved and adored
friend Carmelita.  Poor Guiseppe!  He had deserved
as Carmelita was the first to admit, something better,
than a stab in the back from Luigi Rivoli, for the idea
had been wholly and solely his, until the great Roman
sporting Impresario had taken it up and developed
it.  First there was a tremendous syndicate-engineered
campaign of advertisement, which let all Europe know
that *Il Famoso e Piu Grande Professors Carlo Scopinaro*,
Champion Wrestler of Europe, America and Australia,
would shortly meet the Egregious Egyptian, or
Conquering Copt, Champion Wrestler of Africa and
Asia, in Rome, and wrestle him in the Graeco-Roman
style, for the World's Championship and ten thousand
pounds a side.  (Yes actually and authoritatively
*diecimila lire sterline*.)  From every hoarding in Rome,
Venice, Milan, Turin, Genoa, Florence, Naples,
Brindisi, and every other town in Italy, huge posters
called your attention to the beauties and marvels of
the smiling face and mighty form of the great Carlo
Scopinaro; to the horrors and terrors of the scowling
face and enormous carcase of the dreadful Conquering
Copt.  (To positively none but Luigi, Guiseppe, and the
renowned Roman Impresario was it known that the
Conquering Copt was none other than Luigi's old pal,
Abdul Hamid, chucker-out at a Port Said music-hall,
and most modest and retiring of gentlemen--until
this greatness of Champion Wrestler of Africa and
Asia was suddenly thrust upon him, and he was
summoned from Port Said to Rome to be coached
by Luigi in the arts and graces of realistic
stage-wrestling, and particularly in those of life-like and
convincing defeat after a long and obviously terrible
struggle.) ... Excitement was splendidly engineered,
the newspapers of every civilised country and of
Germany advertised the epoch-making event, speculated
upon its result, and produced interesting articles
on such questions as, "*Should a Colour-Line be drawn
in Wrestling?*" and, "*Is Scopinaro the White Hope?*"  A
self-advertising reverend Nonconformist announced
his intention in the English press of proceeding to
Rome to create a disturbance at the Match.  He got
himself frequently interviewed by specimens of the
genus, "Our representative," and the important fact
that he was a Conscientious Objector to all forms of sport
was brought to the notice of the Great British Public.

The struggle was magnificently staged and magnificently
acted.  Every spectator in the vast theatre,
no matter whether he had paid one hundred lire or
a paltry fifty centesimi for his seat, felt that he had
had his money's worth.  In incredibly realistic manner
the White Hope of Europe and the Champion of
Africa and Asia struck attitudes, cried "*Ha!*",
snatched at each other, stamped, straddled, pushed,
pulled, embraced, slapped, jerked, hugged, tugged,
lugged, and lifted each other with every appearance
of fearful exertion, dauntless courage, fierce
determination and unparalleled skill for one crowded
hour of glorious life, during which the house went
mad, rose at them to a man, and, with tears and
imprecations, called upon the Italian to be worthy of his
country and upon the Conquering Copt to be damned.

Few scenes in all the troubled history of Rome
can have equalled, for excitement, that which ensued
when the White Hope finally triumphed, the honour of
Europe in general was saved, and that of Italy in
particular illuminated with a blaze of glory.

Anyhow, what was solid fact, with no humbug
about it, was that Luigi received the renowned Roman
Impresario's fervid blessing and five hundred pounds,
while the complacent Abdul received blessings equally
fervid, though a less enthusiastic cheque.  Both
gentlemen were then provided by the kind Impresario with
single tickets to the most distant spot he could induce
them to name.

For Carmelita, the days following that on which her
Luigi won the great World's Championship match,
were a glorious time of expensive dinners, fine
apartments, and beautiful clothes; a time of being *café*
and music-hall patrons instead of performers; of
being entertained instead of entertaining.  The joy
of Carmelita's life while the five hundred pounds
lasted was to sit in a stage-box, proud and happy,
beside her noble Luigi, and criticise the various
"turns" upon the stage.  Never an evening performance,
nor a matinée did they miss, and Luigi drank
a quart of champagne at lunch, and another at dinner.
Luigi must keep his strength up, of course, and the
soothing influence of innumerable Havana cigars was
not denied to his nerves.

And then, just as the five hundred pounds was
finished, a wretched Russian (quickly followed by
an American, two Russians, a Turk, a Frenchman, and
an Englishman) publicly challenged Luigi in the
press of Europe, to wrestle for the Championship of
the World in any style he liked, for any amount he
liked, when and where he liked--and that branch of
his profession was closed to Luigi--for these men were
giants and terrors, arranging no "crosses," stern
fighters, and out for fame, money, genuine sport, and
the real Championship.

Then had come a time of poverty, straits, mean
shifts and misery, followed by Luigi's job as a "tamer"
of tame lions.  This post of lion-tamer to a cageful
of mangy, weary lions, captive-born, pessimistic,
timid and depressed, had been secured by Guiseppe
Longigotto, and handed over to Luigi (on its proving
safe and satisfactory), in the interests of Giuseppe's
adored and hungry Carmelita.  Arrayed in the costume
worn by all the Best Lion-tamers, Luigi looked a
truly noble figure, as, with flashing eyes and gleaming
teeth, he cracked the whip and fired the revolver that
induced the bored and disgusted lions to amble round
the cage, crouching and cringing in humility and fear.
That insignificant little rat, Guiseppe, was far more
in the picture, of course, as fiddler to the show, than
he was in his original role of tamer of the lions.
Followed a bad time along the African coast,
culminating, at Algiers, in poor Guiseppe's impassioned
pleadings that Carmelita would marry him (and,
leaving this dreadful life of the road, live with him
and his beautiful violin on the banked proceeds of
his great Wrestling Championship scheme), Luigi's
jealousy, his overbearing airs of proprietorship, his
drunken cruelty, his presuming on her love and
obedience to him until she sought to give him a fright
and teach him a lesson, his killing of the poor, pretty
musician, and his flight to Sidi-bel-Abbès....

To Sidi-bel-Abbès also fled Carmelita, and, with the
proceeds of Guiseppe's dying gift to her, eked out by
promises of many things to many people, such as
Jew and Arab lessors and landlords, French dealers,
Spanish-Jew jobbers and contractors, and Negro
labourers, contrived to open La Café de la Légion,
to run it with herself as proprietress, manageress,
barmaid, musician, singer, actress, and *danseuse*, and
to make it pay to the extent of a daily franc, bottle
of Chianti, and a macaroni, polenta, or spaghetti
meal for Luigi, and a very meagre living for herself.
When in need of something more, Carmelita performed
at matinées at the music-hall and at private stances
in Arab and other houses, in the intervals of business.
When professional dress would have rendered her
automatic pistol conspicuous and uncomfortable,
Carmelita carried a most serviceable little dagger in
her hair.  Also she let it be known among her patrons
of the Legion that she was going to a certain house,
garden, or *café* at a certain time, and might be there
enquired for if unduly delayed.  Carmelita knew the
seamy side of life in Mediterranean ports, and African
littoral and hinterland towns, and took no chances....

And by-and-by her splendid and noble Luigi would
marry her, and they would go to America--where
that little matter of manslaughter would never crop
up and cause trouble--and live happily ever after.

So, faithful, loyal, devoted, Carmelita might be;
generous, chaste, and brave, Carmelita might be--but
alas! not refined, not genteel, not above telling
a Chasseur d'Afrique what she thought of him and
his insults; not above spitting at a leering,
gesture-making Spahi.  No lady....

"*Ben venuti, Signori!*" cried Carmelita on catching
sight of Il Signor Jean Boule and the Bucking Bronco.
"*Soyez le bien venu, Monsieur Jean Boule et Monsieur
Bronco.  Che cosa posso offrirvi?*" and, as they seated
themselves at a small round table near the bar,
hastened to bring the wine favoured by these favoured
customers--the so gentle English Signor, *gentilhomme*,
(doubtless once a *milord*, a *nobile*), and the so gentle,
foolish Americano, so slow and strong, who looked
at her with eyes of love, kind eyes, with a good true
love.  No *milordino* he, no *piccol Signor* (but nevertheless
a good man, a *uomo dabbéne*, most certainly...)

Reginald Rupert was duly presented as Légionnaire
Rupert, with all formality and ceremony, to the
Madamigella Carmelita, who ran her bright, black
eye over him, summed him up as another *gentiluomo*,
an obvious *gentilhomme*, pitied him, and wondered
what he had "done."

Carmelita loved a "gentleman" in the abstract,
although she loved Luigi Rivoli in the concrete;
adored aristocrats in general, in spite of the fact
that she adored Luigi Rivoli in particular.  To her
experienced and observant young eye, Légionnaire
Jean Boule and this young *bleu* were of the same class,
the *aristocratico* class of *Inghilterra*; birds of a feather,
if not of a nest.  They might be father and son, so
alike were they in their difference from the rest.  So
different even from the English-speaking Americano,
so different from her Luigi.  But then, her Luigi was
no mere broken aristocrat; he was the World's
Champion Wrestler and Strong Man, a great and
famous Wild Beast Tamer, and--her Luigi.

"*Buona sera, Signor*," said Carmelita to Rupert.
"*Siete venuto per la via di Francie?*" and then, in
Legion-French and Italian, proceeded to comment
upon the new recruit's appearance, his *capetti riccioluti*
and to enquire whether he used the *calamistro* and
*ferro da ricci* to obtain the fine crisp wave in his hair.

Not at all a refined and ladylike maiden, and very,
very far from the standards of Surbiton, not to mention
Balham.

Reginald Rupert (to whom love and war were the
two things worth living for), on understanding the
drift of the lady's remarks, proposed forthwith "to
cross the bar" and "put out to see" whether he
could not give her a personal demonstration of the
art of hair-curling, but--

"*Non vi pigliate fastidio*," said Carmelita.  "Don't
trouble yourself Signor Azzurro--Monsieur Bleu.
And if Signor Luigi Rivoli should enter and see the
young Signor on my side of the bar--Luigi's side of the
bar--why, one look of his eye would so make the young
Signor's hair curl that, for the rest of his life, the
*calamistro*, the curling-tongs, would be superfluous."

"Yep," chimed in the Bucking Bronco.  "I guess
as haow it's about time yure Loojey's bright eyes
got closed, my dear, an' I'm goin' ter bung 'em both
up one o' these fine days, when I got the cafard.  Yure
Loojey's a great lady-killer an' recruit-killer, we know,
an' he can talk a tin ear on a donkey.  I say *Il parlerait
une oreille d'etain sur un âne*.  Yure Loojey'd make a
hen-rabbit git mad an' bark.  I say *Votre Loojey
causer ait une lapine devenir fou et écorcer*.  I got it in
fer yure Loojey.  I say *Je l'ai dans pour votre Loojey*....
Comprenny?  *Intendete quel che dico?*" and the
Bucking Bronco drank off a pint of wine, drew his
tiny, well-thumbed French dictionary from one pocket
and his "Travellers' Italian Phrase-book" from
another, cursed the Tower of Babel, and all foreign
tongues, and sought words wherewith to say that it
was high time for Luigi Rivoli "to quit beefin' aroun'
Madam lar Canteenair, to wipe off his chin considerable,
to cease being a sticker, a sucker, and a
skinamalink girl-sponging meal-and-money cadger; and
to quit tellin' stories made out o' whole cloth,[#] that
cut no ice with nobody except Carmelita."


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

   [#] Untrue.

.. vspace:: 2

This young lady gathered that, as usual, the poor,
silly jealous Americano was belittling and insulting
her Luigi, if not actually threatening him.  *Him*, who
could break any Americano across his knee.  With a
toss of her head and a contemptuous "Invidioso!
Scioccone!" for the Bronco, a flick on the nose with
the *krenfell* flower from her ear for Rupert, a blown
kiss for *Babbo* Jean Boule, Carmelita flitted away,
going from table to table to minister to the mental,
moral, and physical needs of her other devoted
Légionnaires as they arrived--men of strange and
dreadful lives who loved her then and there, who
remembered her thereafter and elsewhere, and who
sent her letters, curios, pressed flowers and strange
presents from the ends of the earth where flies the
*tricouleur*, and the Flag of the Legion--in Tonkin,
Madagascar, Senegal, Morocco, the Sahara--in every
Southern Algerian station wherever the men of the
Legion tramped to their death to the strains of the
regimental march of "*Tiens, voilà du boudin*."

"Advise me, Mam'zelle," said a young Frenchman
of the Midi, rising to his feet with a flourish of his
képi and a sweeping bow, as Carmelita approached
the table at which he and three companions sat,
"Advise me as to the investment of this wealth, fifty
centimes, all at once.  Shall it be five glorious green
absinthes or five *chopes* of the wine of Algiers?--or
shall I warm my soul with burning bapédi...?"

"Four bottles of wine is what you want for André,
Raoul, Léon, and yourself," was the reply.  "Absinthe
is the mamma and the papa and all the ancestors of *le
cafard* and you are far too young and tender for bapédi.
It mingles not well with mother's milk, that...."

In the extreme corner of the big, badly-lit room, a
Legionary sat alone, his back to the company, his
head upon his folded arms.  Passing near, on her tour
of ministration, Carmelita's quick eye and ear
perceived that the man was sobbing and weeping bitterly.
It might be the poor Grasshopper passing through one
of his terrible dark hours, and Carmelita's kind heart
melted with pity for the poor soul, smartest of soldiers,
and maddest of madmen.

Going over to where he sat apart, Carmelita bent
over him, placed her arm around his neck, and stroked
his glossy dark hair.

"*Pourquoi faites-vous Suisse, mon pauvre?*" she
murmured with a motherly caress.  "What is it?
Tell Carmelita."  The man raised his face from his
arms, smiled through his tears and kissed the hand
that rested on his shoulder.  The handsome and delicate
face, the small, well-kept hands, the voice, were those
of a man of culture and refinement.

"*I ja nai ka!*--How delightful!" he said.  "You
will make things right.  I am to be made *machi-bugiyo*,
governor of the city to-morrow, and I wish to remain
a Japanese lady.  I do not want to lay aside the
*suma-goto* and *samisen* for the *wakizashi* and the *katana*--the
lute for the dagger and sword.  I don't want to sit
on a *tokonoma* in a *yashiki* surrounded by *karo*...."

"No, no, no, mon cher, you shall not indeed.  See
le bon Dieu and le bon Jean Boule will look after you,"
said Carmelita, gently stroking his hot forehead and
soothing him with little crooning sounds and caresses
as though he had really been the child that, in mind
and understanding, he was.

John Bull, followed by Rupert, unobtrusively joined
Carmelita.  Seating himself beside the unhappy man, he
took his hands and gazed steadily into his suffused eyes.

"Tell me all about it, Cigale," said he.  "You know
we can put it right.  When has Jean Boule failed to
explain and arrange things for you?"

The madman repeated that he dreaded to have to
sit on the raised dais of the Palace of a Governor of
a City surrounded by officials and advisers.

"I know I should soon be involved in a *kataki-uchi*
with a neighbouring clan, and have to commit hara-kiri
if I failed to keep the Mikado's peace.  It is terrible.
You don't know how I long to remain a lady.  I want
silk and music and cherry-blossom instead of steel
and blood," and again he laid his head upon his arms
and continued his low, hopeless sobbing.

Reginald Rupert's face expressed blank astonishment
at the sight of the weeping soldier.

"What's up?" he said.

Légionnaire John Bull tapped his forehead.

"Poor chap will behave *more Japonico* for the rest
of the day now.  I fancy he's been an attaché in Japan.
You don't know Japanese by any chance?  I have
forgotten the little I knew."

Rupert shook his head.

"Look here, Cigale," said John Bull, raising the
afflicted man and again fixing the steady, benign
gaze upon his eyes, "why are you making all this
trouble for yourself?  You know I am the Mikado and
All-powerful!  You have only to appeal to me and the
Shogun must release you.  Of course you can remain
a Japanese lady--and I'll tell you what, ma chère,
ma petite fille Japonaise, not only shall you remain
a lady, but a lady of the old school and of the days
before the accursed Foreign Devils came in to break
down ancient customs.  I promise it.  To-morrow
you shall shave off your eyebrows and paint them in
two inches above your eyes.  I promise it.  More.  Your
teeth shall be lacquered black.  Now cease these
ungrateful repinings, and be a happy maiden once
again.  By order of the Mikado!"

Once again the voice and eye, and the gentle wise
sympathy and comprehension of ce bon Jean Boule
had succeeded and triumphed.  The madman, falling
at his feet, knelt and bowed three times, his forehead
touching the ground, in approved geisha fashion.

"And now you've got to come and lie down, or you
won't be fit for the eyebrow-shaving ceremony
to-morrow," said Carmelita, and led him to a broad, low
divan, which made a cosy, if dirty, corner remote
from the bar.

"That's as extraordinary a case as ever I came
across," remarked John Bull to Rupert as they
rejoined the Bucking Bronco, who was talking to the
Cockney and the Russian twins, "as mad as any
lunatic in any asylum in the world, and yet as
absolutely competent and correct in every detail of
soldiering as any soldier in the Legion.  He is the Perfect
Private Soldier--and a perfect lunatic.  Most of the
time, off parade that is, he thinks he's a grasshopper,
and the rest of the time he thinks he's of some
remarkably foreign nationality, such as a Zulu, an Eskimo,
or a Chinaman.  I should very much like to know his
story.  He must have travelled pretty widely.  He has
certainly been an officer in the Belgian Guides (their
Officers' Mess is one of the most exclusive and
aristocratic in the world, as you know) and he has certainly
been a Military Attaché in the East.  He is perfectly
harmless and a most thorough gentleman, poor
soul....  Yes, I should greatly like to know his
story," and added as he poured out a glass of wine,
"but we don't ask men their 'stories' in the
Legion...."

Carmelita returned to her high seat by the door
of her little room behind the bar--the door upon the
outside of which many curious regards had oftentimes
been fixed.

Carmelita was troubled.  Why did not Luigi come?
Were his duties so numerous and onerous nowadays
that he had but a bare hour for his late dinner and
his bottle of Chianti?  Time was, when he arrived as
soon after five o'clock as a wash and change of uniform
permitted.  Time was, when he could spend from early
evening to late night in the Café de la Légion,
outstaying the latest visitors.  And that time was also
the time when Madame la Cantinière was not a widow--the
days before Madame's husband had been sliced,
sawn, snapped, torn, and generally mangled by certain
other widows--of certain Arabs--away to the South.
This might be coincidence of course, and yet--and
yet--several Légionnaires who had no axe to grind
and who were not jealous of Luigi's fortune, had
undoubtedly coupled his name with that of Madame....

"An' haow did yew find yure little way to our
dope-joint hyar?" the Bucking Bronco enquired of Mikhail
Kyrilovitch, as he did the honours of Carmelita's
"joint" to the three *bleus* who had entered while
John Bull was talking to the Grasshopper.

"Well, since you arx, we jest ups an' follers you,
old bloke, when yer goes aht wiv these two uvver
Henglish coves," replied the Cockney.

The American regarded him with the eye of large
and patient tolerance.  He preferred the Russians,
particularly Mikhail, and rejoiced that they spoke
English.  It would have been too much to have
attempted to add a working knowledge of Russian to
his other linguistic stores.  Nevertheless, he would,
out of compliment to their nationality, produce such
words of their strange tongue as he could command.
It might serve to make them feel more at home like.

"I'm afraid I can't ask yew moojiks ter hev a
little caviare an' wodky, becos' Carmelita is out of
it....  But there's cawfy in the sammy-var I hev
no doubt," he said graciously.

The Russians thanked him, and Feodor pledging
him in a glass of absinthe, promised to teach him
the art of concocting *lompopo*, while Mikhail quietly
sipped his glass of sticky, sweet Algerian wine.

Restless Carmelita joined the group, and her friend
Jean Boule introduced the three new patrons.

"Prahd an' honoured, Miss, I'm shore," said the
Cockney.  "'Ave a port-an'-lemon or thereabahts?"

But Carmelita was too interested in the startling
similarity of the twins to pay attention to the civilities
and blandishments of the Cockney, albeit he surreptitiously
wetted his fingers with wine and smoothed
his smooth and shining "cowlick" or "quiff" (the
highly ornamental fringe which, having descended
to his eyebrows, turned aspiringly upward).

"*Gemello*," she murmured, turning from Feodor
and his cheery greeting to Mikhail, who responded
with a graceful little bow, suddenly terminated and
changed to a curt nod, like that given by Feodor.  As
Carmelita continued her direct gaze, a dull flush grew
and mantled over his face.

"*Cielo*!  But how the boy blushes!  Now is it for
his own sins, or mine, I wonder?" laughed Carmelita,
pointing accusingly at poor Mikhail's suffused face.

"Gawdstreuth!  Can't 'e blush," remarked Mr. Higgins.

The dull flush became a vivid, burning blush under
Carmelita's pointing finger, and the regard of the
amused Legionaries.

"Corpo di Bacco!" laughed the teasing girl.  "A
blushing Legionary!  The dear, sweet, good boy.  If
only *I* could blush like that.  And he brings his blushes
to Madame la République's Legion.  Well, it is not
*porta vasi a Samo!*"[#]


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

   [#] Lit., "to carry coals to Newcastle."

.. vspace:: 2

"Never mind, Sonny," said the American soothingly,
"there's many a worse stunt than blushin'.  I uster
use blushes considerable meself--when I was a looker
'bout yure age."  He translated.

Carmelita's laughter pealed out again at the idea
of the blushing American.  Feodor's laughter mingled
with Carmelita's, but sounded forced.

"Isn't it funny?" he remarked.  "My brother
has always been like that, but believe me, Padrona, I
could not blush to save my life."

"Si, si," laughed Carmelita.  "You have sinned
and he has blushed--all your lives, is it not so--le
pauvre petit?" and saucily rubbed the side of Mikhail's
crimson face with the backs of her fingers--and
looked unwontedly thoughtful as he jerked his head
away with a look of annoyance.

"La, la, la!" said Carmelita.  "Musn't he be
teased then?..."

"Come, Signora," broke in Feodor again, "you're
making him blush worse than ever.  Such kindness
is absolutely wasted.  Now I..."

"No, *you* wouldn't blush with shame and fright,
no, nor yet with innocence, would you, Signor Feodor?
*E un peccato!*" replied the girl, and lightly brushed
his cheek as she spoke.

The good Feodor did not blush, but the look of
thoughtfulness deepened on Carmelita's face.

To the finer perceptions of John Bull there seemed
to be something strained and discomfortable in the
atmosphere.  Carmelita had fallen silent, Feodor
seemed annoyed and anxious, Mikhail frightened and
anxious, and Mr. 'Erb 'Iggins of too gibing a humour.

"You are making me positively jealous, Signora
Carmelita, and leaving me thirsty," he said, and with
a small repentant squeal Carmelita flitted to the bar.

"Would you like a biscuit too, Signor Jean Boule?"
she called, and tossed one across to him as she spoke.
John Bull neatly caught the biscuit as it flew
somewhat wide.  Carmelita, like most women, could not
throw straight.

"*Tiro maestro,*" she applauded, and launched
another at the unprepared Mikhail with a cry of
"Catch, *goffo*."  Instinctively, he "made a lap" and
spread out his hands.

"*Esattamente!*" commented Carmelita beneath her
breath and apparently lost interest in the little
group....

A quartet of Legionaries swaggered into the *café*
and approached the bar--Messieurs Malvin, Borges,
Bauer and Hirsch, henchmen and satellites of Luigi
Rivoli--and saluted to Carmelita's greeting of "Buona
sera, Signori...."

"Bonsoir, M. Malvin," added she to the dapper,
low-bowing Austrian, whose evil face, with its close-set
ugly eyes, sharp crooked nose, waxed moustache, and
heavy jowl, were familiar to her as those of one of
Luigi's more intimate followers.  "Where is Signor
Luigi Rivoli to-night?  He has no guard duty?"

"No, mia signora--er--that is--yes," replied
Malvin in affected discomfort.  "He is--ah--on duty."

"On duty in the Canteen?" asked Carmelita, flushing.

"What do I know of the comings and goings of the
great Luigi Rivoli?" answered Malvin.  "Doubtless
he will fortify himself with a litre of wine at Madame's
bar in the Canteen before walking down here."

"Luigi Rivoli drinks no sticky Algerian wine," said
Carmelita angrily and her eyes and teeth flashed
dangerously.  "He drinks Chianti from Home.  He
never enters her Canteen."

"Ah!  So?" murmured Malvin in a non-committal
manner.  And then Carmelita's anxiety grew a little
greater--greater even than her dislike and distrust
of M. Edouard Malvin, and she did what she had
never done before.  She voiced it to him.

"Look you, Monsieur Malvin, tell me the truth.
I will not tell my Luigi that you have accused him
to me, or say that you have spoken ill of him behind
his back.  Tell me the truth.  *Is* he in the Canteen?
Tell me, cher Monsieur Malvin."

"Have I the double sight, bella Carmelita?  How
should I know where le Légionnaire Rivoli may be?"
fenced the soi-disant Belgian, who desired nothing
better than to win the woman from the man--and
toward himself.  Failing Madame la Cantinière and
the Legion's Canteen, what better than Carmelita
and the Café de la Légion for a poor hungry and
thirsty soldier?  If the great Luigi must win the greater
prize let the little Malvin win the lesser.  To which
end let him curry favour with La Belle Carmelita--just
as far as such a course of action did not become
premature, and lead to a painful interview with an
incensed Luigi Rivoli.

"Tell me the truth, cher Monsieur Malvin.  Where
is my Luigi?" again asked Carmelita pleadingly.

"*Donna e Madonna*," replied the good M. Malvin,
with piteous eyes, broken voice, and protecting hand
placed gently over that of Carmelita which lay clenched
upon the zinc-covered bar.  "What shall I say?  Luigi
Rivoli is a giant among men--I, a little fat *deboletto*,
a *sparutello* whom the great Luigi could kill with one
hand.  Though I love Carmelita, I fear Luigi.  How
shall I tell of his doings with that husband-seeking
*puttana* of the Canteen; of his serving behind the bar,
helping her, taking her money, drinking her wine
(wine of Algiers); of his passionate and burning prayers
that she will marry him?  How can I, his friend, tell
of those things?  But oh!  Carmelita, my poor honest
heart is wrung..." and le bon Monsieur Malvin
paused to hope that his neck also would not be wrung
as the result of this moving eloquence.

For a moment Carmelita's eyes blazed and her
hands and her little white teeth clenched.  Mother of
God! if Luigi played her false after all she had done
for him, after all she had given him--given *for* him!...
But no, it was unthinkable....  This Malvin was an
utter knave and liar, and would fool her for his own
ends--the very man *fare un pesce d'Aprile a qualcuno*.
He should see how far his tricks succeeded with
Carmelita of the Legion, the chosen of Carlo
Scopinaro!  And yet ... and yet...  She would ask Il
Signor Jean Boule again.  He would never lie.  He
would neither backbite Luigi Rivoli, nor stand by and
see Carmelita deceived.  Yes, she would ask Jean
Boule, and then if he *too* accused Luigi she would
find some means to see and hear for herself....  Trust
her woman's wit for that.  And meantime this serpent
of a Malvin...

"*Se ne vada!*" she hissed, whirling upon him
suddenly, and pointed to the door.  Malvin slunk
away, by no means anxious to be present at the scene
which would certainly follow should Luigi enter before
Carmelita's mood had changed.  He would endeavour
to meet and delay him....

"What do yew say to acontinuin' o' this hyar
gin-crawl?" asked the Bucking Bronco of Rupert.
"Come and see our other pisen-joint and Madame
lar Cantenair."

"Anything you like," replied Rupert.

"Let's go out when they do," said Mikhail quickly,
in Russian, to Feodor.

"All right, silly Olka," was the whispered reply.

"Silly Fedka, to call me Olka," was the whispered
retort.  "You're a pretty *budotchnik*,[#] aren't you?"


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

   [#] Guardian, watchman.

.. vspace:: 2

"Yus," agreed Mr. 'Erb Higgins, nodding cordially
to Rupert, and bursting into appropriate and tuneful
song--

   |   "Come where the booze is cheaper,
   |     Come where the pots 'old more,
   |   Come where the boss is a bit of a joss,
   |     Ho! come to the pub next door."
   |

Evidently a sociable and expansive person, easily
thawed by a *chope* of cheap wine withal; neither
standoffish nor haughty, for he thrust one friendly
arm through that of Jean Boule, and another round
the waist of Reginald Rupert.  Let it not be
supposed that it was under the influence of liquor rather
than of sheer, expansive geniality that 'Erb proposed
to walk *a braccetto*, as Carmelita observed, with his
new-found friends....

As the party filed out of the *café*, Mikhail
Kyrilovitch, who was walking last of the party, felt a hand
slip within his arm to detain him.  Turning, he beheld
Carmelita's earnest little face near his own.  In his ear
she whispered in French--

"I have your secret, little one--but have no fear.
Should anyone else discover it, come to Carmelita,"
and before the astonished Mikhail could reply she
was clearing empty glasses and bottles from their table.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE CANTEEN OF THE LEGION`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER IV


.. class:: center medium

   THE CANTEEN OF THE LEGION

.. vspace:: 2

From the Canteen, a building in the corner of
the barrack-square, proceeded sounds of revelry
by night.

"Blimey!  Them furriners are singin' 'Gawd save the
Queen' like bloomin' Christians," remarked 'Erb as the
little party approached the modest Temple of Bacchus.

"No, they are Germans singing '*Heil dir im
Sieges-Kranz*,' replied Feodor Kyrilovitch in English.

"And singing it most uncommonly well," added
Legionary John Bull.

"Fancy them 'eathens pinchin' the toon like that,"
commented 'Erb.  "They oughtn't to be allowed...
Do they 'old concerts 'ere?  I dessay they'd like to
'ear some good Henglish songs...."

Reginald Rupert never forgot his first glimpse of
the Canteen of the Legion, though he entered it
hundreds of times and spent hundreds of hours beneath
its corrugated iron roof.  Scores of Legionaries,
variously clad in blue and red or white sat on benches at long
tables, or lounged at the long zinc-covered bar, behind
which were Madame and hundreds of bottles and large
wine-glasses.

Madame la Vivandière de la Légion was not of the
school of "Cigarette."  Rupert failed to visualise
her with any clearness as leading a cavalry charge
(the *Drapeau* of La France in one hand, a pistol in
the other, and her reins in her mouth), inspiring
Regiments, advising Generals, softening the cruel
hearts of Arabs, or "saving the day" for La Patrie,
in the manner of the vivandière of fiction.  Madame
had a beady eye, a perceptible moustache, a frankly
downy chin, two other chins, a more than ample
figure, and looked, what she was, a female
camp-sutler.  Perhaps Madame appeared more Ouidaesque on
the march, wearing her official blue uniform as duly
constituted and appointed *fille du régiment*.  At present
she looked...  However, the bow of Reginald
Rupert, together with his smile and honeyed words,
were those of Mayfair, as he was introduced by
Madame's admired friend ce bon Jean Boule, and he
stepped straight into Madame's experienced but
capacious heart.  Nor was the brightness of the image
dulled by the ten-franc piece which he tendered with
the request that Madame would supply the party
with her most blushful Hippocrene.  'Erb, being
introduced, struck an attitude, his hand upon his heart.
Madame coughed affectedly.

"Makes a noise like a 'igh-class parlour-maid bein'
jilted, don' she?" he observed critically.

Having handed a couple of bottles and a large glass
to each member of the party, by way of commencement
in liquidating the coin, she returned to her
confidential whispering with Monsieur le Légionnaire
Luigi Rivoli (who lolled, somewhat drunk, in a corner
of the bar) as the group seated itself at the end of a
long table near the window.

It being "holiday," that is, pay-day, the Canteen
was full, and most of its patrons had contrived to
emulate it.  A very large number had laid out the
whole of their *décompté*--every farthing of two-pence
halfpenny--on wine.  Others, wiser and more
continent, had reserved a halfpenny for tobacco.  In
one corner of the room an impromptu German glee
party was singing with such excellence that the
majority of the drinkers were listening to them with
obvious appreciation.  With hardly a break, and with
the greatest impartiality they proceeded from
part-song to hymn, from hymn to drinking-song, from
drinking-song to sentimental love-ditty.  Finally
*Ein feste burg ist unser Gott* being succeeded by *Die
Wacht am Rhein* and *Deutschland über Alles*, the
French element in the room thought that a little
French music would be a pleasing corrective, and with
one accord, if not in one key, gave a spirited rendering
of the Marseillaise, followed by--

   |   "Tiens, voilà du boudin
   |     Tiens, voilà du boudin
   |   Tiens, voià du boudin
   |     Pour les Alsaciens, les Suisses, et les Lorraines,
   |   Four les Belges il n'y en a plus
   |     Car ce sont des tireurs du flanc..." etc.,

.. class:: noindent

immediately succeeded by--

   |   "As-tu vu la casquette
   |     La casquette
   |   Du Père Bougeaud," etc.
   |

As the ditty came to a close a blue-jowled little
Parisian--quick, nervous, and alert--sprang on to a
table, and with a bottle in one hand, and a glass in
the other, burst into the familiar and favourite--

   |   "C'est l'empereur de Danemark
   |     Qui a dit a sa moitié
   |   Depuis quelqu' temps je remarque
   |     Que tu sens b'en fort les pieds..." etc.
   |
   |   "C'est la reine Pomaré
   |     Qui a pour tout tenue
   |   Au milieu de l'été..."

.. class:: noindent

the song being brought to an untimely end by reason
of the parties on either side of the singer's table
entering into a friendly tug-of-war with his feet as
rope-ends.  As he fell, amid howls of glee and the
crashing of glass, the Bucking Bronco remarked to
Rupert--

"Gwine ter be some rough-housin' ter-night ef
we're lucky," but ere the mêlée could become general,
Madame la Cantinière, descending from her throne
behind the bar, bore down upon the rioters and rated
them soundly--imbeciles, fools, children, vauriens,
and *sales cochons* that they were.  Madame was well
aware of the fact that a conflagration should be dealt
with in its earliest stages and before it became
general.

"This is really extraordinarily good wine,"
remarked Rupert to John Bull.

"Yes," replied the latter.  "It's every bit as good
at three-halfpence a bottle as it is at three-and-six
in England, and I'd advise you to stick to it and let
absinthe alone.  It does one no harm, in reason, and
is a great comfort.  It's our greatest blessing and our
greatest curse.  Absinthe is pure curse--and inevitably
means 'cafard.'"

"What is this same 'cafard' of which one hears so
much?" asked Rupert.

"Well, the word itself means 'beetle,' I believe,
and sooner or later the man who drinks absinthe in
this climate feels the beetle crawling round and round
in his brain.  He then does the maddest things and
ascribes the impulse to the beetle.  He finally goes
mad and generally commits murder or suicide, or
both.  That is one form of *cafard*, and the other is
mere fed-upness, a combination of liverish temper,
boredom and utter hatred and loathing of the terrible
ennui of the life."

"Have you had it?" asked the other.

"Everyone has it at times," was the reply, "especially
in the tiny desert-stations where the awful heat,
monotony, and lack of employment leave one the
choice of drink or madness.  If you drink you're certain
to go mad, and if you don't drink you're sure to.  Of
course, men like ourselves--educated, intelligent, and
all that--have more chance than the average 'Tommy'
type, but it's very dangerous for the highly strung
excitable sort.  He's apt to go mad and stay mad.  We
only get fits of it."

"Don't the authorities do anything to amuse and
employ the men in desert stations, like we do in
India?" enquired the younger man.

"Absolutely nothing.  They prohibit the *Village
Négre* in every station, compel men to lie on their cots
from eleven till four, and do nothing at all to relieve
the maddening monotony of drill, sentry-go and
punishment.  On the other hand, *cafard* is so recognised an
institution that punishments for offences committed
under its influence are comparatively light.  It takes
different people differently, and is sometimes
comic--though generally tragic."

"I should think you're bound to get something of
the sort wherever men lead a very hard and very
monotonous life, in great heat," said Rupert.

"Oh yes," agreed John Bull.  "After all *le cafard*
is not the private and peculiar speciality of the Legion.
We get a very great deal of madness of course, but
I think it's nearly as much due to predisposition as
it is to the hard monotonous life....  You see we
are a unique collection, and a considerable minority
of us must be more or less queer in some way, or they
wouldn't be here."

Rupert wondered why the speaker was "here" but
refrained from asking.

"Can you classify the recruits at all clearly?" he
asked.

"Oh yes," was the reply.  "The bulk of them are
here simply and solely for a living; hungry men who
came here for board and lodging.  Thousands of
foreigners in France have found themselves down on
their uppers, with their last sou gone, fairly on their
beam-ends and their room-rent overdue.  To such
men the Foreign Legion offers a home.  Then, again,
thousands of soldiers commit some heinous military
'crime' and desert to the Foreign Legion to start
afresh.  We get most of our Germans and Austrians
that way, and not a few French who pretend to be
Belgians to avoid awkward questions as to their
papers.  We get Alsatians by the hundred of course,
too.  It is their only chance of avoiding service under
the hated German.  They fight for France, and by
their five years' Legion-service earn the right to
naturalisation also.  There are a good many French,
too, who are 'rehabilitating' themselves.  Men who
have come to grief at home and prefer the Legion to
prison.  Then there is undoubtedly a wanted-by-the-police
class of men who have bolted from all parts of
Europe and taken sanctuary here.  Yes, I should say
the out-of-works, deserters, runaways and Alsatians
make up three parts of the Legion."

"And what is the other part?"

"Oh, keen soldiers who have deliberately chosen
the Legion for its splendid military training and
constant fighting experience--romantics who have read
vain imaginings and figments of the female mind like
'Under Two Flags'; and the queerest of Queer Fish,
oddments and remnants from the ends of the earth...."  A
shout of "Ohé, Grasshopper!" caused him to turn.

In the doorway, crouching on his heels, was the
man they had left lying on the settee at Carmelita's.
Emitting strange chirruping squeaks, turning his head
slowly from left to right, and occasionally brushing
it from back to front with the sides of his "forelegs,"
the Grasshopper approached with long, hopping bounds.

"And that was once an ornament of Chancelleries
and Courts," said John Bull, as he rose to his feet.
"Poor devil!  Got his *cafard* once and for all at Aïn
Sefra.  There was a big grasshopper or locust in his
*gamelle* of soup one day....  I suppose he was on
the verge at the moment.  Anyhow, he burst into tears
and has been a grasshopper ever since, except when
he's a Jap or something of that sort....  He's a
grasshopper when he's 'normal' you might say."

Going over to where the man squatted, the old
Legionary took him by the arm.  "Come and sit on
my blade of grass and drink some dew, Cigale,"
said he.

Smiling up brightly at the face which he always
recognised as that of a sympathetic friend, the
Grasshopper arose and accompanied John Bull to the end
of the long table at which sat the Englishmen, the
Russians, and the American....

Yet more wine had made 'Erb yet more expansive,
and he kindly filled his glass and placed it before the
Grasshopper.

"'Ere drink that hup, Looney, an' I'll sing yer
a song as'll warm the cockles o' yer pore ol' 'eart,"
he remarked, and suiting the action to the word, rose
to his feet and, lifting up his voice, delivered himself
mightily of that song not unknown to British
barrack-rooms--

   |   "A German orficer crossin' the Rhine
   |     'E come to a pub, an' this was the sign
   |   Skibooo, skibooo,
   |     Skibooo, skiana, skibooo."
   |

The raucous voice and unwonted British accents
(for Englishmen are rare in the Legion) attracted
some attention, and by the time 'Erb had finished
with the German officer and commenced upon "'Oo's
that aknockin' on the dawer," he was well across the
footlights and had the ear and eye of the assembly.
Finding himself the cynosure of not only neighbouring
but distant eyes, 'Erb mounted the table and
"obliged" with a clog-dance and "double-shuffle-breakdown"
to the huge delight of an audience ever
desiring a new thing.  Stimulated by rounds of applause,
and by the cheers and laughter which followed the
little Parisian's cry of "Vive le goddam biftek
Anglais," 'Erb burst into further Barrack-room
Ballads unchronicled by, and probably quite unknown
to, Mr. Kipling, and did not admit the superior claims
of private thirst until he had dealt faithfully with
"The Old Monk," "The Doctor's Boy," and the
indiscreet adventure of Abraham the Sailor with the
Beautiful Miss Taylor....

"Some boy, that *com*\patriot o' yourn, John,"
remarked the Bucking Bronco, "got a reg'lar drorin'
room repertory, ain't 'e?" and the soul of 'Erb was
proud within him, and he drank another pint of
wine.

"Nutthink like a little--*hic*--'armony," he
admitted modestly, "fer making a *swarry* sociable an'
'appy.  Wot I ses is--*hic*--wot I ses is--*hic*--wot I
ses is--*hic*...."

"It is so, sonny, and that's almighty solemn truth,"
agreed the Bucking Bronco.

"Wot I ses is--*hic*--" doggedly repeated 'Erb.

"Right again, sonny....  He knows what 'e's
sayin' all right," observed the American, turning to
the Russians.

"Wot I ses is--*hic*--" repeated 'Erb dogmatically....

"'*Hic jacet!*' Monsieur would say, perhaps?"
suggested Feodor.

'Erb turned upon the last speaker with an entirely
kindly contempt.

"Don't yer igspose yer *hic*-norance," he advised.
"You're a foreiller.  You're a neathen.  You're a
pore *hic*-norant foreiller.  Wot I was goin' ter say
was..."  But 'Erb lost the thread of his discourse.
"Wisht me donah wos 'ere," he confided sadly to
Mikhail Kyrilovitch, wept with his arm about Mikhail's
waist, his head upon Mikhail's shoulder, and anon
lapsed into dreams.  Feodor roused the somnolent
'Erb with the offer of another bottle of wine, and
changed places with Mikhail.  'Erb accepted this
tribute to the attractiveness of his personality with
modesty, and with murmured words, the purport of
which appeared to be that Feodor was a discriminating
heathen.

As the evening wore on, the heady wine took effect.
The fun, which had been fast and furious, grew
uproarious.  Dozens of different men were singing as
many different songs, several were merely howling in
sheer joyless glee, many were dancing singly, others
in pairs, or in fours; one, endeavouring to clamber
on to the bar and execute a *pas seul*, was bodily lifted
and thrown half-way down the room by the fighting-drunk
Luigi Rivoli.  It was noticeable that, as excitement
waxed, the use of French waned, as men reverted
to their native tongues.  It crossed the mind of Rupert
that a blindfolded stranger, entering the room, might
well imagine himself to be assisting at the building
of the Tower of Babel.  A neighbouring party of
Spaniards dropping their guttural, sibilant Legion-French
(with their *ze* for *je*, *zamais* for *jamais*, and
*zour* for *jour*) with one accord broke into their liquid
Spanish and *Nombre de Dios* took the place of *Nom
de Dieu*, as their saturnine faces creased into leathery
smiles.  Evidently the new recruit who sat in their
midst was paying his footing with the few francs that
he had brought with him, or obtained for his clothes,
for each of the party had four bottles in solemn row
before him, and it was not with the clearest of
utterance that the recruit solemnly and portentously
remarked, as he drained his last bottle--

"Santissima Maria!  Wine is the tomb of memory,
but he who sows in sand does not reap fish," the hearing
of which moved his neighbour to drop his empty
bottles upon the ground with a tear, and a farewell
to them--

"Vaya usted con Dios.  Adios."  He then turned
with truculent ferocity and a terrific scowl upon the
provider of the feast and growled--"*Sangre de Cristo!*
thou peseta-less burro, give me a cigarillo or with the
blessing and aid of el Eterno Padre I will cut thy throat
with my thumb-nail.  Hasten, perro!"

With a grunt of "Cosas d'Espafia," the recruit
removed his képi, took a cigarette therefrom and
placed it in the steel-trap mouth of his *amigo*, to be
rewarded with an incredibly sweet and sunny smile
and a "Bueno!  Gracias, Senor José...."

Letting his eye roam from this queer band of
ex-muleteers, brigands and smugglers to another party
who were wading in the wassail, it needed not the
loud "Donnerwetters!" and rambling reminiscent
monologue of a fat brush-haired youth (on the
unspeakable villainies of der Herr Wacht-meister whose
wicked *schadenfreude* had sent good men to this
*schweinerei* of a Legion, and who was only fit for the
military-train or to be decapitated with his own
*pallasch*) to label them Germans enjoying a *kommers*.
Their stolid, heavy bearing, their business-like and
somewhat brutish way of drinking in great gulps
and draughts--as though a distended stomach rather
than a tickled palate was the serious business of the
evening, if not the end and object of life--together
with their upturned moustaches, piggish little eyes, and
tow-coloured bristles, proclaimed them sons of Kultur.

Rupert could not forbear a smile at the heavy,
philosophical gravity with which the speaker, ceasing
his monologue, heaved a deep, deep sigh and delivered
the weighty dictum that a *schoppen* of the beer of
Munich was worth all the wine of Algiers, and the
Hofbrauhaus worth all the vineyards and canteens
of Africa.

It interested him to notice that among all the
nationalities represented, the French were by far
the gayest (albeit with a humour somewhat *macabre*)
and the Germans the most morose and gloomy.
He was to learn later that they provided by far the
greatest number of deserters, that they were eternally
grumbling, notably bitter and resentful, and devoid
of the faintest spark of humour.

His attention was diverted from the Germans by
a sudden and horrible caterwauling which arose from
a band of Frenchmen who suddenly commenced at
the tops of their voices to howl that doleful dirge the
"Hymne des Pacifiques."  Until they had finished,
conversation was impossible.

"Not all foam neither, Miss, please," murmured
the sleeping 'Erb in the comparative silence which
followed the ending of this devastating chant.

"What's the penalty here for drunkenness?" asked
Rupert of John Bull.

"Depends on what you do," was the reply.  "There's
no penalty for drunkenness, as such, so long as it
leads to no sins of omission nor commission....
The danger of getting drunk is that it gives such an
opportunity to any Non-com. who has a down on you.
When he sees his man drunk, he'll follow him and
give him some order, or find him some *corvée*, in the
hope that the man will disobey or abuse him--possibly
strike him.  Then it's Biribi for the man, and a good
mark, as well as private vengeance, for the zealous
Sergeant, who is again noted as a strong disciplinarian....
I'm afraid it's undeniably true that nothing helps
promotion in the non-commissioned ranks so much
as a reputation for savage ferocity and a brutal
insatiable love of punishing.  A knowledge of German
helps too, as more than half the Legion speaks German,
but harsh domineering cruelty is the first requisite,
and a Non-commissioned Officer's merit is in direct
proportion to the number of punishments he inflicts.
Our Sergeant-Major, for example, is known as the
'Suicide-maker,' and is said to be very proud of the
title.  The number of men he has sent to their graves
direct, or *via* the Penal Battalions, must be enormous,
and, so far as I can see, he has attained his high and
exceedingly influential position simply and solely by
excelling in the art of inventing crimes and punishing
them severely--for he is a dull uneducated peasant
without brains or ability.  It is this type of Non-com.,
the monotony, and the poverty, that make the Legion
such a hell for anyone who is not dead keen on
soldiering for its own sake...."

"I'm very glad you're keen," he added.

"Oh, rather.  I'm as keen as mustard," replied
Rupert, "and I was utterly fed up with peace-soldiering
and poodle-faking.  I have done Sandhurst
and had a turn as a trooper in a crack cavalry corps.
I wanted to have a look-in at the North-west Frontier
Police in Canada after this, and then the Cape Mounted
Rifles.  I shan't mind the hardships and monotony
here if I can get some active service, and feel I am
learning something.  I have a few thousand francs,
too, at the *Crédit Lyonnais*, so I shan't have to bear
the poverty cross."

"A few thousand francs, my dear chap!" observed
John Bull, smiling.  "Croesus I A few thousand francs
will give you a few hundred fair-weather friends,
relief from a few hundred disagreeable corvées, and
duties; give you wine, tobacco, food, medicine,
books, distractions--almost anything but escape from
the Legion's military duties as distinguished from the
menial.  There is nowhere in the world where money
makes so much difference as in the Legion--simply
because nowhere is it so rare.  If among the blind the
one-eyed is king, among Legionaries he who has a
franc is a bloated plutocrat.  Where else in the world
is tenpence the equivalent of the daily wages of twenty
men--twenty soldier-labourers?  Yes, a few thousand
francs will greatly alleviate your lot in the Legion, or
expedite your departure when you've had enough--for
it's quite hopeless to desert without mufti and money."

"I'll leave some in the bank then, against the time
I feel I've had enough....  By the way, if you or
your friend--er--Mr. Bronco at any time....  If I
could be of service ... financially..." and he
coloured uncomfortably.

To offer money to this grave, handsome gentleman
of refined speech and manners was like tipping an
Ambassador, or offering the "price of a pot" to your
Colonel, or your Grandfather.

"What do you mean by *corvée* and the Legion's
menial duties, and soldier-labourers?" he continued
hurriedly to change the subject.

"Yesterday," replied Sir Montague Merline coolly,
"I was told off as one of a fatigue-party to clean the
congested open sewers of the native gaol of Sidi-bel-Abbès.
While I and my brothers-in-arms (some of
whom had fought for France, like myself, in Tonkin,
Senegal, Madagascar, and the Sahara) did the foulest
work conceivable, manacled Negro and Arab criminals
jeered at us, and bade us strive to give them
satisfaction.  Having been in India, you'll appreciate the
situation.  Natives watching white 'sweepers'
labouring on their behalf."

"One can hardly believe it," ejaculated Rupert,
and his face froze with horror and indignation.

"Yes," continued the other.  "I reflected on the
dignity of labour, and remembered the beautiful
words of John Bright, or John Bunyan, or some other
Johnnie about, 'Who sweeps a room as unto God,
makes himself and the action fine.'  I certainly made
myself very dirty....  The Legionaries are the
labourers, scavengers, gardeners, builders,
road-makers, street-cleaners, and general coolies of any
place in which they are stationed.  They are drafted
to the barracks of the Spahis and Turcos--the Native
Cavalry and Infantry--to do jobs that the Spahis
and Turcos would rather die than touch; and, of
course, they're employed for every kind of work to
which Government would never dream of setting
French regulars.  I have myself worked (for a ha'penny
a day) at wheeling clay, breaking stones, sawing
logs, digging, carrying bricks, hauling trucks, shovelling
sand, felling trees, weeding gardens, sweeping streets,
grave-digging, and every kind of unskilled manual
corvée you can think of--in addition, of course, to
the daily routine-work and military training of a
soldier of the Legion--which is three times as arduous
as that of any other soldier in the world."

"Sa--a--ay, John," drawled the Bucking Bronco,
rousing himself at last from the deep brooding reverie
into which he had plunged in search of mental images
and memories of Carmelita, "give yure noo soul-affinity
the other side o' the medal likewise, or yew'll push him
off the water-waggon into the absinthe-barrel."

"Well," continued John Bull, "you can honestly
say you belong to the most famous, most reckless,
most courageous regiment in the world; to the
regiment that has fought more battles, won more battles,
lost more men and gained more honours, than any
in the whole history of war.  You belong to the Legion
that never retreats, that dies--and of whose deaths
no record is kept....  It is the last of the real
Mercenaries, the Soldiers of Fortune, and if France sent
it to-morrow to such a task that five thousand men
were wastefully and vainly killed, not a question would
be asked in the Chamber, nor the Press: nothing would
be said, nothing known outside the War Department.
We exist to die for France in the desert, the swamp,
or the jungle, by bullet or disease--in Algeria, Morocco,
Sahara, the Soudan, West Africa, Madagascar, and
Cochin China--in doing what her regular French
and Native troops neither could nor would do.  We
are here to die, and it's the duty of our officers to kill
us--more or less usefully.  To kill us for France,
working or fighting...."

"'Ear, 'ear, John!" applauded the Bucking Bronco.
"Some orator, ain't he?" he observed with pride,
turning to Mikhail who had been following the old
Legionary with parted lips and shining eyes.  "Guess
ol' John's some stump-speecher as well as a looker....
Go it, ol' section-boss, git on a char," and he smote
his beloved John resoundingly upon the back.

John Bull, despite his years and grey hairs, blushed
painfully.

"Sorry," he grunted.

"But indeed, Monsieur speaks most interestingly
and with eloquence.  Pray continue," said Mikhail
with diffident earnestness.

John Bull looked still more uncomfortable.

"Do go on," said Rupert.

"Oh, that's all," replied John Bull....  "But we
are the cheapest labourers, the finest soldiers, the
most dangerous, reckless devils ever gathered
together....  The incredible army--and there's
anything from eight to twelve thousand of us in Africa
and China, and nobody but the War Minister knows
the real number.  You're a ha'penny hero now, my
boy, and a ha'penny day-labourer, and you're not
expected to wear out in less than five years--unless you're
killed by the enemy, disease, or the Non-coms."

"Have you ever regretted coming here?" asked
Rupert, and could have bitten his tongue as he
realised he had asked a personal and prying question.

"Well, I have re-enlisted twice," parried the other,
"and that is a pretty good testimonial to La Légion.
I have had unlimited experience of active service of
all kinds, against enemies of all sorts except Europeans,
and I hope to have that--against Germany[#]--before
I've done."


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

   [#] Written in 1913.--AUTHOR.

.. vspace:: 2

"But what about all the Germans in the Legion,
in that case?" enquired Rupert.

"Oh, they wouldn't be sent," was the reply.
"They'd all go to the Southern Stations, and the
Moroccan border, or to Madagascar and Tonkin.
Of course, the Alsatians and Lorraines would jump
for joy at the chance."

Conversation at this point again became more and
more difficult in the increasing din, which was not
diminished as 'Erb awoke, yawned, stated that he
had a mouth like the bottom of a parrot's cage, that
he was thoroughly blighted, and indeed blasted,
produced a large mouth-organ, and rendered "Knocked
'em in the Old Kent Road," with enthusiastic soul
and vigorous lungs.

Roused to a pinnacle of joyous enthusiasm and
yearning for emulation, not only the little Parisian,
but the whole party of Frenchmen leapt upon their
table with wild whoops, and commenced to dance,
some the *carmagnole*, some the *can-can*, some the
cake-walk, and others the *bamboula*, the *chachuqua*, or the
"*singe-sur-poele*."  Glasses and bottles crashed to the
ground, and Legionaries with them.  A form broke.

Above the stamping, howling, smashing, and
crashing, Madame's shrill screams rang clear, as she
mingled imprecations and commands with lamentations
that Luigi Rivoli had departed.  Pandemonium
increased to "*tohuwabohu*."  Louder wailed the mouth-organ,
louder bawled the Frenchmen, louder screamed
Madame, loudest of all shrilled the "Lights Out"
bugle in the barrack-square--and peace reigned.  In
a minute the room was empty, silent and dark, as the
clock struck nine.


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center medium

   §2

.. vspace:: 1

"You'll be awakened by yells of '*Au jus*' from
the garde-chambre at about five to-morrow," said
John Pull to Rupert as they undressed.  "As soon
as you have swallowed the coffee he'll pour into your
mug from his jug, hop out and sweep under your bed.
The room-orderly has got to sweep out the room and
be on parade as soon as the rest, and it's impossible
unless everybody sweeps under his own bed and
leaves the orderly to do the rest."

"What about food?" asked the other, who had
the healthy appetite of his years and health.

"Oh--plain and sufficient," was the answer.  "Good
soup and bread; hard biscuit twice a week; and wine
every other day--monotonous of course.  Meals at
eleven o'clock and five o'clock only....  By the way
unless your feet are fairly tough, you'd better wear
*chaussettes russes* until they harden--strips of greasy
linen bound round, you know.  The skin will soon
toughen if you pour *bapédi*, or any other strong spirit
into your boots, and you can tallow your feet before
a long march.  Having no socks will seem funny at
first, but in time you come to hate the idea of them.
Much less cleanly really, and the cause of all blisters."

Rupert looked doubtful, and thought of his silk-sock
bills.  Even as a trooper he had always kept one
silk pair to put on after the bath which followed a
long march.  (There are few things so refreshing as
the vigorous brushing of one's hair and the putting
of silk socks on to bathed feet after a heavy day.)

"Good night, and Good Luck in the Legion,"
added John Bull as he lay down.

"Good night--and thanks awfully, sir, for your
kindness," replied Rupert, and vainly endeavoured
to compose himself to sleep on his bed which consisted
of a straw-stuffed mattress, a straw-stuffed pillow,
and two thin raspy blankets....

Mikhail Kyrilovitch sat on his bed whispering
with his brother, about the medical examination of
recruits which would take place on the morrow.

"Well, we can only hope for the best," said Feodor
at last, "and they all say the same thing--that it is
generally the merest formality.  The Médecin-Major
looks at your face and teeth and asks if you are
healthy.  It's not like what Ivan and I went through
in Paris....  They wouldn't have two searching
medical examinations unless there appeared to be
signs of weakness, I should think."

When the room was wrapped in silence and darkness
the latter arose.

"Good night, *golubtchik*," he whispered, "and
when your heart fails you, remember Marie Spiridinoff--and
be thankful you are here rather than There."

Mikhail shuddered.

Anon, every soul in the room was awakened by the
uproarious entrance of the great Luigi Rivoli supported
by Messieurs Malvin, Borges and Bauer, all very drunk
and roaring "*Brigadier vous avez raison*," a song
which tailed off into an inane repetition of--

   |   "Si le Caporal savait ça
   |   Il dirait 'nom de Dieu,'"

.. class:: noindent

in the midst of which the great man collapsed upon
his bed, while, with much hiccupping laughter and foul
jokes, his faithful satellites contrived to remove his
boots and leave him to sleep the sleep of the just and
the drunken....

Anon the Dutch youth, Hans Djoolte, sat up and
looked around.  All was quiet and apparently everyone
was asleep.  The conscience of Hans was pricking
him--he had said his prayers lying in bed, and that was
not the way in which he had been taught to say them
by his good Dutch mother, whose very last words,
as she died, had been, "Say your prayers each night,
my son, wherever you may be."

Hans got out of bed, knelt him down, and said his
prayers again.  Thenceforward, he always did so as
soon as he had undressed, regardless of consequences--which
at first were serious.  But even the good Luigi
Rivoli, in time, grew tired of beating him, particularly
when the four English-speaking occupants of
the *chambrée* intimated their united disapproval of
Luigi's interference.  The most startling novelty, by
repetition, becomes the most familiar commonplace,
and the day, or rather the night, arrived when Hans
Djoolte could pray unmolested....  Occupants of
less favoured *chambrées* came to see the sight.  The
*escouade* indeed became rather proud of having two
authentic lunatics....





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE TRIVIAL ROUND`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER V


.. class:: center medium

   THE TRIVIAL ROUND

.. vspace:: 2

As he had done almost every night for the last
twenty-five years, Sir Montague Merline lay
awake for some time, thinking of his wife.

Was she happy?  Of course she was.  Any woman
is happy with the man she really loves.

Did she ever think of him?  Of course she did.  Any
woman thinks, at times, of the man in whose arms
she has lain.  No doubt his photo stood in a silver frame
on her desk or piano.  Huntingten would not mind
that.  Nothing petty about Lord Huntingten--and he
had been very fond of "good old Merline," "dear old
stick-in-the-mud," as he had so often called him.

Of course she was happy.  Why shouldn't she be?
Although Huntingten was poor as English peers go,
there was enough for decent quiet comfort--and
Marguerite had never been keen on making a splash.
She had not minded poverty as Lady Merline....
She was certainly as happy as the day was long, and
it would have been the damnedest cruelty and
caddishness to have turned up and spoilt things.  It would
have wrecked her life and Huntingten's too....

Splendid chap, Huntingten--so jolly clever and
original, so full of ideas and unconventionality....
"How to be Happy though Titled." ... "How to
be a Man though a Peer." ... "Efforts for the
Effete," and Sir Montague smiled as he thought of
the eccentric peer's pleasantries.

Yes, she'd be happy enough with that fine brave
big sportsman with his sunny face and merry laugh,
his gentle and kindly ways, his love of open-air life,
games, sport, and all clean strenuous things.  Of course
she was happy....  Did she ever think of him? ... Were
there any more children? ... (And, as always,
at this point, Sir Montague frowned and sighed.)

How he would love a little girl of hers, if she were
very, very like her--and how he would hate a boy
if he were like Huntingten.  No--not hate the
boy--hate the idea of her having a boy who was like
Huntingten.  But how she would love the boy....

What would he not give to see her!  Unseen himself,
of course.  He hoped he would not get *cafard* again,
when next stationed in the desert.  It had been terrible,
unspeakably terrible, to feel that resolution was
weakening, and that when it failed altogether, he
would desert and go in search of her....  Suppose
that, with madman's cunning, and with madman's
strength, he should be successful in an attempt to
reach Tunis--the only possible way for a deserter
without money--and should live to reach her, or to
be recognised and proclaimed as the lost Sir Montague
Merline.  Her life in ruins and her children
illegitimate--nameless bastards....  It was a horribly disturbing
thought, that under the influence of *cafard* his mind
might lose all ideas and memories and wishes except
the one great longing to see her again, to clasp her
in his arms again, to have and to hold....  Well--he
had a lot to be thankful for.  So long as Cyrus Hiram
Milton was his bunk-mate it was not likely to happen.
Cyrus would see that he did not desert, penniless
and mad, into the desert.  And now this English boy
had come--a man with the same training, tastes,
habits, haunts and *clichés* as himself.  Doubtless they
had numbers of common acquaintances.  But he must
be wary when on that ground.  Possibly the boy knew
Lord and Lady Huntingten....  After all it's a very
small world, and especially the world of English
Society, clubs, Services, and sport....  This boy
would be a real *companion*, such as dear old Cyrus
could never be, best of friends as he was.  He would
make a hobby of the boy, look after him, live his happy
past again in talking of London, Sandhurst, Paris,
racing, golf, theatres, clubs, and all the lost things
whose memories they had in common.  The boy might
perhaps have been at Winchester too....  Thank
Heaven he had come!  It would make all the difference
when *cafard* conditions arose again.  Of course he'd
get promoted *Soldat première classe* before long
though, and then *Caporal*.  Corporals may not walk
and talk with private soldiers.  Yes--the boy would
rise and leave him behind.  Just his luck....  Might
he not venture to accept promotion now--after all
these years, and rise step by step with him?  No, better
not.  Thin end of the wedge.  Once he allowed himself
to be *Soldat première classe* he'd be accepting
promotion to *Caporal* and *Sergent* before he knew it.  The
temptation to go on to *Chef* and *Adjudant* would be
overwhelming, and when offered a commission (and
the return to the life of an officer and gentleman)
would be utterly irresistible.  Then would come the
very thing to prevent which he had buried himself
alive in this hell of a Legion--recognition and then
the public scandal of his wife's innocent bigamy, and
her children's illegitimacy.  As an officer he would
meet foreign officers and visitors to Algeria.  His
portrait might get into the papers.  He might have to
go to Paris, or Marseilles, and run risks of being
recognised.  No--better to put away temptation and
take no chance of the evil thing.  Poor little
Marguerite!  Think of the cruel shattering blow to her.
It would kill her to give up Huntingten in addition
to knowing her children to be nameless, unable to
inherit title or estates....  No--unthinkable!  Do
the thing properly or not at all....  But it was hell
to be a second-class soldier all the time, and never
be exempt from liability to sentry-duty, guards,
fatigues, filthy corvées and punishment at the hands
of Non-coms. seeking to acquire merit by discovering
demerit....  And he could have had a commission
straight away, when he got his bit of *ferblanterie*\[#] in
Tonkin and again in Dahomey.  They knew he could
speak German and had been an officer....  It had
been a sore temptation--but, thank God, he had
conquered it and not run the greatly enhanced risk
of discovery.  He ought really to have committed
suicide directly he learned that she was married.  No
business to be alive--let alone grumbling about
promotion.  Moreover, if any living soul on this earth
discovered that he was alive he must not only die,
but let his wife have proof that he really was dead,
this time.  Then she and Huntingten could re-marry
as the first ceremony was null and void, and the
children be legitimatised....  Of course there would
be more children--they loved each other so....


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

   [#] lit., tin-ware (medals and decorations).

.. vspace:: 2

As things were, his being alive did the Huntingtens
no harm.  It was the *knowledge* of his existence that
would do the injury--both legal and personal....
No harm, so long as it wasn't known.  They were quite
innocent in the sight of le bon Dieu, and so long as
neither they, nor anyone else, knew--nothing mattered
so far as they were concerned....

But fourteen years as a second-class soldier of the
Legion! ... And what was he to do at the end of
the fifteenth?  They would not re-enlist him.  He
would get a pension of five hundred francs a
year--twenty pounds a year--and he had got the cash
"bonus" given him when he won the *médaille
militaire*.  Where could he hide again?  Perhaps he could
get a job as employed-pensioner of the Legion--such
as sexton at the graveyard or assistant-cook, or
Officers'-Mess servant? ... Otherwise he'd find
himself one fine morning at the barracks-gates, dressed
in a suit of blue sacking from the Quartermaster's
store, fitting him where it touched him; a big flat
tam-o'-shanter sort of cap; a rough shirt, and a blue
cravat "to wind twice round the neck"; a pair of
socks (for the first time in fifteen years), and a decent
pair of boots.  He'd have his papers, a free pass to
any part of France he liked to name, a franc a day
for the journey thereto, and his week's pay.

And what good would the papers and pass be to
him--who dared not leave the shelter of the
all-concealing Legion? ... Surely it would be safe for
him to return to England, or at any rate to go to
France or some other part of Europe?  Why not to
America or the Colonies?  No, nowhere was safe,
and nothing was certain.  Besides, how was he to get
there?  His pass would take him to any part of France,
and nowhere else.  A fine thing--to hide in the Legion
for fifteen years, actually to survive fifteen years of
a second-class soldier's life in the Legion, and then
to risk rendering it all useless!  One breath of
rumour--and Marguerite's life was spoilt....  Discovery--and
it was ruined, just when her children (if she had
any more) were on the threshold of their careers....
Well, life in the Legion was remarkably uncertain, and
there still remained a year in which all problems might
be finally solved by bullet, disease, or death in some
other of the many forms in which it visited the step-sons
of France....  Where was old Strong now? ...

Legionary John Bull fell asleep.

Meanwhile, a few inches from him, Reginald Rupert
had found himself unusually and unpleasantly wakeful.
It had been a remarkably full and tiring day, and as
crowded with new experiences as the keenest
experience-seeker could desire....  He was very glad he had
come.  This was going to be a good toughening man's
life, and real soldiering.  He would not have missed
it for anything.  It would hold a worthy place in the
list of things which he had done and been, the list
that, by the end of his life, he hoped would be a long
and very varied one.  By the time "the governor" died
(and he trusted that might not happen for another
forty years) he hoped to have been in many armies and
Frontier Police forces, to have been a sailor, a cowboy,
a big-game hunter, a trapper, an explorer and
prospector, a gold-miner, a war correspondent, a
gumdigger, and many other things in many parts of the
world, in addition to his present record of
Public-school, Sandhurst, 'Varsity man, British officer,
trooper, and French Légionnaire.  He hoped to continue
to turn up in any part of the world where there was a
war.

What Reginald, like his father, loathed and feared
was Modern Society life, and in fact all modern
civilised life as it had presented itself to his eyes--with
its incredibly false standards, values and ideals,
its shoddy shams and vulgar pretences, its fat
indulgences, slothfulness and folly.

To him, as to his father (whose curious mental
kink he had inherited), the world seemed a dreadful
place in which drab, dull folk followed drab, dull
pursuits for drab, dull ends.  People who lived for
pleasure were so occupied and exhausted in its pursuit
that they got no pleasure.  People who worked were
so closely occupied in earning their living that they
never lived.  He did not know which class he disliked
more--the men who lived their weary lives at clubs,
grand-stands, country-house parties, Ranelagh and
Hurlingham, the Riviera, the moors, and the Yacht
Squadron; or those who lived dull laborious days in
offices, growing flabby and grey in pursuit of the
slippery shekel.

The human animal seemed to him to have become
as adventurous, gallant, picturesque and gay as the
mole, the toad, and the slug.  An old tomcat on a
backyard fence seemed to him to be a more independent,
care-free, self-respecting and gentlemanly person
than his owner, a man who, all God's wide world
before him, was, for a few monthly metal discs,
content to sit in a stuffy hole and copy hieroglyphics
from nine till six--that another man might the quicker
amass many dirty metal discs and a double chin.  To
Reginald, the men of even his own class seemed
travesties and parodies of a noble original, in that they
were content to lead the dreadful lives they did--killing
tame birds, knocking little balls about the
place, watching other people ride races, rushing around
in motors, sailing sunny seas in luxury and safety,
seeing foreign lands only from their best hotels,
poodle-faking and philandering, doing everything but
anything--pampered, soft, useless; each a most exact
and careful copy of his neighbour.  Reginald loved,
and excelled at, every form of sport, and had been
prominent in the playing-fields at Winchester,
Sandhurst and Oxford, but he could not live by sport alone,
and to him it had always been a means and not an
end, a means to health, strength, skill and hardihood--the
which were to be applied--not to *more* games--but
to the fuller living of life.  The seeds of his father's
teaching had fallen on most receptive and fertile
soil, and their fruit ripened not the slower by reason
of the fact that his father was his friend, confidant,
hero and model....  He could see him now as he
straddled mightily on the rug before the library fire,
in his pink and cords, his spurred tops splashed with
mud, and grey on the inner sides with the sweat of
his horse....

"Brown-paper prisons for poor men, and pink-silk
cages for rich--that's Life nowadays, my boy,
unless you're careful....  Get hold of Life, don't
let Life get hold of you.  Take the family motto for
your guidance in actual fact.  '*Be all, see all*.'  Try to
carry it out as far as humanly possible.  *Live* Life
and live it in the World.  Don't live a thousandth
part of Life in a millionth part of the World, as all
our neighbours do.  When you succeed me here and
marry and settle down, be able to say you've seen
everything, done everything, been everything....
Be a gentleman, of course, but one can be a man as
well as being a gentleman--gentility is of the heart
and conduct and manners--not of position and wealth
and rank.  What's the good of seeing one little glimpse
of life out of one little window--whether it's a soldier's
window (which is the best of windows), or a sailor's,
or a lawyer's, parson's, merchant's, scholar's,
sportsman's, landowner's, politician's, or any other....
And go upwards and downwards too, my boy.  Tramps,
ostlers, costermongers and soldiers are a dam' sight
more interestin' than kings--and a heap more human.
A chap who's only moved in one plane of society isn't
educated--not worth listening to..." and much
more to the same effect--and Rupert smiled to himself
as he thought of how his father had advised him not
to "waste" more than a year at Sandhurst, another
at Oxford, and another in an Officers' Mess, before
setting forth to see real life, and real men living it
hard and to the full, in the capitals and the corners
of the earth.

"How the dear old boy must have worshipped
mother--to have married and settled down, at forty,"
he reflected, "and what a beauty she must have been.
She's lovely now," and again his rather hard face
softened into a smile as he thought of the interview
in which he told her of his intention to "chuck" his
commission and go and do things and see things.
Little had he known that she had fully anticipated
and daily expected the declaration which he feared
would be a "terrible blow" to her....  Did she
expect him to be anything else than the son of his
father and his eccentric and adventurous House?

"I wouldn't have you be anything but a chip of
the old block, my darling boy.  You're of age and your
old mother isn't going to be a millstone round your
neck, like she's been round your father's.  Only one
woman can have the right to be that, and you will
give her the right when you marry her....  Your
family really ought not to marry."

"Mother, Mother!" he had protested, "and
'bring up our children to do the same,' I suppose?"

She had been bravely gay when he went, albeit
a little damp of eye and red of nose....  Really he
was a lucky chap to have such a mother.  She was
one in a thousand and he must faithfully do his utmost
to keep his promise and go home once a year or
thereabouts--also "to take care of his nails, not crop his
hair, change damp socks, and wear wool next his
skin...."  Want a bit of doin' in the Legion, what!
Good job the poor darling couldn't see Luigi Rivoli
breaking up recruits, or Sergeant Legros superintending
the ablutions of her Reginald.  What would
she think of this galley and his fellow galley-slaves--of
'Erb, the *Apache*, Carmelita, the Grasshopper, and
the drunkards of the Canteen?  The Bucking Bronco
would amuse her, and she'd certainly be interested
in John Bull, poor old chap....  What could his
story be, and why was he here?  Was there a woman
in it? ... Probably.  He didn't look the sort of
chap who'd "done something."  Poor devil! ... Yes,
her big warm heart would certainly have a
corner for John Bull.  Had she not been well brought
up by her husband and son in the matter of seeing a
swan in every goose they brought home?  Yes, he'd
repay John Bull's kindness to the full when he left
the Legion.  He should come straight to Elham Old
Hall and his mother should have the chance, which
she would love, of thanking and, in some measure,
repaying the good chap.  He wouldn't tell him exactly
who they were and what they were, lest he should
pretend that fifteen years of Legion life had spoilt
him for *la vie de château*, and refuse to visit them....
He'd like to know his story.  What *could* be the cause
of a man like him leading this ha'penny-a-day life
for fourteen years?  Talk of paper prisons and silken
cages--this was a prison of red-hot stone.  Fancy this
the setting for the best years of your life, and he sat
up and looked round the moonlit room.

Next to him lay the Bucking Bronco, snoring heavily,
his moustache looking huge and black in the
moonlight that made his face appear pale and fine....
A strong and not unkindly face, with its great jutting
chin and square heavy jaw.

'Erb lay on the neighbouring cot, his hands clasped
above his head as he slept the sleep of the just and
innocent, for whom a night of peaceful slumber is the
meet reward of a well-spent day.  His pinched and
cunning little face was transfigured by the moonlight,
and the sleeping Herbert Higgins looked less the
vulgar, street-bred guttersnipe than did the waking
"'Erbiggins" of the day.

Beyond him lay the mighty bulk of Luigi Rivoli,
breathing stertorously in drunken slumber as he
sprawled, limb-scattered, on his face, fully dressed,
save for his boots....

What an utter swine and cad--reflected Reginald--and
what would happen when he selected him for his
attentions?  Of course, the Neapolitan had ten times
his strength and twice his weight--but there would
have to be a fight--or a moral victory for the recruit.
He would obey no behests of Luigi Rivoli, nor accept
any insults nor injuries tamely.  He would land the
cad one of the best, and take the consequences,
however humiliating or painful.  And he'd do it every
time too, until he were finally incapacitated, or Luigi
Rivoli weary of the game.  Evidently the brute had
some sort of respect for the big American and for John
Bull.  He should learn to have some for "Reginald
Rupert," too, or the latter would die in the attempt
to teach it.  The prospect was not alluring though,
and the Austrian and the *Apache* had received sharp
and painful lessons on the folly of defying or attacking
Luigi Rivoli.  Still--experiences, dangers, difficulties
and real, raw, primitive life were what his family
sought--and here were some of them.  Yes, he was
ready for Il Signor Luigi Rivoli....

In the next bed lay the Russian, Mikhail.  Queer,
shy chap.  What a voice, and what a complexion for
a recruit of the Foreign Legion!  How extraordinarily
alike he and his brother were, and yet there was a
great difference between their respective voices and
facial expressions....  Another queer story there.
They looked like students....  Probably involved
in some silly Nihilist games and had to bolt for their
lives from the Russian police or from Nihilist
confederates, or both.  It was nice to see how the manlier
brother looked after the other.  He seemed to be in a
perpetual state of concern and anxiety about him.

Beyond the Russian recruit lay the mad Legionary
known as the Grasshopper.  What a pathetic creature--an
ex-officer of one of the most aristocratic corps in
Europe.  In fact he must be a nobleman or he could
not have been in the Guides.  Must be of an ancient
family moreover.  Besides, he was so very obviously
of *ceux qui ont pris la peine de naître*.  What could his
story be?  Fancy the man being a really first-class
soldier on parade, manoeuvres, march, or battlefield,
and an obvious lunatic at the same time....  Poor
devil!...

Next to him was the other Russian, and then
Edouard Malvin, the nasty-looking cad who appeared
to be Rivoli's chief toady.  His neighbour was the fat
and dull-looking Dutch lad (who was to display such
unusual and enviable moral courage)....

Footsteps resounded without, and the Room-Corporal
entered with a clatter.  Turning down his
blanket, as though expecting to find something
beneath it, he disclosed some bottles, a few packets
of tobacco and cigarettes, and a little heap of coins.

"Bonheur de Dieu vrai!" he ejaculated.  "'Y'a
de bon!" and examined the packets for any indication
of their orientation.  "'Les deux Russes,'" he read,
and broke into a guinguette song.  Monsieur le Caporal
loved wine and was *un ramasseur de sous*.  These
Russians were really worthy and sensible recruits,
and, though they should escape none of their duties,
they should be regarded with a tolerant and
non-malicious eye by Monsieur le Caporal.  No undue
share of corvées should be theirs....  No harm in
their complimenting their good Caporal and winning
his approval--but, on the other hand, no bribery
and corruption.  Mais non--c'est tout autre chose!

As the Corporal disrobed, the Grasshopper rose
from his cot, crouched, and hopped towards him.

The Corporal evinced no surprise.

"Monsieur le Caporal," quoth the Grasshopper.
"How can a Cigale steer a gunboat? ... I ask you....
How can I possibly dip the ensign from peak
to taffrail, cat the anchor or shoot the sun, by the
pale glimmer of the binnacle light? ... And I have,
for cargo, the Cestus of Aphrodite...."

"And *I* have, for cargo, seven bottles of good red
wine--beneath my Cestus of Corporal--so I can't tell
you, Grasshopper," was the reply....  "Va t'en! ... You
go and ask Monsieur le bon Diable--and tell him
his old *ami* Caporal Achille Martel sent you....
Go on--*allez schteb' los*--and let me sleep...."

The Grasshopper hopped to the door and out into
the corridor....

Rupert fell asleep....

As John Bull had prophesied, he was awakened by
yells of "*Au jus!  Au jus!  Au jus!*" from the
garde-chambre, the room-orderly on duty, as he went from
cot to cot with a huge jug.

Each sleepy soul roused himself sufficiently to hold
out the tin mug which hung at the head of his bed, and
to receive a half-pint or so of the "gravy"--which
proved to be really excellent coffee.  For his own part,
Rupert would have been glad of the addition of a little
milk and sugar, but he had swallowed too much
milkless and sugarless tea (from a basin) in the British
Army, to be concerned about such a trifle....

"Good morning.  Put on the white trousers and
come downstairs with me," said John Bull, as he also
swallowed his coffee.  "Be quick, or you won't get
a chance at the lavatory.  There's washing accommodation
for six men when sixty want it....  Come on."

As he hurried from the room, Rupert noticed that
Corporal Martel lay comfortably in bed while the rest
hurriedly dressed.  From time to time he mechanically
shouted: "Levez-vous, mes enfants...."  "Levez-vous,
assassins...."  "Levez-vous, scélérats...."

After each of his shouts came, in antistrophe, the
anxious yell of the garde-chambre (who had to sweep
the room before parade) of "Balayez au-dessous
vos lits!"

Returning from his hasty and primitive wash,
Rupert noticed that the Austrian recruit was lacing
Rivoli's boots, while the *Apache*, grimacing horribly
behind his back, brushed the Neapolitan down,
Malvin superintending their labours.

"Shove on the white tunic and blue sash," said John
Bull to his protégé--"and you'll want knapsack,
cartridge-belt, bayonet and rifle....  Bye-bye!  I
must be off.  You'll have recruit-drills separate from
us for some time....  See you later...."


.. vspace:: 2

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   §3

.. vspace:: 1

Légionnaire Reginald Rupert soon found that
French drill methods of training differed but little
from English, though perhaps more thorough and
systematically progressive, and undoubtedly better
calculated to develop initiative.

It did not take the Corporal-Instructor long to
single him out as an unusually keen and intelligent
recruit, and Rupert was himself surprised at the
pleasure he derived from being placed as Number One
of the *escouade* of recruits, after a few days.  His
knowledge of French helped him considerably, of
course, and on that first morning he had obeyed the
Corporal's roar of "*Sac à terre*," "*A gauche*," "*A
droit*," "*En avant, marche*," "*Pas gymnastique*," or
"*Formez les faisceaux*," before the majority of the
others had translated them.  He also excelled in the
eating of the "Breakfast of the Legion," which is
nothing more nor less than a terribly punishing run,
in quick time, round and round the parade-ground.
By the time the Corporal called a halt, Rupert, who
was a fine runner, in the pink of condition, was
beginning to feel that he had about shot his bolt, while,
with one or two exceptions, the rest of the squad
were in a state of real distress, gasping, groaning,
and coughing, with protruding eyeballs and faces
white, green, or blue.  During the brief "cigarette
halt," he gazed round with some amusement at the
prostrate forms of his exhausted comrades.

The Russian, Feodor, seemed to be in pretty well
as good condition as himself--in striking contrast
to Mikhail, whose state was pitiable, as he knelt
doubled up, drawing his breath in terrible gasps,
and holding his side as though suffering agonies from
"stitch."

'Erb was in better case, but he lay panting as though
his little chest would burst.

"Gawdstrewth, matey," he grunted to M. Tou-tou
Boil-the-Cat, "I ain't run so much since I last see a
copper."

The *Apache*, green-faced and blue-lipped, showed
his teeth in a vicious snarl, by way of reply.  Absinthe
and black cigarettes are a poor training-diet.

The fat Dutch lad, Hans Djoolte, appeared to be
in extremis and likely to disappear in a pool of
perspiration.  The gnarled-looking Spaniard drew his breath
with noisy whoops, and stout Germans, Alsatians,
Belgians and Frenchmen gave the impression of
persons just rescued from drowning or suffocation
by smoke.  Having finished his cigarette, the Corporal
ran to the far side of the parade-ground, raised his
hand with a shout, and cried, "*A moi*."

"Well run, *bleu*," he observed to Rupert, who
arrived first.

Before the "breakfast" half-hour was over, he
was thoroughly tired, and more than a little sorry
for some of the others.  M. Tou-tou Boil-the-Cat was
violently sick; the plump Dutchman was soaked
from head to foot; many a good, stout Hans, Fritz
and Carl wished he had never been born; and Mikhail
Kyrilovitch distinguished himself by falling flat in
a dead faint, to the contemptuous and outspoken
disgust of the Corporal.

It was indeed a kill-or-cure training, and, in some
cases, bade fair to kill before it cured.  One
drill-manoeuvre interested Rupert by its novelty and yet
by its suggestion of the old Roman *testudo*.  On the
order "*A genoux*," all had to fall on their knees and
every man of the squad, not in the front rank, to
thrust his head well under the knapsack of the man
in front of him.  Since, under service conditions,
knapsacks would be stuffed with spare uniforms and
underclothing, and covered with tent-canvas, blanket,
spare boots, fuel or a cooking-pot, excellent
head-cover was thus provided against shrapnel and
shell-fragments, and from bullets from some of such rifles
as are used by the Chinese, African, Madagascan, and
Arab foes of the Legion.  Interested or not, it was
with unfeigned thankfulness that, at about eleven
o'clock, Rupert found himself marching back to
barracks and heard the "*Rompez*" command of
dismissal outside the *caserne* of his Company.  Hurrying
up to the *chambrée* he put his Lebel in the rack, his
knapsack and belts on the shelf above his bed, and lay
down to get that amount of rest without which he
felt he could not face breakfast.

"Hallo, Rupert!  Had a gruelling?" enquired
John Bull, entering and throwing off his accoutrements.
"They make you earn your little bit of corn,
don't they?  You feel it less day by day though, and
soon find you can do it without turning a hair.  Not
much chance of a chap with weak lungs or heart
surviving the 'Breakfast of the Legion,' for long.
You see the point of the training when you begin
the desert marches."

"Quite looking forward to it," said Rupert.

"It's better looking back on it, on the whole,"
rejoined the other grimly....  "Feel like breakfast?"
he added in French, remembering that the more his
young friend spoke in that tongue the better.

"Oh, I'm all right.  What'll it be?"

"Well, not *bec-fins* and *pêche Melba* exactly.  Say
a mug of bread-soup, containing potato and vegetables
and a scrap of meat.  Sort of Irish stew."

"*Arlequins* at two sous the plate, first, for me,
please," put in M. Tou-tou Boil-the-Cat, whose small
compact frame seemed to have recovered its normal
elasticity and vigour.

As he spoke, the voice of a kitchen-orderly was raised
below in a long-drawn howl of "*Soupe!  A la Soupe!*"
Turning with one accord to the garde-chambre the
Legionaries bawled "*Soupe!*" as one man, and like
an arrow from a bow, the room-orderly sped forth,
to return a minute later bearing the soup-kettle and
a basket of loaves of grey bread.  Tin plates and
utensils were snatched from the hanging-cupboards,
and mugs from their hooks on the wall and the
Legionaries seated themselves on the benches that ran down
either side of the long table.

"'Fraid you'll have to stand out, Rupert, being a
recruit," said John Bull.  "There's only room for
twenty at this table."

"Of course.  Thanks," was the reply, and the speaker
betook himself to his bed, and sat him down with his
mug and crust.

With cheerful sociability, 'Erb had already seated
himself at table, and was beating a loud tattoo with
mug and plate as he awaited the administrations of
the soup-laden Ganymede.

Suddenly the expansive and genial smile faded on
'Erb's happy face, as he felt himself seized by the
scruff of his neck and the seat of his trousers, and
raised four feet in the air....  For a second he
hovered, descended a foot and was then shot through
the air with appalling violence to some distant corner
of the earth.  Fortunately for 'Erb, that corner
contained a bed and he landed fairly on it....  The
Legionary Herbert Higgins in the innocence of his
ignorance had occupied the Seats of the Mighty, had
sat him down in the place of Luigi Rivoli--and Luigi
had removed the insect.

"Gawd love us!" said 'Erb.  "'Oo'd a' thought
it?" as he realised that he was still in barracks and
had only travelled from the table to a cot, a distance
of some six feet....

Mikhail Kyrilovitch lay stretched on his bed, too
exhausted to eat.  It interested and rather touched
Rupert to see how tenderly the other Russian half
raised him from the bed, coaxed him with soup and,
failing, produced a bottle of wine from behind the
*paquetage* on his shelf, and induced him to drink a
little....

"Potato fatigue after this, Rupert," said John Bull
as he came over to the recruit, and offered him a
cigarette.  "Ghastly stuff you'll find this black
Algerian tobacco, but one gets used to it.  It's funny,
but when I get a taste of any of the tobaccos from
Home, I find my palate so ruined that I don't enjoy
it.  Seems acrid and strong though it's infinitely
milder...."

The Kitchen-Corporal thrust his head in at the door
of the *chambrée*, roared "*Aux palates*" and vanished.
Trooping down to the kitchen, the whole Company
stood in a ring and solemnly peeled potatoes.  Here,
at any rate, Mikhail Kyrilovitch distinguished himself
among the recruits, for not only was his the first
potato to fall peeled into the bucket, but his peel
was the thinnest, his output the greatest.  Standing
next to him, Rupert noticed how tiny were his hands
and wrists, and how delicate his nails.

"Apparently this is part of regular routine and not
a corvée," he remarked.

"Mais oui, Monsieur," replied Mikhail primly.

"Great tip to get cunning at dodging extra fatigues
when you're a soldier," continued Rupert.

"Mais oui, Monsieur," replied Mikhail primly.

"Expect they'll catch us wretched recruits on that
lay until we get artful."

"Mais oui, Monsieur," replied Mikhail primly.

What a funny shy lad he was, with his eternal "Mais
oui, Monsieur" ... Perhaps that was all the French
he knew!...

"Do you think the medical-examination will be
very--er--searching, Monsieur?" asked Mikhail.

So he did know French after all.  What was he
trembling about now?

"Shouldn't think so.  Why?  You're all right,
aren't you?  You wouldn't have passed the doctor
when you enlisted, otherwise."

"Non, Monsieur."

"Where did you enlist?"

"At Paris, Monsieur."

"So did I; Rue St. Dominique.  LIttle fat cove in
red breeches and a white tunic.  I suppose you had
the same chap?"

"Er--oui, Monsieur."

"I suppose he overhauled you very thoroughly? ... Wasn't
it infernally cold standing stark naked in that
beastly room while he punched you about?"

"Oh!--er--oui, Monsieur.  Oh, please let us
... Er--wasn't that running dreadful this morning?" ...

"I say, Monsieur Rupaire, do you think we shall
have the same 'breakfast' every morning?" put
in Feodor Kyrilovitch.  "It'll be the death of my
brother here, if we do.  He never was a runner."

"'Fraid so, during recruits' course," replied Rupert,
and added: "I noticed a great difference between
you and your brother."

"Oh, it's only just in that respect," was the reply.
"I've always been better winded than he....  Illness
when he was a kid....  Lungs not over strong...."

Even as he had prophesied, an Orderly-Sergeant
swooped down upon them as the potato-fatigue
finished, and, while the old Legionaries somehow
melted into thin air and vanished like the baseless
fabric of a vision, the recruits were captured and
commandeered for a barrack-scavenging corvée which
kept them hard at work until it was time to fall in
for "theory."

This Rupert discovered to be instruction in recognition
of badges of rank, and, later, in every sort and kind
of rule and regulation; in musketry, tactics, training
and the principles and theory of drill, entrenchment,
scouting, skirmishing, and every other branch of
military education.

At two o'clock, drill began again, and lasted until
four, at which hour Monsieur le Médicin-Major held
the medical examination, the idea of which seemed
so disturbing to Mikhail Kyrilovitch.  It proved to
be the merest formality--a glance, a question, a
caution against excess, and the recruits were passed
and certified as *bon pour le service* at the rate of twenty
to the quarter-hour.  They were, moreover, free for
the remainder of the day (provided they escaped all
victim-hunting Non-coms., in search of corvée-parties)
with the exception of such hours as might be
necessary for labours of *astiquage* and the *lavabo*.

On returning to the *chambrée*, Rupert found his
friend John Bull awaiting him.

"Well, Rupert," he cried cheerily, "what sort of a
day have you had?  Tired?  We'll get 'soupe' again
shortly.  I'll take you to the *lavabo* afterwards, and
show you the ropes.  Got to have your white kit, arms
and accoutrements all *klim-bim*, as the Germans say,
before you dress and go out, or else you'll have to do
it in the dark."

"Yes, thanks," replied Rupert.  "I'll get straight
first.  I hate 'spit and polish' after Lights Out.
What'll the next meal be?"

"Same as this morning--the eternal 'soupe.'  The
only variety in food is when dog-biscuit replaces
bread....  Nothing to grumble at really, except the
infernal monotony.  Quantity is all right--in fact some
fellows save up a lot of bread and biscuit and sell it
in the town.  (Eight days *salle de police* if you're
caught.)  But sometimes you feel you could eat
anything in the wide world except Legion 'soupe,' bread
and biscuit...."

After the second and last meal of the day, at about
five o'clock, Rupert was introduced to the *lavabo*
and its ways--particularly its ways in the matter of
disappearing soap and vanishing "washing"--and,
his first essay in laundry-work concluded, returned
with Legionary John Bull and the Bucking Bronco for
an hour or two of leather-polishing, accoutrement-cleaning
and "Ironing" without an iron.

The room began to fill and was soon a scene of
more or less silent industry.  On his bed, the great
Luigi Rivoli lay magnificently asleep, while, on
neighbouring cots and benches, his weapons, accoutrements,
boots and uniform received the attentions of Messieurs
Malvin, Meyer, Tou-tou Boil-the-Cat, Dimitropoulos,
Borges, Bauer, Hirsch, and others, his henchmen.

Anon the great man awoke, yawned cavernously,
ejaculated "*Dannazione*" and sat up.  One gathered
that the condition of his mouth was not all that it
might be, and that his head ached.  Even he was
not exempt from the penalties incurred by lesser men,
and even he had to recognise the fact that a
next-morning follows an evening-before.  Certain denizens
of the *chambrée* felt, and looked, uneasy, but were
reassured by the reflection that there was still a stock
of *bleus* unchastened, and available for the great man's
needs and diversion.  Rising, he roared "*Oho!*",
smacked and flexed his muscles according to his
evening ritual, and announced that a recruit might
be permitted to fetch him water.

Feodor Kyrilovitch unobtrusively changed places
with his brother Mikhail, whose bed was next to that
of the bully.

"Here, dog," roared the Neapolitan, and brought
his "quart" down with a right resounding blow upon
the bare head of Feodor.  Without a word the Russian
took the mug and hurried to the nearest lavatory.
Returning he handed it respectfully to Rivoli, and
pointing into it said in broken Italian--

"There would appear to be a mark on the bottom
of the Signor's cup."

The great man looked--and smiled graciously as he
recognised a gold twenty-franc piece.  "A thoroughly
intelligent recruit," he added, turning to Malvin
who nodded and smiled drily.  It entered the mind of
le bon Légionnaire Malvin that this recruit should also
give an exhibition of his intelligence to le bon
Légionnaire Malvin.

"Where's that fat pig from Olanda who can only
whine '*Verstaan nie*' when he is spoken to?"
enquired Rivoli, looking round.  "Let me see if I can
'Verstaan' him how to put my boots on smartly."

But, fortunately for himself, the Dutch recruit,
Hans Djoolte, was not present.

"Not there?" thundered the great man, on being
informed.  "How dare the fat calf be not there?
Let it be known that I desire all the recruits of this
room to be on duty from 'Soupe' till six, or later,
in case I should want them.  Let them all parade
before me now."

Some sheepishly grinning, some with looks of alarm,
some under strong protest, all the recruits with one
exception, "fell in" at the foot of the Italian's bed.
Some were dismissed as they came up; the two
Russians, as having paid their footing very handsomely;
the *Apache*, and Franz Josef Meyer, as having been
properly broken to bit and curb; the Greek, as a
declared admirer and slave; and one or two others
who had already wisely propitiated, or, to their sorrow,
encountered less pleasantly, the uncrowned king of
the Seventh Company.  The remainder received tasks,
admonitions and warnings, the which were received
variously, but without open defiance.

"The attitude of le Légionnaire 'Erbiggins was
characteristic.  Realising that he had not a ghost of a chance
of success against a man of twice his weight and thrice
his strength, he took the leggings which were given
him to clean and returned a stream of nervous English,
of which the pungent insults and vile language
accorded but ill with the bland innocence of his face,
and the deferential acquiescence of his manner.

"Ain't yew goin' ter jine the merry throng?"
asked the Bucking Bronco of Reginald Rupert, upon
hearing that recruit reply to Malvin's order to join
the line, with a recommendation that Malvin should
go to the devil.

"I am not," replied Rupert.

"Wal, I guess we'll back yew up, sonny," said the
American with an approving smile.

"I shall be glad if you will in no way interfere,"
returned the Englishman.

"Gee-whillikins!" commented the Bucking Bronco.

John Bull looked anxious.  "He's the strongest
man I have ever seen," he remarked, "besides being
a professional wrestler and acrobat."

Malvin again approached, grinning maliciously.

"Il Signor Luigi Rivoli would be sorry to have to
come and fetch you, English pig," said he.  "Sorry
for you, that is.  Do you wish to find yourself *au
grabat*,[#] you scurvy, mangy, lousy cur of a recruit? ... What
reply shall I take Il Signor Luigi Rivoli?"


.. vspace:: 2

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   [#] On a sick bed.

.. vspace:: 2

"*That!*" replied the Englishman, and therewith
smote the fat Austrian a most tremendous smack
across his heavy blue jowl with the open hand, sending
him staggering several yards.  Without paying further
attention to the great man's ambassador, he strode in
the direction of the great man himself, with blazing
eyes and clenched jaw.

"You want me, do you?" he shouted at the
astonished Luigi, who was rising open-mouthed from
his bed; and, putting the whole weight of his body
behind the blow, drove most skilfully and
scientifically straight at the point of his jaw.

It must be confessed that the Italian was taken
unawares, and in the very act of getting up, so that
his hands were down, and he was neither standing
nor sitting.

He was down and out, and lay across his bed stunned
and motionless.

Into the perfect silence of the *chambrée* fell the
voice of the Bucking Bronco.  Solemnly he counted
from one to ten, and then with a shout of "OUT!"
threw his képi to the roof and roared "*Hurrah!*"
repeatedly.

"Il ira loin," remarked Monsieur Tou-tou Boil-the-Cat,
viewing Rupert's handiwork with experienced,
professional eye.

Exclamatory oaths went up in all the languages
of Europe.

"Il a fait de bon boulet," remarked a grinning
greybeard known as "Tant-de-Soif" to the astounded
and almost awe-stricken crowd.

But le Légionnaire Jean Boule looked ahead.

"You've made two bad enemies, my boy, I'm
afraid....  What about when he comes round?"

"I'll give him some more, if I can," replied Rupert.
"Don't interfere, anyhow."

"Shake, sonny," said the Bucking Bronco solemnly.
"An' look at hyar.  Let's interfere, to the extent o'
makin' thet cunning coyote fight down in the squar'....
Yew won't hev no chance--so don't opine yew
will--but yew'll hev' more chance than yew will
right hyar....  Yew want space when you roughhouses
with Loojey.  Once he gits a holt on yew--yure
monica's up.  Savvy?"

"Thanks," replied the Englishman.  "Right-ho!
If he won't fight downstairs, tell him he can take
the three of us."

"Fower, matey.  Us fower Henglishmen agin' 'im
an' 'is 'ole bleedin' gang," put in 'Erb.  "'E's a bloke
as wants takin' dahn a peg....  Too free wiv'
hisself....  Chucks 'is weight abaht too much....
An' I'll tell yer wot, Cocky.  Keep a heye on that cove
as you giv' a smack in the chops."

"Sure thing," agreed the Bucking Bronco, and
turned to the Belgian who stood ruefully holding his
face and looking as venomous as a broken-backed
cobra, added: "Yew look at hyar, Mounseer Malvin,
my lad.  Don't yew git handlin' yure Rosalie[#] any
dark night.  Yew try ter *zigouiller*\[#] my pal Rupert,
an' I'll draw yure innards up through yure mouth till
yew look like half a pound of dumplin' on the end
of half a yard of macaroni.  Twiggez vous?  *Je tirerai
vos gueutes à travers votre bouche jusqu'à vous resemblez
un demi-livre de ponding au bout d'un demi-yard de
macaroni*....  Got it?  ..."


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

   [#] Bayonet.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent small

   [#] To bayonet.

.. vspace:: 2

Rivoli twitched, stirred, and groaned.  It was
interesting to note that none of his clients and
henchmen offered any assistance.  The sceptre of the great
man swayed in his hand.  Were he beaten, those whom
he ruled by fear, rather than by bribery, would fall
upon him like a pack of wolves.  The hands of Monsieur
Tou-tou Boil-the-Cat twitched and he licked his lips.

"*Je m'en souviendrai*," he murmured.

Rivoli sat up.

"Donna e Madonna!" he said.  "Corpo di Bacco!"
and gazed around.  "What has happened?..."
and then he remembered.  "A minute," he said.
"Wait but a minute--and then bring him to me."

Obedience and acquiescence awoke in the bosoms
of his supporters.  The great Luigi was alive and on his
throne again.  The Greek passed him a mug of water.

"Yes, wait but a moment, and then just hand him
to me....  One of you might go over to the hospital
and say a bed will be wanted shortly," he added.
"And another of you might look up old Jules Latour
down at the cemetery and tell him to start another
grave."

"You're coming to me, for a change, Rivoli," cut
in Rupert contemptuously.  "You're going to fight
me down below.  There's going to be a ring, and fair
play.  Will you come now, or will you wait till
to-morrow?  I can wait if you feel shaken."

"Plug the ugly skunk while he's rattled, Bub,"
advised the American, and turning to the Italian
added, "Sure thing, Loojey.  Ef yew ain't hed enuff
yew kin tote downstairs and hev' a five-bunch frame-up
with the b'y.  Ef yew start rough-housin' up hyar, I'll
take a hand too.  I would anyhaow, only the b'y wants
yew all to himself....  Greedy young punk."

"I will kill him and eat him *now*," said the Italian
rising magnificently.  Apparently his splendid
constitution and physique had triumphed completely,
and it was as though the blow had not been struck.

"Come on, b'ys," yelped the American, "an' ef thet
Dago don't fight as square as he knows haow, I'll
pull his lower jaw off his face."

In a moment the room was empty, except for Mikhail
Kyrilovitch, who sat on the edge of his brother's
bed and shuddered.

Clattering down the stairs and gathering numbers
as it went, the party made for the broad space, or
passage, between high walls near the back entrance
of the Company's *caserne*, a safe and secluded spot
for fights.  As they went along, John Bull gave good
advice to his young friend.

"Remember he's a wrestler and a savate man," he
said, "and that public opinion here recognises the
use of both in a fight--so you can expect him to clinch
and kick as well as butt."

"Right-o!" said Rupert.

A large ring was formed by the rapidly growing
crowd of spectators, a ring, into the middle of which
the Bucking Bronco stepped to declare that he would
rearrange the features, as well as the ideas, of any
supporter of Luigi Rivoli who in any way interfered
with the fight.

The two combatants stripped to the waist and faced
each other.  It was a pleasant surprise to John Bull
to notice that his friend looked bigger "peeled," than
he did when dressed.  (It is a good test of muscular
development.)  Obviously the youth was in the pink
of condition and had systematically developed his
muscles.  But for the presence of Rivoli, the arms and
torso of the Englishman would have evoked admiring
comments.  As it was, the gigantic figure of the Italian
dwarfed him, for he looked what he was--a professional
Strong Man whose stock-in-trade was his enormous
muscles and their mighty strength....  It was not
so much a contrast between David and Goliath as
between Apollo and Hercules.

The Italian assumed his favourite wrestling attitude
with open hands advanced; the Englishman, the
position of boxing.

The two faced each other amidst the perfect silence
of the large throng.

As, to the credit of human nature, is always the
case, the sentiment of the crowd was in favour of
the weaker party.  No one supposed for a moment
that the recruit would win, but he was a "dark horse,"
and English--of a nation proverbially dogged and
addicted to *la boxe*....  He might perhaps be merely
maimed and not killed....  For a full minute the
antagonists hung motionless, eyeing each other warily.
Suddenly the Italian swiftly advanced his left foot
and made a lightning grab with his left hand at the
Englishman's neck.  The latter ducked; the great
arm swung, harmless, above his head, and two sharp
smacks rang out like pistol-shots as the Englishman
planted a left and right with terrific force upon the
Italian's ribs.  Rivoli's gasp was almost as audible
as the blows.  He sprang back, breathing heavily.

John Bull moistened his Lips and thanked God.
Rupert circled round his opponent, sparring for an
opening.  Slowly ... slowly ... almost imperceptibly,
the Italian's head and shoulders bent further
and further back.  What the devil was he doing?--wondered
the Englishman--getting his head out of
danger?  Certainly his jaw was handsomely swollen....
Anyhow he was exposing his mark, the spot where
the ribs divide.  If he could get a "right" in there,
with all his weight and strength, Il Signor Luigi
Rivoli would have to look to himself in the ensuing
seconds.  Rupert made a spring.  As he did so, the
Italian's body turned sideways and leant over until
almost parallel with the ground, as his right knee
drew up to his chest and his right foot shot out with
the force of a horse's kick.  It caught the advancing
Englishman squarely on the mouth, and sent him
flying head over heels like a shot rabbit.  The Italian
darted forward--and so did the Bucking Bronco.

"Assez!" he shouted.  "Let him get up."  At this
point his Legion French failed him, and he added in
his own vernacular, "Ef yew think yu're gwine ter
kick him while he's down, yew've got another think
comin', Loojey Rivoli," and barred his path.

John Bull raised Rupert's head on to his knee.  He
was senseless and bleeding from mouth and nose.

Pushing his way through the ring, came 'Erb, a mug
of water in one hand, a towel in the other.  Filling his
mouth with water, he ejected a fine spray over Rupert's
face and chest, and then, taking the towel by two
corners of a long side, flapped it mightily over the
prostrate man.

The latter opened his eyes, sat up, and spat out a
tooth.

"Damned kicking cad," he remarked, on collecting
his scattered wits and faculties.

"No Queensberry rules here, old chap," said John Bull.

"You do the sime fer 'im, matey.  Kick 'is bleedin'
faice in....  W'y carn't 'e fight like a man, the dirty
furriner?" and turning from his ministrations to
where the great Luigi received the congratulations
of his admiring supporters, he bawled with the full
strength of his lungs: "Yah! you dirty furriner!"
and crowned the taunt by putting his fingers to his
nose and emitting a bellowing *Boo-oo-oo!* of incredibly
bull-like realism.  "If I wasn't yer second, matey, I'd
go an' kick 'im in the stummick naow, I would," he
muttered, resuming his labour of love.

Rupert struggled to his feet.

"Give me the mug," he said to 'Erb, and washed
out his mouth.  "How long 'time' is observed on
these occasions?" he asked of John Bull.

"Oh, nothing's regular," was the reply.  "'Rounds'
end when you fall apart, and 'time' ends when both
are ready....  You aren't going for him again, are you?"

"I'm going for him as long as I can stand and see,"
was the answer.  'Erb patted him on the back.

"Blimey!  You're a White Man, matey," he
commended.  "S'welp me, you are!"

"Seconds out of the ring," bawled the Bucking
Bronco, and unceremoniously shoved back all who
delayed.

A look of incredulity spread over the face of the
Italian.  Could it be possible that the fool did not
know that he was utterly beaten and abolished? ... He
tenderly felt his jaw and aching ribs....

It was true.  The Englishman advanced upon him,
the light of battle in his eyes, and fierce determination
expressed in the frown upon his white face.  His mouth
bore no expression--it was merely a mess.

A cheer went up from the spectators.

A recruit asking for it *twice*, from Luigi Rivoli!

That famous man, though by no means anxious,
was slightly perplexed.  There was something here
to which he was not accustomed.  It was the first
time in his experience that this had happened.  Few
men had defied and faced him once--none had done
it twice.  This, in itself was bad, and in the nature of
a faint blow to his prestige....  He had tried a
grapple--with unfortunate results; he had tried a
kick--most successfully, and he would try another
in a moment.  Lest his opponent should be warily
expecting it, he would now administer a battering-ram
butt.  He crouched forward, extending his open
hands as though to grapple, and, suddenly ducking
his head, flung himself forward, intending to drive
the breath from his enemy's body and seize him by
the throat ere he recovered.

Lightly and swiftly the Englishman side-stepped
and, as he did so, smote the Italian with all his strength
full upon the ear--a blow which caused that organ
to swell hugely, and to "sing" for hours.  Rivoli
staggered sideways and fell.  The Englishman stood
back and waited.  Rivoli arose as quickly as he fell,
and, with a roar of rage, charged straight at the
Englishman, who drove straight at his face, left and
right, cutting his knuckles to the bone.  Heavy and
true as were the blows, they could not avail to stop
that twenty-stone projectile, and, in a second, the
Italian's arms were round him.  One mighty hug and
heave, and his whole body, clasped as in a vice to that
of the Italian, was bent over backward in a bow.

"Thet's torn it," groaned the American, and dashed
his képi upon the ground.  "Fer two damns I'd..."

John Bull laid a restraining hand upon his arm.

"Go it, Rupert," bawled 'Erb, dancing in a frenzy
of excitement.  "Git 'is froat....  Swing up yer
knee....  Kick 'im."

"Shut up," snapped John Bull.  "He's not a
hooligan...."

One of Rupert's arms was imprisoned in those of
the Italian.  True to his training and standards, he
played the game as he had learnt it, and kept his
free right hand from his opponent's throat.  With his
failing strength he rained short-arm blows on the
Italian's face, until it was turned sideways and crushed
against his neck and shoulder.

John Bull mistook the bully's action.

"If you bite his throat, I'll shoot you, Rivoli,"
he shouted, and applauding cheers followed the threat.

The muscles of Rivoli's back and arms tightened
and bunched as he strained with all his strength.
Slowly but surely he bent further over, drawing the
Englishman's body closer and closer in his embrace.

To John Bull, the seconds seemed years.  Complete
silence reigned.  Rupert's blows weakened and became
feeble.  They ceased.  Rivoli bent over further.  As
Rupert's right arm fell to his side, the Italian seized
it from behind.  His victim was now absolutely
powerless and motionless.  John Bull was reminded of a
boa-constrictor which he had once seen crush a deer.
Suddenly the Italian's left arm was withdrawn, his
right arm continuing to imprison Rupert's left while
his right hand retained his grip of the other.  Thrusting
his left hand beneath the Englishman's chin he put
all his colossal strength into one great effort--pushing
the head back until it seemed that the neck must
break, and at the same time contracting his great
right arm and bending himself almost double.  He
then raised his opponent and dashed him to the
ground....

Reginald Rupert recovered consciousness in the
Legion's Hospital.

A skilful, if somewhat brutal, surgeon soon decided
that his back was not broken but only badly sprained.
On leaving hospital, a fortnight later, he did eight
days *salle de police* by way of convalescence.

On return to duty, he found himself something of
a hero in the Seventh Company, and decidedly the
hero of the recruits of his *chambrée*.

Disregarding the earnest entreaties of John Bull
and the reiterated advice of the Bucking Bronco, and
of the almost worshipping 'Erb--he awaited Luigi
Rivoli on the evening after his release and challenged
him to fight.

The great man burst into explosive laughter--laughter
almost too explosive to be wholly genuine.

"Fight you, whelp!  Fight you, *whelp*!" he scoffed.
"*Why* should I fight you?  Pah!  Out of my sight--I
have something else to do."

"Oh have you?  Well, don't forget that I have
nothing else to do, any time you feel like fighting.
See?" replied the Englishman.

The Italian again roared with laughter, and Rupert
with beating heart and well-concealed sense of mighty
relief, returned to his cot to work.

It was noticeable that Il Signor Luigi Rivoli
invariably had something else to do, so far as Rupert
was concerned, and molested him no more.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`LE CAFARD AND OTHER THINGS`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER VI


.. class:: center medium

   LE CAFARD AND OTHER THINGS

.. vspace:: 2

For Légionnaire Reginald Rupert the days slipped
past with incredible rapidity, and, at the end
of six months, this adaptable and exceedingly keen
young man felt himself to be an old and seasoned
Legionary, for whom the Depôt held little more in
the way of instruction and experience.

His thoughts began to turn to Foreign Service.
When would he be able to volunteer for a draft going
to Tonkin, Madagascar, Senegal, or some other place
of scenes and experiences entirely different from those
of Algeria?  When would he see some active service--that
which he had come so far to see, and for which
he had undergone these hardships and privations?

Deeply interested as he was in all things military,
and anxious as he was to learn and become the
Compleat Soldier, he found himself beginning to grow
very weary of the trivial round, the common task,
of Life in the Depôt.  Once he knew his drill as an
Infantryman, he began to feel that the proportion of
training and instruction to that of corvée and fatigues
was small.  He had not travelled all the way to Algiers
to handle broom and wheelbarrow, and perform
non-military labours at a wage of a halfpenny per
day.  Of course, one took the rough with the smooth
and shrugged one's shoulders with the inevitable "Que
voulez-vous?  C'est la Légion," but, none the less, he
had had enough, and more than enough, of Depôt life.

He sometimes thought of going to the *Adjudant-Major*,
offering to provide proofs that he had been a
British officer, and claiming to be placed in the class of
*angehende corporale* (as he called the *élèves Caporaux*
or probationary Corporals) with a view to promotion
and a wider and different sphere of action.

There were reasons against this course, however.
It would, very probably, only result in his being stuck
in the Depôt permanently, as a Corporal-Instructor--the
more so as he spoke German.  Also, it was neither
quite worth while, nor quite playing the game, as
he did not intend to spend more than a year in the
Legion and was looking forward to his attempt at
desertion as his first real Great Adventure.

He had heard horrible stories of the fate of most of
those who go "on pump," as, for no discoverable reason,
the Legionary calls desertion.  In every barrack-room
there hung unspeakably ghastly photographs of the
mangled bodies of Legionaries who had fallen into
the hands of the Arabs and been tortured by their
women.  He had himself seen wretched deserters
dragged back by Goums,[#] a mass of rags, filth, blood
and bruises; their manacled hands fastened to the
end of a rope attached to an Arab's saddle.  Inasmuch
as the captor got twenty-five francs for returning a
deserter, alive or dead, he merely tied the wounded, or
starved and half-dead wretch to the end of a rope and
galloped with him to the nearest outpost or barracks.
When the Roumi[#] could no longer run, he was quite
welcome to fall and be dragged.


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

   [#] Arab gens d'armes.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent small

   [#] White man.

.. vspace:: 2

Rupert had also gathered a fairly accurate idea of
the conditions of life--if "life" it can be called--in
the Penal Battalions.

Yes, on the whole, desertion from the Legion would
be something in the nature of an adventure, when one
considered the difficulties, risks, and dangers, which
militated against success, and the nature of the
punishment which attended upon failure.  No wonder that
desertion was regarded by all and sundry as being a
feat of courage, skill and endurance to which attached
no slightest stigma of disgrace!  One gathered that
most men "made the promenade" at some time or
other--generally under the influence of *le cafard* in
some terrible Southern desert-station, and were dealt
with more or less leniently (provided they lost no
articles of their kit) in view of the fact that successful
desertion from such places was utterly impossible,
and only attempted by them "while of unsound
mind."  Only once or twice, in the whole history of
the Legion, had a man got clear away, obtained a
camel, and, by some miracle of luck, courage and
endurance, escaped death at the hands of the Arabs,
thirst, hunger, and sunstroke, to reach the Moroccan
border and take service with the Moors--who are
the natural and hereditary enemies of the Touaregs
and Bedouins.

Yes, he had begun to feel that he had certainly
come to the end of a period of instruction and
experience, and was in need of change to fresh fields
and pastures new.  Vegetating formed no part of his
programme of life, which was far too short, in any case,
for all there was to see and to do....

Sitting one night on his cot, and talking to the man
for whom he now had a very genuine and warm
affection, he remarked--

"Don't you get fed up with Depôt life, Bull?"

"I have been fed up with life, Depôt and otherwise,
for over twenty years," was the reply....  "Don't
forget that life here in Sidi is a great deal better than
life in a desert station in the South.  It is supportable
anyhow; there--it simply isn't; and those who don't
desert and die, go mad and die.  The exceptions, who
do neither, deteriorate horribly, and come away very
different men....  Make the most of Sidi, my boy,
while you are here, and remember that foreign service,
when in Tonkin, Madagascar, or Western Africa,
inevitably means fever and dysentery, and generally
broken health for life....  Moreover, Algeria is the
only part of the French colonial possessions in which
the climate lets one enjoy one's pipe."

That very night, shortly after the *caserne* had fallen
silent and still, its inmates wrapped in the heavy
sleep of the thoroughly weary, an alarm-bugle sounded
in the barrack-square, and, a minute later, non-commissioned
officers hurried from room to room, bawling,
"*Aux armes!  Aux armes!  Aux armes!*" at the top
of their voices.

Rupert sat up in his bed, as Corporal Achille Martel
began to shout, "*Levez-vous donc.  Levez-vous!
Faites le sac!  Faites le sac!  En tenue de Campagne
d'Afrique*."

"'Ooray!" shrilled 'Erb.  "Oo-bloomin'-ray."

"Buck up, Rupert," said John Bull.  "We've got
to be on the barrack-square in full 'African field
equipment' in ten minutes."

The *chambrée* became the scene of feverish activity,
as well as of delirious excitement and joy.  In spite of
it being the small hours of the morning, every man
howled or whistled his own favourite song, without
a sign of that liverish grumpiness which generally
accompanies early-morning effort.  The great Luigi's
slaves worked at double pressure since they had to
equip their lord and master as well as themselves.
Feodor Kyrilovitch appeared to pack his own knapsack
with one hand and that of Mikhail with the other,
while he whispered words of cheer and encouragement.
The Dutch boy, Hans Djoolte, having finished his
work, knelt down beside his bed and engaged in
prayer.  Speculation was rife as to whether France
had declared war on Morocco, or whether the Arabs
were in rebellion, for the hundredth time, and lighting
the torch of destruction all along the Algerian border.

In ten minutes from the blowing of the alarm-bugle,
the Battalion was on parade in the barrack-square,
every man fully equipped and laden like a beast of
burden.  One thought filled every mind as the
ammunition boxes were brought from the magazine and prised
open.  *What would the cardboard packets contain*?  A
few seconds after the first packet had been torn open
by the first man to whom one was tossed, the news
had spread throughout the Battalion.

*Ball-Cartridge!*

The Deity in that moment received the heartfelt
fervid thanks of almost every man in the barrack-square,
for ball-cartridge meant active service--in
any case, a blessed thing, whatever might result--the
blessing of death, of promotion, of decorations, of
wounds and discharge from the Legion.  The blessing
of change, to begin with.

There was one exception however.  When Caporal
Achille Martel "told off" Légionnaire Mikhail Kyrilovitch
for orderly-duty to the *Adjudant Vaguemestre*,[#]
duty which would keep him behind in barracks,
that Legionary certainly contrived to conceal any
disappointment that he may have felt.


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

   [#] The postmaster.

.. vspace:: 2

A few minutes later the Legion's magnificent band
struck up the Legion's march of "*Tiens, voilà du
boudin*," and the Battalion swung out of the gate,
past the barracks of the Spahis, through the quiet
sleeping streets into the main road, and so out of the
town to which many of them never returned.

In the third row of fours of the Seventh Company
marched the Bucking Bronco, John Bull, Reginald
Rupert, and Herbert Higgins.  In the row in front
of them, Luigi Rivoli, Edouard Malvin, the Grass
hopper, and Feodor Kyrilovitch.  In the front row
old Tant-de-Soif, Franz Josef Meyer, Tou-tou
Boil-the-Cat, and Hans Djoolte.  In front of them marched
the four drummers.  At the head of the Company
rode Captain d'Armentières, beside whom walked
Lieutenant Roberte.

Marching "at ease," the men discussed the probabilities
and possibilities of the expedition.  All the
signs and tokens to be read by experienced soldier-eyes,
were those of a long march and active service.

"It'll be a case of 'best foot foremost' a few hours
hence, Rupert, I fancy," remarked John Bull.  "I
shouldn't be surprised if we put up thirty miles on
end, with no halt but the 'cigarette spaces.'"

"Sure thing," agreed the Bucking Bronco.  "I got
a hunch we're gwine ter throw our feet some, to-day.
We wouldn't hev' hiked off like this with sharp
ammunition and made out get-away in quarter of an
hour ef little Johnnie hadn't wanted the doctor.
Well, I'm sorry fer the b'ys as ain't good mushers...
Guess we shan't pound our ears[#] before we wants
tew, this trip."


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

   [#] Sleep.

.. vspace:: 2

Marching along the excellent sandy road through
the cool of the night, under a glorious moon, with
the blood of youth, and health, and strength coursing
like fire through his veins, it was difficult for Rupert
to realise that, within a few hours, he would be wearily
dragging one foot after the other, his rifle weighing a
hundredweight, his pack weighing a ton, his mouth
a lime-kiln, his body one awful ache.  He had had some
pretty gruelling marches before, but this was the first
time that the Battalion had gone out on a night alarm
with ball-cartridge, and every indication of it being
the "real thing."

On tramped the Legion.

Anon there was a whistle, a cry of *Halt!* and there
was a few minutes' rest.  Men lit cigarettes; some sat
down; several fumbled at straps and endeavoured
to ease packs by shifting them.  Malvin made his
master lie down after removing his pack altogether.
It is a pack well worth removing--that of the Legion--save
when seconds are too precious to be thus spent,
and you consider it the wiser plan to fall flat and lie
from the word "*Halt!*" to the word "*Fall in!*"
The knapsack of black canvas is heavy with two
full uniforms, underclothing, cleaning materials and
sundries.  Weighty tent-canvas and blankets are
rolled round it, tent-supports are fastened at the side,
firewood, a cooking-pot, drinking-mug and spare
boots go on top.

Attached to his belt the Legionary carries a
sword-bayonet with a steel scabbard, four hundred rounds
of ammunition in his cartridge-pouches, an entrenching
tool, and his "sac."  Add his rifle and water-bottle,
and you have the most heavily laden soldier in the
world.  He does not carry his overcoat--he wears it,
and is perhaps unique in considering a heavy overcoat
to be correct desert wear.  Under his overcoat he has
only a canvas shirt and white linen trousers (when *en
tenue de campagne d'Afrique*), tucked into leather
gaiters.  Round his waist, his blue sash--four yards
of woollen cloth--acts as an excellent cholera-belt
and body-support.  The linen neckcloth, or
couvre-nuque, buttoned on to the white cover of his képi,
protects his neck and ears, and, to some extent, his
face, and prevents sunstroke....

The Battalion marched on through the glorious
dawn, gaily singing "*Le sac, ma foi, toujours au dos*,"
and the old favourite marching songs "*Brigadier*,"
"*L'Empereur de Danmark*," "*Père Bugeaud*," and
"*Tiens, voilà du boudin*."  Occasionally a German
would lift up his splendid voice and soon more than
half the battalion would be singing--

   |   "Trinken wir noch ein Tröpfchen
   |   Aus dem kleinen Henkeltöpfchen."

.. class:: noindent

or *Die Wacht am Rhein* or the pathetic *Morgenlied*.

At the second halt, when some eight miles had been
covered, there were few signs of fatigue, and more men
remained standing than sat down.  As the long column
waited by the side of the road, a small cavalcade from
the direction of Sidi-bel-Abbès overtook it.  At the
head rode a white-haired, white-moustached officer on
whose breast sparkled and shone that rare and glorious
decoration, the Grand Cross of the Legion of Honour.

"That's the Commander-in-Chief in Algeria," said
John Bull to Rupert.  "That settles it: we're out for
business this time, and I fancy you'll see some
Arab-fighting before you are much older....  Feet going
to be all right, do you think?"

"Fine," replied Rupert.  "My boots are half full
of tallow, and I've got a small bottle of bapédi in
my sack...."

On tramped the Legion.

The day grew hot and packs grew heavy.  The
Battalion undeniably and unashamedly slouched.
Many men leant heavily forward against their straps,
while some bent almost double, like coal-heavers
carrying sacks of coal.  Rifles changed frequently
from right hand to left.  There was no singing now.
The only sound that came from dry-lipped, sticky
mouths was an occasional bitter curse.  Rupert began to
wonder if his shoulder straps had not turned to wires.
His arms felt numb, and the heavy weights, hung
about his shoulders and waist, caused a feeling of
constriction about the heart and lungs.  He realised that he
quite understood how people felt when they fainted....

By the seventh halt, some forty kilometres, or
twenty-seven miles lay behind the Battalion.  At
the word *Halt!* every man had thrown himself at
full length on the sand, and very few wasted precious
moments of the inexorably exact five minutes of the
rest-period in removing knapsacks.  Hardly a man
spoke; none smoked.

On tramped the Legion.

Gone was all pretence of smartness and devil-may-care
humour--that queer *macabre* and bitter humour of
the Legion.  Men slouched and staggered, and dragged
their feet in utter hopeless weariness.  Backs rounded
more and more, heads sank lower, and those who
limped almost outnumbered those who did not.  A
light push would have sent any man stumbling to
the ground.

As the whistle blew for the next halt, the Legion
sank to the ground with a groan, as though it would
never rise again.  As the whistle blew for the advance
the Legion staggered to its feet as one man....
Oh, the Legion marches!  Is not its motto, "*March or
Die*"?  The latter it may do, the former it must.
The Legion has its orders and its destination, and it
marches.  If it did not reach its destination at the
appointed time, it would be because it had died in
getting there.

On tramped the Legion.

With horrible pains in its blistered shoulders, its
raw-rubbed backs, its protesting, aching legs and
blistered heels and toes, the Legion staggered on, a
silent pitiable mass of suffering.  Up and down the
entire length of the Battalion rode its Colonel, "the
Marching Pig."  Every few yards he bawled with
brazen throat and leathern lungs: "March or die,
my children!  March or die!"  And the Legion
clearly understood that it must march or it must die.
To stagger from the ranks and fall was to die of thirst
and starvation, or beneath the *flissa* of the Arab.

Legionary Rupert blessed those "Breakfasts of the
Legion" and the hard training which achieved and
maintained the hard condition of the Legionary.
Sick, giddy, and worn-out as he felt, he knew he could
keep going at least as long as the average, and by
the time the average man had reached the uttermost
end of his tether, the end of their march must be
reached.  After all, though they were Legionaries
whose motto was "March or Die," they were only
human beings--and to all human effort and endeavour
there is a limit.  He glanced at his comrades.  The
Bucking Bronco swung along erect, his rifle held across
his shoulder by the muzzle, and his belt, with all its
impedimenta, swinging from his right hand.  He stared
straight ahead and, with vacant mind and tireless
iron body, "threw his feet."

Beside him, John Bull looked very white and worn
and old.  He leant heavily against the pull of his straps
and marched with his chest bare.  On Rupert's left,
'Erb, having unbuttoned and unbuckled everything
unbuttonable and unbuckleable, slouched along, a
picture of slack unsoldierliness and of dauntless
dogged endurance.  Suddenly throwing up his head
he screamed from parched lips, "Aw we dahn'earted?"
and, having painfully swallowed, answered his own
strident question with a long-drawn, contemptuous
"Ne--a--ow."  Captain d'Armentières, who knew
England and the English, looked round with a smile....
"Bon garçon," he nodded.

On the right of the second row of fours marched
Luigi Rivoli, in better case than most, as the bulk
of his kit was now impartially distributed among
Malvin, Meyer, Tou-tou and Tant-de-Soif.  (The
power of money in the Legion is utterly incredible.)  Feodor
Kyrilovitch was carrying the Grasshopper's
rifle--and that made a mighty difference toward the
end of a thirty-mile march.

At the end of the next halt, the Grasshopper declared
that he could not get up....  At the command, "Fall
in!" the unfortunate man did not stir.

"Kind God!  What *shall* I do?" he groaned.  It
was his first failure as a soldier.

"Come on, my lad," said John Bull sharply.  "Here,
pull off his kit," he added and unfastened the Belgian's
belt.  Between them they pulled him to his feet and
dragged him to his place in the ranks.  John Bull
took his pack, the Bucking Bronco his belt and its
appurtenances, and Feodor his rifle.  His eyes were
closed and he sank to the ground.

"Here," said Rupert to 'Erb.  "Get in his place
and let him march in yours beside me.  We'll hold
him up."

"Give us yer rifle, matey," replied 'Erb, and left
Rupert with hands free to assist the Grasshopper.

With his right arm round the Belgian's waist, he
helped him along, while John Bull insisted on having
the poor fellow's right hand on his left shoulder.

On tramped the Legion.

Before long, almost the whole weight of the
Grasshopper's body was on Rupert's right arm and John
Bull's left shoulder.

"Stick to it, my son," said the latter from time to
time, "we are sure to stop at the fifty-kilometre
stone."

The Belgian seemed to be semiconscious, and did
not reply.  His feet began to drag, and occasionally
his two comrades bore his full weight for a few paces.
Every few yards Feodor looked anxiously round.
These four, in their anxiety for their weaker brother,
forgot their own raw thighs, labouring lungs, inflamed
eyes, numbed arms and agonising feet.

Just as the Colonel rode by, the Grasshopper's feet
ceased to move, and dragged lifeless along the ground.

Rupert stumbled and the three fell in a heap, beneath
the Colonel's eye.

"Sacré Baptême!" he swore--the oath he only used
when a Legionary fell out on the march--"March
or die, accursed pigs."

Rupert and John Bull staggered to their feet, but
the Grasshopper lay apparently lifeless.  The Colonel
swore again, and shouted an order.  The Grasshopper
was dragged to the side of the road, and a baggage-cart
drove up.  A tent-pole was thrust through its
sides and tied securely.  To this pole the Belgian was
lashed, the pole passing across the upper part of his
back and under his arms, which were pulled over it
and tied together.  If he could keep his feet, well and
good.  If he could not, he would hang from the pole
by his arms (as an athlete hangs from a parallel-bar
in a gymnasium, before revolving round and round it).

On tramped the Legion.

Before long, the Grasshopper's feet dragged in the
dust as he drooped inanimate, and then hung in the
rope which lashed him to the pole.

At the fifty-fifth kilometre, thirty-five miles from
Sidi-bel-Abbès, the command to halt was followed by
the thrice-blessed God-sent order:

"*Campez!*"

Almost before the words, "*Formez les faisceaux*"
were out of the Company-Commanders' mouths, the
men had piled arms.  Nor was the order "*Sac à terre*"
obeyed in any grudging spirit.  In an incredibly short
space of time the jointed tent-poles and canvas had
been removed from the knapsacks.  Corporals of
sections had stepped forward, holding the tent-poles
above their heads, marking each Company's tent-line,
and a city of small white tents had come into being
on the face of the desert.  A few minutes later,
cooking-trenches had been dug, camp-fires lighted and water,
containing meat and macaroni, put on to boil.

A busy and profitable hour followed for Madame
la Cantinière, who, even as her cart stopped, had set
out her folding tables, benches and bar for the sale
of her Algerian wine.  Her first customer was the great
Luigi, who, thanks to Carmelita's money, could sit
and drink while his employees did his work.  The fly
in the worthy man's ointment was the fact that his
Italian dinner and Italian wine were thirty-five miles
behind him at Carmelita's café.  Like ordinary men,
he must, to-night and for many a night to come,
content himself with the monotonous and meagre
fare of common Legionaries.  However--better half
a sofa than no bed; and he was easily prime favourite
with Madame....  This would be an excellent chance
for consolidating his position with her, winning her
for his bride, and apprising Carmelita, from afar, of
the fact that he was now respectably settled in life.
Thus would a disagreeable scene be avoided and, on
the return of the Battalion to Sidi-bel-Abbès, he would
give the Café de la Légion a wide berth....  Could
he perhaps *sell* his rights and goodwill in the *café* and
Carmelita to some Legionary of means?  One or two
of his own *chambrée* seemed to have money--the
Englishman; the Russians....  Better still, sell out
to Malvin, Tou-tou, Meyer, or some other penniless
toady and *make him pay a weekly percentage* of what
he screwed out of Carmelita.  Excellent!  And if the
scoundrel did not get him enough, he would supplant
him with a more competent lessee....  Meanwhile,
to storm Madame's experienced and undecided heart.
Anyhow, if she wouldn't have Luigi she shouldn't
have anyone else....

There was, that evening, exceeding little noise and
movement, and "the stir and tread of armed camps."  As
soon as they had fed--and, in many cases, before
they had fed--the soldiers lay on their blankets,
their heads on their knapsacks and their overcoats
over their bodies.

Scarcely, as it seemed to Rupert, had they closed
their eyes, when it was time to rise and resume their
weary march.  At one o'clock in the morning, the
Battalion fell in, and each man got his two litres of
water and strict orders to keep one quarter of it for
to-morrow's cooking purposes.  If he contributed no
water to the cooking-cauldron he got no cooked food.

On tramped the Legion.

Day after day, day after day, it marched, and, on
the twelfth day from Sidi-bel-Abbès, had covered
nearly three hundred and fifty miles.  Well might the
Legion be known in the Nineteenth Division as the
*Cavalerie à pied*.


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center medium

   §2

.. vspace:: 1

Life for the Seventh Company of the First Battalion
of the Legion in Aïnargoula was, as John Bull had
promised Rupert, simply hell.  Not even the relief
of desert warfare had broken the cruel monotony of
desert marches and life in desert stations--stations
consisting of red-hot barracks, and the inevitable
filthy and sordid *Village Négre*.  Men lived--and
sometimes died--in a state of unbearable irritation
and morose savageness.  Fights were frequent, suicide
not infrequent, and murders not unknown.  *Cafard*
reigned supreme.  The punishment-cells were
overcrowded night and day, and abortive desertions
occurred with extraordinary frequency.

The discontent and sense of wasted time, which
had begun to oppress Rupert at Sidi-bel-Abbès,
increased tenfold.  To him and to the Bucking Bronco
(who daily swore that he would desert that night, and
tramp to Sidi-bel-Abbès to see Carmelita) John Bull
proved a friend in need.  Each afternoon, during that
terrible time between eleven and three, when the
incredible heat of the barrack-room made it impossible
for any work to be done, and the men, by strict rule,
were compelled to lie about on their cots, it was John
Bull who found his friends something else to think
about than their own sufferings and miseries.

A faithful coadjutor was 'Erb, who, with his
mouth-organ and Jew's-harp, probably saved the reason, or
the life, of more than one man.  'Erb seemed to feel
the heat less than bigger men, and he would sit
cross-legged upon his mattress, evoking tuneful strains from
his beloved instruments when far stronger men could
only lie panting like distressed dogs.  Undoubtedly
the three Englishmen and the American exercised a
restraining and beneficial influence, inasmuch as they
interfered as one man (following the lead of John
Bull, the oldest soldier in the room) whenever a
quarrel reached the point of blows, in their presence....
Under those conditions of life and temper a blow is
commonly but the prelude to swift homicide.

One terrible afternoon, as the Legionaries lay on
their beds, almost naked, in that stinking oven, the
suddenness of these tragedies was manifested.  It was
too hot to play *bloquette* or *foutrou*, too hot to sing, too
hot to smoke, too hot to do anything, and the hot bed
positively burnt one's bare back.  The Bucking Bronco
lay gasping, his huge chest rising and falling with
painful rapidity.  John Bull was showing Rupert a
wonderfully and beautifully Japanese-tattooed serpent
which wound twice round his wrist and ran up the
inner side of his white forearm, its head and expanded
hood filling the hollow of his elbow.  Rupert, who
would have liked to copy it, was wondering how its
brilliant colours had been achieved and had remained
undimmed for over thirty-five years, as John Bull
said was the case, it having been done at Nagasaki
when he was a midshipman on the *Narcissus*.  It was
too hot even for 'Erb to make music and he lay fanning
himself with an ancient copy of the *Echo d'Oran*.  It
was too hot to sleep, save in one or two cases, and these
men groaned, moaned and rolled their heads as they
snored.  It was too hot to quarrel--almost.  But not
quite.  Suddenly the swift *zweeep* of a bayonet being
snatched from its steel scabbard hissed through the
room, and all eyes turned to where Legionary Franz
Josef Meyer flashed his bayonet from his sheath and,
almost in the same movement, drove it up through
the throat of the Greek, Dimitropoulos, and into his
brain.

"Take that, you scum of the Levant," he said, and
then stared, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, at his
handiwork.  There had been bad blood between the
men for some time, and for days the Austrian had
accused the Greek of stealing a piece of his wax.
Some taunt of the dead man had completed the work
of *le cafard*....

That night Meyer escaped from the cells--and his
body, three days later, was delivered up in return for
the twenty-five francs paid for a live or dead deserter.
It would perhaps be more accurate to say that parts
of his body were brought in--sufficient, at any rate,
for identification.

He had fallen into the hands of the Arabs.

To give the Arabs their due, however, they saved
the situation.  Just when Legionary John Bull had
begun to give up hope, and nightly to dread what the
morrow might bring forth for his friends and himself,
the Arabs attacked the post.  The strain on the
over-stretched cord was released and men who, in another
day, would have been temporarily or permanently
raving madmen, were saved.

The attack was easily beaten off and without loss
to the Legionaries, firing from loopholes and behind
stone walls.

On the morrow, a reconnaissance toward the nearest
oasis discovered their camp and, on the next day, a
tiny punitive column set forth from Aïnargoula--the
Legionaries as happy, to use Rupert's too appropriate
simile, as sand-boys.  Like everybody else,
he was in the highest spirits.  Gone was the dark
shadow of *le cafard* and the feeling that, unless
something happened, he would become a homicidal maniac
and run amuck.

Here was the "real thing."  Here was that for which
he had been so long and so drastically trained--desert
warfare.  He thrilled from head to foot with excitement,
and wondered whether the day would bring forth
one of the famous and terrible Arab cavalry charges,
and whether he would have his first experience of
taking part in the mad and fearful joy of a bayonet
charge.  Anyhow, there was a chance of either or
both.

The Company marched on at its quickest, alternating
five minutes of swift marching with five minutes of
the *pas gymnastique*, the long, loping stride which is
the "double" of the Legion.

Far ahead marched a small advance-guard; behind
followed a rear-guard, and, well out on either side,
marched the flankers.  Where a sandy ridge ran
parallel with the course of the Company, the flankers
advanced along the crest of it, that they might watch
the country which lay beyond.  This did not avail
them much, for, invariably, such a ridge was paralleled
by a similar one at no great distance.  To have rendered
the little Company absolutely secure against sudden
surprise-attack on either flank, would have necessitated
sending out the majority of the force for miles on
either side.  Rupert, ever keen and deeply interested
in military matters, talked of this with John Bull,
who agreed with him that, considerable as the danger
of such an attack was, it could not be eliminated.

"Anyhow," concluded he, "we generally get
something like at least five hundred yards' margin
and if the Arabs can cut us up while we have that--they
deserve to.  Still, it's tricky country I admit,
with all these *wadis* and folds in the ground, as well
as rocks and ridges."

On marched the Company, and reached an area of
rolling sand-hills, and loose heavy sand under foot.

The day grew terribly hot and the going terribly
heavy.  As usual, all pretence and semblance of smart
marching had been abandoned, and the men marched
in whatever posture, attitude or style seemed to them
best....

... It came with the suddenness of a thunderclap
on a fine day, at a moment when practically everything
but the miseries of marching through loose sand in
the hottest part of one of the hottest days of the year
had faded from the minds of the straining, labouring
men.

A sudden shout, followed by the firing of half a
dozen shots, brought the column automatically to a
halt and drew all eyes to the right.

From a wide shallow *wadi*, or a fold in the ground,
among the sand-hills a few hundred yards away, an
avalanche of *haik* and *djellab*-clad men on swift horses
suddenly materialised and swept down like a whirlwind
on the little force.  Behind them, followed a far bigger
mass of camel-riders howling "*Ul-Ul-Ullah-Akbar!*"
as they came.  Almost before the column had halted,
a couple of barks from Lieutenant Roberte turned
the Company to the right in two ranks, the front
rank kneeling, the rear rank standing close up behind
it, with bayonets fixed and magazines charged...
Having fired their warning shots, the flankers were
running for their lives to join the main body.  The
Company watched and waited in grave silence.  It
was Lieutenant Roberte's intention that, when the
Arabs broke and fled before the Company's withering
blast of lead, they should leave the maximum number
of "souvenirs" behind them.  His was the courage
and nerve that is tempered and enhanced by
imperturbable coolness.  He would let the charging foe
gallop to the very margin of safety for his Legionaries.
To turn them back at fifty yards would be much more
profitable than to do it at five hundred.

Trembling with excitement and the thrilling desire
for violent action, Rupert knelt between John
Bull and the Bucking Bronco, scarcely able to await
the orders to fire and charge.  Before any order came
he saw a sight that for a moment sickened and shook
him, a sight which remained before his eyes for many
days.  Corporal Auguste Gilles, who was commanding
the flankers, either too weary or too ill to continue
his sprint for comparative safety, turned and faced
the thundering rush of the oncoming Arab *harka*,
close behind him.  Kneeling by a prickly pear or
cactus bush he threw up his rifle and emptied his
magazine into the swiftly rushing ranks that were
almost upon him.  As he fired his last shot, an Arab,
riding ahead of the rest, lowered his lance and, with a
cry of "*Kelb ibn kelb*,"[#] bent over towards him.
Springing to his feet the Corporal gamely charged
with his bayonet.  There can be only one end to such
a combat when the horseman knows his weapon.  The
Corporal was sent flying into the cactus, impaled
upon the Arab's lance, and, as it was withdrawn as
the horseman swept by, the horrified Rupert saw his
comrade stagger to his feet and totter forward--tethered
to the cactus by his own entrails.  Happily,
a second later, the sweep of an Arab *flissa* almost
severed his head from his shoulders....


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

   [#] Dog--and son of a dog.

.. vspace:: 2

The Company stood firm and silent as a rock, the
shining bayonets still and level.  Just as it seemed to
Rupert that it must be swept away and every man
share the fate of that mangled lump of clay in front
(for there is no more nerve-shaking spectacle than
cavalry charging down upon you like a living avalanche
or flood) one word rang out from Lieutenant Roberte.

When the crashing rattle (like mingled, tearing
thunder and the wild hammer of hail upon a corrugated
iron roof), ceased as magazines were emptied almost
simultaneously, the Arabs were in flight at top speed,
leaving two-thirds of their number on the plain;
and upon the fleeing *harka* the Company made very
pretty shooting--for the Legion shoots as well as it
marches.

When the "Cease Fire" whistle had blown, Rupert
remarked to John Bull--

"No chance for a bayonet charge, then?" to which
the old soldier replied--

"No, my son, that is a pleasure to which the Arab
does not treat us, unless we surprise his sleeping
*douar* at dawn...."

The Arabs having disappeared beyond the horizon,
the Company camped and bivouacked on the battlefield,
resuming its march at midnight.  As Lieutenant
Roberte feared and expected, the oasis which was
surrounded and attacked at dawn, was found to be
empty.

The Company marched back to Aïnargoula and,
a few days later, returned to Sidi-bel-Abbès.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE SHEEP IN WOLF'S CLOTHING`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER VII


.. class:: center medium

   THE SHEEP IN WOLF'S CLOTHING

.. vspace:: 2

Légionnaire John Bull sat on the edge
of his cot at the hour of *astiquage*.  Though his
body was in the *chambrée* of the Seventh Company,
his mind, as usual, was in England, and his thoughts,
as usual, played around the woman whom he knew as
Marguerite, and the world as Lady Huntingten.

What *could* he do next year when his third and last
period of Legion service expired?  Where could he
possibly hide in such inviolable anonymity that there
was no possible chance of any rumour arising that
the dead Sir Montague Merline was in the land of the
living? ... How had it happened that he had
survived the wounds and disease that he had suffered
in Tonkin, Madagascar, Dahomey, and the Sahara--the
stake-trap pit into which he had fallen at Nha-Nam--the
bullet in his neck from the Malagasy rifle--the
hack from the *coupe-coupe* which had split his
collar-bone in that ghastly West African jungle--the
lance-thrust that had torn his arm from elbow to shoulder
at Elsefra?

It was an absolute and undeniable fact that the
man who desired to die in battle could never do it;
while he who had everything to live for, was among
the first to fall.  If they went South again to-morrow
and were cut up in a sudden Arab *razzia*, he would
be the sole survivor.  But if a letter arrived
on the previous day, stating that Lord Huntingten
was dead leaving no children, and that Lady Huntingten
had just heard of his survival and longed for his
return--would he survive that fight?  Most certainly
not.

What to do at the end of the fifteenth year of his
service?  His face had been far too well known among
the class of people who passed through Marseilles to
India and elsewhere--who winter on the Riviera,
who golf at Biarritz, who recuperate at Vichy or
Aix, who go to Paris in the Spring; and who, in short,
are to be found in various parts of France at various
times of the year--for him to dream of using the
Legion's free pass to any part of France.  The risk
might be infinitesimal, but it existed, and he would
run no risk of ruining Marguerite's life, after more than
twenty-five years.

She must be over forty-five now....  Had time
dealt kindly with her?  Was she as beautiful as ever?
Sure to be.  Marguerite was of the type that would
ripen, mature, and improve until well on into middle
life.  Who was the eminent man who said that a woman
was not interesting until she was forty?...

What would he not give for a sight of Marguerite?
It would be easy enough, next year.  Only next year--and
it was a thousand to one, a million to one, against
anyone recognising him if he were well disguised
and thoroughly careful.  Just one sight of Marguerite--after
more than twenty-five years!  Had he not made
sacrifices enough?  Might he not take *that* much
reward for half a lifetime of life in death--a lifetime
which his body dragged wretchedly and wearily along
among the dregs of the earth, while his mind haunted
the home of his wife, a home in which another man was
lord and master.  Was it much to ask--one glimpse of
his wife after twenty-seven years of renunciation?

"Miserable, selfish cur!" he murmured aloud as
he melted a piece of wax in the flame of a match.
"You would risk the happiness of your wife, your old
friend, and their children--all absolutely innocent of
wrong--for the sake of a minute's self-indulgence....
Be ashamed of yourself, you whining weakling...."

It had become a habit of Légionnaire John Bull
to talk to himself aloud, when alone--a habit he
endeavoured to check as he had recently, on more
than one occasion, found himself talking aloud in the
company of others.

Having finished the polishing of his leather-work,
he took his Lebel rifle from the rack and commenced
to clean it.  As he threw open the chamber, he paused,
the bolt in his right hand, the rifle balanced in his
left.  Someone was running with great speed along
the corridor toward the room.  What was up?  Was
it a case of *Faites le sac*?  Would the head of an
excited and delighted Legionary be thrust in at the
door with a yell of--"*Aux armes!  Faites le sac*"?

The door burst open and in rushed Mikhail Kyrilovitch,
bare-headed, coatless, with staring eyes and
blanched cheeks.

"Save me, save me, Monsieur," he shrieked, rushing
towards the old Legionary.  "Save me--*I am a
woman*...."

"Good God!" ejaculated Legionary John Bull,
involuntarily glancing from the face to the flat chest
of the speaker.

"I am a girl," sobbed the *soi-disant* Mikhail....
"I am a girl....  And that loathsome beast Luigi
Rivoli has found me out....  He's coming....  He
chased me....  What shall I do?  What *shall* I
do?  Poor Feodor...."

As Légionnaire Luigi Rivoli entered the room,
panting slightly with his unwonted exertions, the girl
crouched behind John Bull, her face in her hands,
her body shaken by deep sobs.  It had all happened
so quickly that John Bull found himself standing
with his gun balanced, still in the attitude into which
he had frozen on hearing the running feet without.

So it had come, had it--and he was to try conclusions
with Luigi Rivoli at last?  Well, it should be no
inconclusive rough-and-tumble.  Perhaps this was the
solution of his problem, and might settle, once and
for all, the question of his future?

"Ho-ho!  Ho-ho!" roared the Neapolitan, "she's
your girl, is she, you *aristocratico Inglese*?  Ho-ho!
You are *faisant Suisse* are you?  Ho-ho!  Your own
private girl in the very *chambrée*!  Corpo di Bacco!
You shall learn the penalty for breaking the Legion's
first law of share-and-share-alike.  Get out of my way,
*cane Inglese*."

John Bull closed the breech of his rifle, and pointed
the weapon at Rivoli's broad breast.

"Stand back," he said quietly.  "Stand back, you
foul-mouthed scum of Naples, or I'll blow your dirty
little soul out of your greasy carcase."  He raised his
voice slightly.  "Stand back, you dog, do you hear?"
he added, advancing slightly towards his opponent.

Luigi Rivoli gave ground.  The rifle might be loaded.
You never knew with these cursed, quiet Northerners,
with their cold, pale eyes....  The rifle might be
loaded....  Rivoli was well aware that every
Legionary makes it his business to steal a cartridge
sooner or later, and keeps it by him for emergencies,
be they of suicide, murder, self-defence, or desertion....
The Englishman had been standing in the
attitude of one who loads a rifle at the moment of his
entrance.  Perhaps his girl had told him of the
discovery and assault, and he had been loading the rifle
to avenge her.

"Listen to me, Luigi Rivoli," said John Bull, still
holding the rifle within a foot of the Italian's breast.
"Listen, and I'll tell you what you are.  Then I will
tell the Section what you are, when they come in....
Then I will tell the whole Company....  Then I
will stand on a table in the Canteen and shout it,
night after night....  This is what you are.  You are
a coward.  A *coward*, d'you hear?--a miserable,
shrinking, frightened coward, who dare not fight...."

"Fight!  *Iddio*!  *Fight*!  Put down that rifle and
I'll tear you limb from limb.  Come down into the
square and I will break your back.  Come down
now--and fight for the girl."

"... A trembling, frightened coward who dare
not fight, and who calls punching, and hugging and
kicking 'fighting.'  I challenge you to fight, Luigi
Rivoli, with rifles--at one hundred yards and no
cover; or with revolvers, at ten paces; or with
swords of any sort or kind--if it's only sword-bayonets.
Will you fight, or will you be known as *Rivoli the
Coward* throughout both Battalions of the Legion?"

Rivoli half-crouched for a spring, and straightway
the rifle sprang to the Englishman's shoulder, as his
eyes blazed and his fingers fell round the trigger.
Rivoli recoiled.

"I don't want to shoot you, unarmed, Coward,"
he said quietly.  "I am going to shoot you, or stab
you, or slash you, in fair fight--or else you shall kneel
and be christened *Rivoli the Coward* on the barrack
square....  I've had enough of you, and so has
everybody--unless it's your gang of pimps....  Now
go.  Go on--get out....  Go on--before I lose patience.
Clear out--and make up your mind whether you will
fight or be christened."

"Oh, I'll fight you--you mangy old cur.  You
are brave enough with a loaded rifle, eh?  Mother
of Christ!  I'll send you where the birds won't trouble
you....  Shoot me in the back as I go, Brave Man
with a Gun"--and Luigi Rivoli departed, in a state
of horrid doubt and perturbation....  This cursed
Englishman meant what he said....

Legionary John Bull lowered his rifle with a laugh,
and became aware of the fact that the Russian girl was
hugging his leg in a way which would have effectually
hampered him in the event of a struggle, and which
made him feel supremely ridiculous.

"Get up, *petite*," he said bending over her, as she
lay moaning and weeping.  "It's all right--he's gone.
He won't trouble you again, for I am going to kill him.
Come and lie on your bed and tell me all about it....
We must make up our minds as to what will be the
best thing to do....  Rivoli will tell everybody."

He helped the girl to her feet, partly led and partly
carried her to her bed, and laid her on it.

Holding his lean brown hand between her little ones,
in a voice broken and choked with sobs, she told him
something of her story--a sad little story all too
common.

The listener gathered that the two were children
of a prominent revolutionary who had disappeared
into Siberia, after what they considered a travesty
of a trial.  They had been students at the University
of Moscow, and had followed in their father's political
footsteps from the age of sixteen.  Their youth and
inexperience, their fanatical enthusiasm, and their
unselfish courage, had, in a few years, brought them
to a point at which they must choose between death
or the horrors of prison and Siberia on the one hand,
and immediate flight, and most complete and utter
evanishment on the other.  When his beloved twin
sister had been chosen by the Society as an
"instrument," Feodor's heart had failed him.  He
had disobeyed the orders of the Central Committee;
he had coerced the girl; he had made disclosures.

They had escaped to Paris.  Before long it had been
a question as to whether they were in more imminent
and terrible danger from the secret agents of the
Russian police or from those of the Nihilists.  The sight
of the notice, "*Bureau de recruitment.  Engagements
volontaires*," over the door of a dirty little house in
the Rue St. Dominique had suggested the Légion
Etrangère, and a possible means of escape and five
years' safety.

But the Medical Examination? ...

Accompanied by a fellow-fugitive who was on his
way to America, Feodor had gone to the Bureau
and they had enlisted, passed the doctor, and received
railway-passes to Marseilles, made out in the names
of Feodor and Mikhail Kyrilovitch; sustenance
money; and orders to proceed by the night train from
the Gare de Lyons and report at Fort St. Jean in the
morning, if not met at the station by a Sergeant of
the Legion.  Their compatriot had handed his travelling
warrant to the girl (dressed in a suit of Feodor's)
ind had seen the twins off at the Gare de Lyons with
his blessing....

Monsieur Jean Boule knew the rest, and but for
this hateful, bestial Luigi Rivoli, all might have been
well, for she was very strong, and had meant to be
very brave.  Now, what should she do; what *should*
she do? ... And what would poor Feodor say when
he came in from corvée and found that she had let
herself get caught like this at last? ... What could
they do?

And indeed, Sir Montague Merline did not know
what a lady could do when discovered in a *chambrée*
of a *caserne* of the French Foreign Legion in
Sidi-bel-Abbès.  He did not know in the least.  There was
first the attitude of the authorities to consider, and
then that of the men.  Would a Court Martial hold
that, having behaved as a man, she should be treated
as one, and kept to her bargain, or sent to join the
Zephyrs?  Would they imprison her for fraud?
Would they repatriate her?  Would they communicate
with the Russian police?  Or would they just fling her
out of the barrack-gate and let her go?  There was
probably no precedent, whatever, to go upon.

And supposing the matter were hushed up in the
*chambrée*, and the authorities never knew--would
life be livable for the girl?  Could he, and Rupert,
the Bucking Bronco, Herbert Higgins, Feodor, and
perhaps one or two of the more decent foreigners,
such as Hans Djoolte, and old Tant-de-Soif, ensure
her a decent life, free from molestation and annoyance?
No, it couldn't be done.  Life would be rendered
utterly impossible for her by gross animals of the
type of Rivoli, Malvin, the *Apache*, Hirsch, Bauer,
Borges, and the rest of Rivoli's sycophants.  It was
sufficiently ghastly, and almost unthinkable, to imagine
a woman in that sink when nobody dreamed she was
anything but what she seemed.  How could one
contemplate a woman, who was *known* to be a woman,
living her life, waking and sleeping, in such a situation?
The more devotedly her bodyguard shielded and
protected her, the more venomously determined
would the others be to annoy, insult and injure her
in a thousand different ways.  It would be insupportable,
impossible....  But of course it could not be
kept from the authorities for a week.  What was to
be done?

As he did his utmost to soothe the weeping girl,
clumsily patting her back, stroking her hands, and
murmuring words of comfort and promises of
protection, Merline longed for the arrival of Rupert.
He wanted to take counsel with another English
gentleman as to the best thing to be done for this
unfortunate woman.  He dared not leave her weeping
there alone.  Anybody might enter at any moment.
Rivoli might return with the choicest scoundrels of
his gang....  Why did not the Bucking Bronco turn
up?  When he and Rupert arrived there would be
an accession of brawn and of brains that would be
truly welcome.

Curiously enough, Sir Montague Merline's insular
Englishness had survived fourteen years of life in a
cosmopolitan society, speaking a foreign tongue in a
foreign land, with such indestructible sturdiness that
it was upon the Anglo-Saxon party that he mentally
relied in this strait.  He had absolutely forgotten that
it was the girl's own brother who was her natural
protector, and upon whom lay the onus of discovering
the solution of this insoluble problem and extricating
the girl from her terrible position.

What could he do?  It was all very well to say that
the three Englishmen and the American would protect
her, that night, by forming a sentry-group and watching
in turn--but how long could that go on?  It would
be all over the barracks to-morrow, and known to
the authorities a few hours later.  Oh, if he could only
do her up in a parcel and post her to Marguerite with
just a line, "*Please take care of this poor girl.--Monty.*"
Marguerite would keep her safe enough....  But
thinking nonsense wasn't helping.  He would load his
rifle in earnest, and settle scores with Luigi Rivoli,
once and for all, if he returned with a gang to back
him.  Incidentally, that would settle his own fate, for
it would mean a Court Martial at Oran followed by a
firing-party, or penal servitude in the Zephyrs, and,
at his age, that would only be a slower death.

All very well for him and Rivoli, but what of the
girl? ... What ghastly danger it must have been
that drove them to such a dreadful expedient.  Truly
the Legion was a net for queer fish.  Poor, plucky
little soul, what could he do for her?

Never since he wore the two stars[#] of a British
Captain had he longed, as he did at that moment, for
power and authority.  If only he were a Captain again,
Captain of the Seventh Company, the girl should go
straight to his wife, or some other woman.  Suddenly
he rose to his feet, his face illuminated by the brilliance
of the idea which had suddenly entered his mind.


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

   [#] Since increased to three, of course.

.. vspace:: 2

"*Carmelita!*" he almost shouted to the empty
room.  He bent over the crying girl again, and shook
her gently by the shoulder.

"I have it, little one," he said.  "Thank God!
Yes--it's a chance.  I believe I have a plan.  Carmelita!
Let's get out of this at once, straight to the Café de
la Legion.  Carmelita has a heart of gold...."

The girl half sat up.  "She may be a kind girl--but
she's Luigi Rivoli's mistress," she said.  "She
would do anything he ordered."

"Carmelita considers herself Rivoli's wife," replied
the Englishman, "and so she would be, if he were not
the biggest blackguard unhung.  Very well, he can
hardly go to the woman who is practically his wife
and say, 'Hand over the woman you are hiding.'"

"When a woman loves a man she obeys him," said
the girl, and added with innocent naïveté, "And I will
obey you, Monsieur Jean Boule....  Anyhow, it is
a hope--in a position which is hopeless."

"Get into walking-out kit quickly," urged the old
soldier, "and see the Sergeant of the Guard has no
excuse for turning you back.  The sooner we're away
the better....  I wish Rupert and the Bronco would
roll up....  If you can get to Carmelita's unseen,
and change back into a girl, you could either hide
with Carmelita for a time, or simply desert in feminine
apparel."

"And Feodor?" asked the Russian.  "Will they
shoot him?  I can't leave..."

"Bother Feodor," was the quick reply.  "One
soldier is not responsible because another deserts.
Let's get you safe to Carmelita's, and then I'll find
Feodor and tell him all about it."

Hiram Cyrus Milton, entering the room bare-footed
and without noise, was not a little surprised to behold
a young soldier fling his arms about the neck of the
eminently staid and respectable Legionary John Bull,
with a cry of--

"Oh, may God reward you, kind good Monsieur."

"Strike me blue and balmy," ejaculated the Bucking
Bronco.  "Ain't these gosh-dinged furriners a bunch
o' boobs?  Say, John, air yew his long-lost che-ild?
It's a cinch.  Where's that dod-gasted boy 'Erb fer
slow music on the jewzarp? ... Or is the lalapaloozer
only a-smellin' the roses on yure damask cheek?"

"Change quickly, *petite*," said John Bull to the
girl as he pushed her from him, and turned to the
American.

"Come here, Buck," said he, taking the big man's
arm and leading him to the window.

"Don't say as haow yure sins hev' come home to
roost, John?  Did yew reckernise the puling infant
by the di'mond coronite on the locket, or by the
strawberry-mark in the middle of its back?  Or was
his name wrote on the tail of his little shirt?  Put
me next to it, John.  Make me wise to the secret mystery
of this 'ere drarmer."

The Bucking Bronco was getting more than a little
jealous.

"I will, if you will give me a chance," replied John
Bull curtly.  "Buck, that boy's a girl.  Rivoli has
found her out and acted as you might expect.  I suppose
he spotted her in the wash-house or somewhere.  She
rushed to me for protection, and the game's up.  I am
going to take her to Carmelita."

The big American stared at his friend with open
mouth.

"Yew git me jingled, John," he said slowly.  "Thet
little looker a *gal*?  Is this a story made out of whole
cloth,[#] John?"


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

   [#] Untrue.

.. vspace:: 2

"Get hold of it, Buck, quickly," was the reply.
"The two Russians are political refugees.  Their
number was up, in Russia, and they bolted to Paris.
Same in Paris--and they made a dash for here.  Out
of the frying-pan into the fire.  This one's a girl.
Luigi Rivoli knows, and it will be all over the barracks
before to-night.  She rushed straight to me, and I
am going to see her through.  If you can think of
anything better than taking her to Carmelita, say so."

"I'll swipe the head off'n Mister Lousy Loojey
Rivoli," growled the American.  "God smite me ef
I don't.  Thet's torn it, thet has....  The damned
yaller-dog Dago....  Thet puts the lid on Mister
Loojey Rivoli, thet does."

"*I'm* going to deal with Rivoli, Buck," said John Bull.

"He'd crush yew with a b'ar's hug, sonny; he'd
bust in yure ribs, an' break yure back, an' then chuck
yew down and dance on yew."

"He won't get the chance, Buck; it's not going to
be a gutter-scrap.  When he chased the girl in here
I challenged him to fight with bullet or steel, and told
him I'd brand him all over the shop till he was known
as 'Rivoli the Coward,' or fought a fair and square
duel....  Let's get the girl out of this, and then we'll
put Master Luigi Rivoli in his place once and for all."

"Shake!" said the Bucking Bronco, extending a
huge hand.

"Seen Rupert lately?" asked the Englishman.

"Yep," replied the other.  "He's a-settin' on end
a-rubberin' at his pants in the lavabo."

"Good!  Go and fetch him quick, Buck."

The American sped from the room without glancing
at the girl, returning a minute or two later with Rupert.
The two men hurried to their respective cots and
swiftly changed from fatigue-dress into blue and red.

"If Carmelita turns us down, let's all three desert
and take the girl with us," said Rupert to John Bull.
"I have plenty of money to buy mufti, disguises,
and railway tickets.  She would go as a woman of
course.  We could be a party of tourists.  Yes, that's
it, English tourists.  Old Mendoza would fit us out--at
a price."

"Thanks," was the reply.  "We'll get her out
somehow....  She'd stand a far better chance alone
though, probably.  If suspicion fell on one of us they'd
arrest the lot."

"Say," put in the American.  "Ef she can do the
boy stunt, I reckon as haow her brother oughter be
able ter do the gal stunt ekally well.  Ef Carmelita
takes her in, and fits her out with two of everything,
her brother could skedaddle and jine her, and put on
the remainder of the two-of-everything; then they
ups and goes on pump as the Twin Sisters Golightly,
a-tourin' of the Crowned Heads of Yurrup, otherwise,
as The Twin Roosian Bally-Gals Skiporfski...."

"Smart idea," agreed Rupert.  "I hope Carmelita
takes her in.  What the devil shall we do with her if
she won't?  She can't very well spend the night here
after Luigi has put it about....  And what's her
position with regard to the authorities?  Is it a case
of Court Martial or toss for her in the Officers' Mess,
or what?"

"Don't know, I'm sure.  Haven't the faintest idea,"
replied John Bull.  "If only Carmelita turns up
trumps...."

"Seenyoreena Carmelita is the whitest little woman
as ever lived," growled the American.  "She's a
blowed-in-the-glass heart-o'-gold.  Yew can put yure
shirt on Carmelita....  Yew know what I mean--yure
bottom dollar....  Ef it wasn't fer that filthy
Eye-talian sarpint, she'd jump at the chance of giving
this Roosian gal her last crust....  I don't care John
whether you shoot him up or nit.  I'm gwine ter slug
him till Hell pops.  Let him fight his dirtiest an'
damnedest--I'll see him and raise him every time, the
double-dealin' gorilla...."

"I am ready, Monsieur," said the girl Olga to John
Bull.  "But I do not want you, Monsieur, nor these
other gentlemen, to make trouble for yourselves on
my account....  I have brought this on myself, and
there is no reason why you..."

"Oh, shucks!  Come on, little gal," broke in the
Bucking Bronco.  "We'll see yew through.  We ain't
Loojeys...."

"Of course, we will.  We shall be only too delighted,"
agreed Rupert.  "Don't you worry."

"Pull yourself together and swagger all you can,"
advised John Bull.  "It might ruin everything if the
Sergeant of the Guard took it into his head to turn
you back.  I wonder if we had better go through in a
gang, or let you go first?  If we are all together there
is less likelihood of excessive scrutiny of any one of
us, but on the other hand it may be remembered that
you were last seen with us three, and that might
hamper our future usefulness....  Just as well
Feodor isn't here....  Tell you what, you and I will
go out together, and I'll use my wits to divert attention
from you if we are stopped.  The others can come a
few minutes later, or as soon as someone else has
passed."

"That's it," agreed Rupert; "come on."

With beating hearts, the old soldier and the young
girl approached the little side door by the huge
barrack-gates.  Close by it stood the Sergeant of the
Guard.  Their anxiety increased as they realised that
it was none other than Sergeant Legros, one of the
most officious, domineering and brutal of the Legion's
N.C.O.'s.  Luck was against them.  He would take
a positive delight in standing by that door the whole
evening and in turning back every single man whose
appearance gave him the slightest opportunity for
fault-finding, as well as a good many whose appearance
did not.

As they drew near and saluted smartly, the little
piggish eyes of Sergeant Legros took in every detail
of their uniform.  The girl felt the blood draining from
her cheeks.  What if they had made a mistake?
What if red trousers and blue tunic should be wrong,
and the *ordre du jour* should be white trousers and
blue tunic or capote?  What if she had a button undone
or her bayonet on the wrong side?  What if Sergeant
Legros should see, or imagine a speck upon her
tunic? ... Had she been under his evil gaze for
hours?  Was the side of the Guard House miles in
length? ... Thank God, they were through the
gate and free.  Free for the moment, and if the good
God were merciful she was free for ever from the
horrors and fears of that terrible place.  Could anything
worse befall her?  Yes, there were worse places for a
girl than a barrack-room of the French Foreign
Legion.  There was a Russian prison--there was the
dark prison-van and warder--there was the journey
to Siberia--there was Siberia itself.  Yes, there were
worse places than that she had just left--until her
secret was discovered.  A thousand times worse.  And
she thought of her friend, that poor girl who had been
less fortunate than she.  Poor, poor Marie!  Would
she herself be sent back to Russia to share Marie's
fate, if these brave Englishmen and Carmelita failed
to save her?  What would become of Feodor? ... Did
this noble Englishman, with the gentle face,
love this girl Carmelita? ... Might not Carmelita's
house be a very trap if the loathsome Italian brute
owned its owner?...

"Let's stroll slowly now, my dear," said John Bull,
"and let the others overtake us.  The more the merrier,
if we should run into Rivoli and his gang, or if he is
already at Carmelita's.  I don't think he will be.  I
fancy he puts in the first part of his evening with
Madame la Cantinière, and goes down to Carmelita's
later for his dinner....  If he should be there I don't
quite see what line he can take in front of Carmelita.
He could hardly molest you in front of the woman
whom he pretends he is going to marry, and I don't
see on what grounds he could raise any objection
to her befriending you....  It's a deuced awkward
position--for the fact that I intend to kill Rivoli,
if I can, hardly gives me a claim on Carmelita.  She
loves the very ground the brute treads on, you know,
and it would take me, or anybody else, a precious
long time to persuade her that the man who rid the
world of Luigi Rivoli would be her very best friend....
He's the most noxious and poisonous reptile I have
ever come across, and I believe she is one of the best
of good little women....  It is a hole we're in.  We've
got to see Carmelita swindled and then jilted and
broken-hearted; or we've got to bring the blackest
grief upon her by saving her from Rivoli."

"Do *you* love her too, Monsieur?" asked Olga.

"Good Heavens, no!" laughed the Englishman.
"But I have a very great liking and regard for her,
and so has my friend Rupert.  It is poor old Buck who
loves her, and I am really sorry for him.  It's bad
enough to love a woman and be unable to win her,
but it must be awful to see her in the power of a man
whom you know to be an utter blackguard....
Queer thing, Life....  I suppose there is some purpose
in it....  Here they come," he added, looking round.

"Who's gwine ter intervoo Carmelita, and put her
wise to the sitooation?" asked the Bucking Bronco
as he and Rupert joined the others.  "Guess yew'd
better, John.  Yew know more Eye-talian and French
than we do, an', what's more, Carmelita wouldn't
think there was any '*harry-air ponsey*'--or is it
'*double-intender*'--ef the young woman is interdooced,
as sich, by yew."

"All right," replied John Bull.  "I'll do my best--and
we must all weigh in with our entreaties if I fail."

"Yew'll do it, John.  I puts my shirt on Carmelita
every time...."

Le Café de la Légion was swept and garnished, and
Carmelita sat in her *sedia pieghevole*\[#] behind her bar,
awaiting her evening guests.


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

   [#] Deck-chair.

.. vspace:: 2

It was a sadder-looking, thinner, somewhat
older-looking Carmelita than she who had welcomed Rupert
and his fellow *bleus* on the occasion of their first visit
to her *café*.  Carmelita's little doubt had grown, and
worry was bordering upon anxiety--for Luigi Rivoli
was Carmelita's life, and Carmelita was not only a
woman, but an Italian woman, and a Neapolitan at
that.  Far better than life she loved Luigi Rivoli,
and only next to him did she love her own self-respect
and virtue.  As has been said before, Carmelita
considered herself a married woman.  Partly owing to
her equivocal position, partly to an innate purity
of mind, Carmelita had a present passion for
"respectability" such as had never troubled her
before.

And Luigi was causing her grief and anxiety, doubt
and care, and fear.  For long she had fought it off,
and had stoutly refused to confess it even to herself,
but day by day and night by night, the persistent
attack had worn down her defences of Hope and
Faith until at length she stood face to face with the
relentless and insidious assailant and recognised it
for what it was--Fear.  It had come to that, and
Carmelita now frankly admitted to herself that she
had fears for the faith, honesty and love of the man
whom she regarded as her husband and knew to be
the father of the so hoped-for *bambino*....

Could it be possible that the man for whom she had
lived, and for whom she would at any time have died,
her own Luigi, who, but for her, would be in a
Marseilles graveyard, her own husband--was laying siege
to fat and ugly Madame la Cantinière, because her
business was a more profitable one than Carmelita's?
It could not be.  Men were not devils.  Men did not
repay women like that.  Not even ordinary men, far
less her Luigi.  Of course not--and besides, there was
the Great Secret.

For the thousandth time Carmelita found reassurance,
comfort and cheer in the thought of the Great
Secret, and its inevitable effect upon Luigi when he
knew it.  What would he say when he realised that
there might be another Luigi Rivoli, for, of course,
it would be a boy--a boy who would grow up another
giant among men, another Samson, another Hercules,
another winner of a World's Championship.

What would he do in the transports of his joy?
How his face would shine!  How heartily he would
agree with her when she pointed out that it would be
as well for them to marry now before the *bambino*
came.  No more procrastination now.  What a wedding
it should be, and what a feast they would give the
brave *soldati*!  Il Signor Jean Boule should have the
seat of honour, and the Signor Americano should
come, and Signor Rupert, and Signor 'Erbiggin, and
the poor Grasshopper, and the two Russi (ah! what
of that Russian girl, what would be her fate?  It was
wonderful how she kept up the deception.  Poor, poor
little soul, what a life--the constant fear, the watchfulness
and anxiety.  Fancy eating and drinking, walking,
talking and working, dressing and undressing, waking
and sleeping among those men--some of them such
dreadful men).  Yes, it should be a wedding to
remember, without stint of food or drink--*un pranzo di
tre portate* with *i maccheroni* and *la frittate d'uova* and
the best of *couscous*, and there should be *vino
Italiano*--they would welcome a change from the eternal
*vino Algerino*....

Four Legionaries entered, and Carmelita rose with
a smile to greet them.  There was no one she would
sooner see than Il Signor Jean Boule and his
friends--since it was not Luigi who entered.

"*Che cosa posso offrirve?*" she asked.  (Although
Carmelita spoke Legion French fluently one noticed
that she always welcomed one in Italian, and always
counted in that language.)

"I want a quiet talk with you, carissima Carmelita,"
said John Bull.  "We are in great trouble, and we
want your help."

"I am glad," replied Carmelita.  "Not glad that
you are in trouble, but glad you have come to me."

"It is about Mikhail Kyrilovitch," said the Englishman.

"I thought it was," said Carmelita.

"Don't think me mad, Carmelita," continued John
Bull, "but listen.  Mikhail Kyrilovitch is a *girl*."

"Don't think me mad, Signor Jean Boule,"
mimicked Carmelita, "but listen.  I have known
Mikhail Kyrilovitch was a girl from the first evening
that she came here."

The Englishman's blue eyes opened widely in
surprise, as he stared at the girl.  "How?" he
asked.

"Oh, in a dozen ways," laughed Carmelita.  "Hands,
voice, manner.  I stroked her cheek, it was as soft as
my own, while her twin brother's was like sand-paper.
When she went to catch a biscuit she made a 'lap,'
as one does who wears a skirt, instead of bringing
her knees together as a man does....  And what
can I do for Mademoiselle Mikhail?"

"You can save her, Carmelita, from I don't know
what dangers and horrors.  She has been found out,
and what her fate would be at the tender mercies of
the authorities on the one hand, and of the men on
the other, one does not like to think.  The very least
that could happen to her is to be turned into the
streets of Sidi-bel-Abbès."

"Do the officers know yet?" asked Carmelita.
"Who does know?  Who found her out?"

"Luigi Rivoli found her out," replied John Bull.

"And sent her to me?" asked Carmelita.  "I am
glad he..."

"He did not send her to you," interrupted the
Englishman gravely.

"What did he do?" asked Carmelita quickly.

"I will tell you what he did, Carmelita, as kindly
as I can....  He forgot he was a soldier, Carmelita;
he forgot he was an honest man; he forgot he was
your--er--*fidanzato*, your *sposo*, Carmelita...."

Carmelita went very white.

"Tell me, Signor," she said quickly.  "Did you have
to protect this Russian wretch from Luigi?"

"I did," was the reply.  "Why do you speak
contemptuously of the girl?  She is as innocent
as--as innocent as you are, Carmelita."

"I hate her," hissed Carmelita....  "Did Luigi
kiss her?  What happened?  Did he...?"

The Englishman put his hand over Carmelita's
little clenched fist as it lay on the bar.

"Listen, little one," he said.  "You are one of the
best, kindest and bravest women I have known.  I
am certain you are going to be worthy of yourself
now.  So is Rupert, so is Monsieur Bronco.  He has
been blaming us bitterly when we have even for a
moment wondered whether you would save this girl.
He is worth a thousand Rivolis, and loves you a
thousand times better than Rivoli ever could.  Don't
disappoint him and us, Carmelita.  Don't disappoint
us *in yourself*, I mean....  What has the girl done
that you should hate her?"

"Did Luigi kiss her?" again asked Carmelita.

"He did not," was the reply.  "He behaved..."

"And he could not, of course, while she was with
me, could he?" said Carmelita.

"Exactly," smiled the Englishman.  "Take her in
now, little woman, and lend her some clothes until
we can get some things bought or made for her."

"Clothes cost francs, Signor Jean," was the practical
reply of the girl, who had grown up in a hard school.
"I can give her food and shelter, and I can lend her
my things, but I have no francs for clothes."

"Rupert will find whatever is necessary for her
clothes and board and lodging, and for her ticket too.
She shan't be with you long, cara Carmelita, nor in
Sidi-bel-Abbès."

Carmelita passed from behind the bar and went
over to the table at which sat Rupert, the American,
and the girl Olga.  Putting her arm around the neck
of the last, Carmelita kissed her on the cheek.

"Come, little one," she said.  "Come to my bed and
sleep.  You shall be as safe as if in the Chapel of the
Mother of God," and, as the girl burst into tears, led
her away.

John Bull joined his friends as the two women
disappeared through the door leading to Carmelita's room.

"Well, thank God for that," he said as he sat down,
and wiped his forehead.  "What's the next step?"

"Find the other little Roosian guy, an' put him
wise to what's happened to sissy, I guess," replied
the American.

"Yes," agreed Rupert.  "It's up to him to carry
on now, with any sort or kind of help that we can
give him....  Where did he go after parade, I
wonder?"

"The gal got copped for a wheel-barrer corvée--they
was goin' scavengin' round the officers' houses
and gardens I think--an' he took her place....  He'd
be back by dark an' start washin' hisself," opined the
American.

"Better get back at once then," said John Bull.

"I feel a most awful cad," he added.

"What on earth for?" asked Rupert.

"About Carmelita," was the reply.  "I've got her
help under false pretences.  If I had told her that I
was going to fight a serious duel with her precious
Luigi, she'd never have taken that girl in.  If I don't
fight him now, he'll make my life utterly unlivable....
I wish to God Carmelita could be brought to see him
as he is and to understand that the moment the Canteen
will have him, he is done with the Café....  I wish
Madame la Cantinière would take him and settle
the matter.  Since it has got to come, the sooner the
better.  I should really enjoy my fight with him if
he had turned Carmelita down, and she regarded me
as her avenger instead of as the destroyer of her
happiness."

"One wouldn't worry about Madame la Cantinière's
feelings if one destroyed her young man or her latest
husband, I suppose?" queried Rupert with a smile.

"Nope," replied the American.  "Nit.  Not a damn.
Nary a worry.  You could beat him up, or you could
shoot him up, and lay your last red cent that Madam
lar Canteenair would jest say, '*Mong Jew!  C'est la
Legion*' and look aroun' fer his doo and lorful
successor....  Let's vamoose, b'ys, an' rubber aroun'
fer the other Roosian chechaquo."

The three Legionaries quitted le Café de la Légion
and made their way back to their *caserne*.

"I'll look in the *chambrée*," said John Bull as they
entered the barrack-square.  "You go to the lavabo,
Rupert, and you see if he is in the Canteen, Buck.
Whoever finds him had better advise him to let Luigi
Rivoli alone, and make his plans for going on pump.
Tell him I think his best line would be to see Carmelita
and arrange for him and his sister to get dresses alike,
and clear out boldly by train to Oran, as girls.  After
that, they know their own business best, but I should
recommend England as about the safest place for them."

"By Jove!  I could give him a letter to my mother,"
put in Rupert.  "Good idea.  My people would love
to help them--especially as they could tell them all
about me."

"Gee-whiz!  Thet's a brainy notion," agreed the
Bucking Bronco.  "Let 'em skin out and make tracks
for yure Old-Folk-at-Home.  It's a cinch."

Legionary John Bull found Legionary Feodor
Kyrilovitch sitting on his cot polishing "Rosalie,"
as the soldier of France terms his bayonet.  Several
other Legionaries were engaged in *astiquage* and
accoutrement cleaning.  For the thousandth time,
the English gentleman realised that one of the most
irksome and maddening of the hardships and disabilities
of the common soldier's life is its utter lack of
privacy.

"Bonsoir, cher Boule," remarked Feodor Kyrilovitch,
looking up as the English approached.  "Have
you seen my brother?  He appears to have come in
and changed and gone out without me."

Evidently the boy was anxious.

"Your brother is at Carmelita's," replied John
Bull, and added: "Come over to my bed and sit
beside me with your back to the room.  I want to
speak to you."

"Don't be alarmed," he continued as they seated
themselves.  "Your brother is absolutely all right."

The Russian gazed anxiously at the kindly face
of the man whom he had instinctively liked and trusted
from the first.

"Your brother is quite all right," continued the
Englishman, "but I am afraid you will have to change
your plans."

"Change our plans, Monsieur Boule?"

"Yes," replied the older man, as he laid his hand
on Feodor's knee with a reassuring smile.  "You will
have to change your plans, for Mikhail can be Mikhail
no longer."

The Russian bowed his head upon his hands with
a groan.

"My poor little Olusha," he whispered.

"Courage, mon brave," said John Bull, patting
him on the back.  "We have a plan for you.  As soon
as your sister was discovered, we took her to Carmelita,
with whom she will be quite safe for a while.  Our idea
is that she and Carmelita make and buy women's
clothes for both of you, and that you escape as sisters.
Since she made such a splendid boy, you ought to be
able to become a fairly convincing girl.  Légionnaire
Mikhail Kyrilovitch will be looked for as a
man--probably in uniform.  By the time the hue and cry is
over, and he is forgotten, everything will be ready
for both of you, then one night you slip into Carmelita's
café and, next day, two café-chantant girls who have
been visiting Carmelita, walk coolly to the station
and take train for Oran....  Rivoli can't tell on
them and still keep in with Carmelita.  He'll have to
help--or pretend to."

Feodor Kyrilovitch was himself again--a cool and
level-headed conspirator, accustomed to weighing
chances, taking risks and facing dangers.

"Thanks, mon ami," he said.  "I believe I owe
you my sister's salvation....  There will be
difficulties, and there are risks--but it is a plan."

"Seems fairly hopeful," replied the other.  "Anyhow,
we could think of nothing better."

"We might get to Oran," mused Feodor; "but
where we can go from there, God knows.  We daren't
go to Paris again, and I doubt if we have a hundred
and fifty roubles between us....  And we dare not
write to friends in Russia."

"We've thought of that too, my boy," interrupted
the Englishman.  "My friend Rupert has money in
the Credit Lyonnais, here in the town.  He says he
will be only too delighted to lend you enough to get
you to England, and write a letter for you to take
to his people.  He says his mother will welcome you
with open arms as coming from him....  From what
he has said to me about her at different times, I imagine
her to be one of the best--and the best of Englishwomen
are the best of women, let me tell you."

"And the best of Englishmen are the best of men,"
replied Feodor, seizing the old Legionary's hand and
kissing it fervently--to the latter gentleman's
consternation and utter discomfort.

"Don't be an ass," he replied in English....
"Clear out now, and go and have a talk with Carmelita.
You can trust her absolutely.  Give her what money
you've got, and she'll poke around in the ghetto for
clothes.  She'll know lots of the Spanish Jew dealers
and cheap *couturières*, if old Mendoza hasn't what she
wants.  Meanwhile, Rupert will draw some money
from the *banque*."

The Russian rose to his feet.

"But how can I thank you, Monsieur?  How can I
repay Monsieur Rupert for his kindness?"

"Don't thank me, and repay Rupert by visiting
his mother and waxing eloquent over his marvellous
condition of health, happiness and prosperity.  Tell
her he is having a lovely time in a lovely place with
lovely people."

"You joke, Monsieur, how *can* I repay you all?"

"Well, I'll tell you, my son--by getting your sister
clear of this hell and safe into England."

The Russian struck himself violently on the
forehead and turned away.

A minute later Rupert entered the *chambrée*.

"He's not in the lavabo," he announced.

"No, it's all right.  I found him here.  He has just
gone down to Carmelita's....  Let's go over to the
Canteen, I want to meet the gentle Luigi Rivoli there."

On the stairs they encountered the Bucking Bronco,
who was told that Feodor had been found and informed.

"Our Loojey's in the road-house," he announced,
"layin' off ter Madam....  I wish she'd deliver the
goods ef she's gwine ter.  Then we could git next our
Loojey without raisin' hell with Carmelita."

"Is the Canteen fairly full?" asked John Bull.

"Some!" replied the Bucking Bronco.

"Then I'm going over to seek sorrow," said the
other.

"Yure not goin' ter git fresh, an' slug the piker any,
air yew, John?" enquired the American anxiously.

"No, Buck," was the reply.  "I'm only going to
make an interestin' announcement," and, turning to
Rupert, he advised him not to identify himself with
any proceedings which might ensue.

"You are hardly complimentary, Bull," commented
Rupert resentfully....

As the three entered the Canteen, which was rapidly
filling up, they caught sight of Rivoli lolling against
the bar in his accustomed corner, and whispering
confidentially to Madame, during her intervals of
leisure.  Pushing his way through the throng John
Bull, closely followed by his two friends, approached
the Neapolitan.  His back was towards them.  The
American, whose face wore an ugly look, touched
Rivoli with his foot.

"Makin' yure sweet self agreeable as usual, Loojey,
my dear?" he enquired, and proceeded with the
difficult task of making himself both sarcastic and
intelligible in the French language.  The Italian
wheeled round with a scowl at the sound of the voice
he hated.

John Bull stepped forward.

"I have come for your answer, Rivoli," he said
quietly.  "I wish to know when and with what
weapons you would prefer to fight me.  Personally,
I don't care in the least what they are, so long as
they're fatal."

A ring of interested listeners gathered round.  The
Neapolitan laughed contemptuously.

"Weapons!" he growled.  "A *fico* for weapons.
I'll twist your neck and break your back, if you trouble
me again."

"Very good," replied the Englishman.  "Now
listen, bully.  We have had a little more than enough
of you.  You take advantage of your strength to
terrorise men who are not street acrobats, and
professional weight-lifters.  Now *I* am going to take
advantage of this, to terrorise *you*," and he produced
a small revolver from his pocket.  "Now choose.  Try
your blackguard-rush games and get a bullet through
your skull, or fight me like a man with any weapon
you prefer."

An approving cheer broke from the quickly
increasing audience.  The Italian moistened his lips
and glared round.

"Mais oui," observed Madame with cool impartiality,
"but that is a fair offer."

As though stung by her remark, the Italian threw
himself into wrestling attitude and extended his
arms.  John Bull moved only to extend his pistol-arm,
and Luigi Rivoli recoiled.  Strangling men who
could not wrestle was one thing, being shot was quite
another.  The thrice-accursed English dog had got
him nicely cornered.  To raise a hand to him was to
die--better to face his enemy, himself armed than
unarmed.  Better still to catch him unarmed and stamp
the life out of him.  He must temporise.

"Ho-ho, Brave Little Man with a Pistol," he
sneered.  "Behold the English hero who fears the
bare hands of no man--while he has a revolver in
his own."

"You miss the point, Rivoli," was the reply.  "I
want nothing to do with you bare-handed.  I want
you to choose any weapon you like to name," and
turning to the deeply interested crowd he raised his
voice a little:

"Gentlemen of the Legion," he said, "I challenge
le Légionnaire Luigi Rivoli of the Seventh Company
of the First Battalion of La Légion Etrangère to fight
me with whatever weapon he prefers.  We can use
our rifles; he can have the choice of the revolvers
belonging to me and my friend le Légionnaire
Bouckaing Bronceau; we can use our sword-bayonets;
we can get sabres from the Spahis; or it can be a
rifle-and-bayonet fight.  He can choose time, place,
and weapon--and, if he will not fight, let him be known
as *Rivoli the Coward* as long as he pollutes our glorious
Regiment."

Ringing and repeated cheers greeted the longest
public speech that Sir Montague Merline had ever made.

A bitter sneer was frozen on Rivoli's white face.

"*Galamatias!*" he laughed contemptuously, but
the laugh rang a little uncertain.

Madame la Cantinière was charmed.  She felt she
was falling in love with ce brave Jean Boule *au grand
galop*.  This was a far finer man, and a far more suitable
husband for a hard-working Cantinière than that
lump of a Rivoli, with his pockets always *pleine de
vide* and his mouth always full of *langue vert*.  A trifle
on the elderly side perhaps, but aristocrat *au bout
des ongles*.  Yes, decidedly grey as to the hair, but
then, how nice to be an old man's darling!--and
Madame simpered, bridled and tried to blush.

"Speak up thou, Rivoli," she cried sharply.  "Do
not stand there like a *blanc bec* before a Sergeant-Major.
Speak, *bécasse*--or speak not again to me."

The Neapolitan darted a glance of hatred at her.

"Peace, fat sow," he hissed, and added unwisely--"You
wag your beard too much."

In that moment vanished for ever all possibility
of Madame's trying an Italian husband.  "Sow"
may be a term of endearment, but no gentleman
alludes to beards in the presence of a lady whose
chin does not betray her sex.

Turning to his enemy, Rivoli struck an attitude
and pointed to the door.

"Go, dig your grave *ci-devant*," he said portentously,
"and I will kill you beside it, within the week."

"Thanks," replied the Englishman, and invited his
friends to join him in a litre....

The barracks of the First Battalion of the Foreign
Legion hummed and buzzed that night, from end to
end, in a ferment of excitement over the two
tremendous items of most thrilling and exciting news,
to wit, that there was among them a sheep in wolf's
clothing--a girl in uniform--and, secondly, that there
was a duel toward, a duel in which no less a person
than the great Luigi Rivoli was involved.

*Cherchez la femme* was the game of the evening;
and the catch-word of the wits on encountering any
bearded and grisled *ancien* in corridor *chambrée*,
canteen, or staircase, was--

"Art *thou* the girl, petite?"

The wrinkled old grey-beard, Tant-de-Soif, was
christened Bébé Fifinette, provided with a skirt
improvised from a blanket, and subjected to indignities.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE TEMPTATION OF SIR MONTAGUE MERLINE`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER VIII


.. class:: center medium

   THE TEMPTATION OF SIR MONTAGUE MERLINE

.. vspace:: 2

Il Signor Luigi Rivoli strode forth from the
Canteen in an unpleasant frame of mind.

"Curse the Englishman!" he growled.  "Curse that
hag behind the bar.  Curse that Russian *ragazza*.
Curse that thrice-damned American...."

In fact--curse everybody and everything.  And
among them, Il Signor Luigi Rivoli cursed Carmelita
for not making a bigger financial success of her Café
venture, and saving a Neapolitan gentlemen from the
undignified and humiliating position of having to lay
siege to a cursed fat French *bitche*, to get a decent
living....  What a fool he'd been that evening!
He had lost ground badly with Madame, and he had
lost prestige badly with the Legionaries.  He must
regain both as quickly as possible....  That accursed
English devil must meet with an accident within the
week.  It would not be the first time by hundreds
that a Légionnaire had been stabbed in the back for
his sash and bayonet in the *Village Négre* and alleys
of the Ghetto....  A little job for Edouard Malvin,
or Tou-tou Boil-the-Cat.  Yes, a knife in the back
would settle the Englishman's hash quite effectually,
and it would be the simplest thing in the world to
leave his body in one of those places to which
Legionaries are forbidden to go--for the very reason that
they are likely to remain in them for ever....  Curse
that old cow of the Canteen!  Had he offended her
beyond hope of reconciliation?  The Holy Saints
forbid, for the woman was positively wealthy.  Well,
he must bring the whole battery of his blandishments
to bear and make one mighty effort to win her fortune,
hand and heart--in fact, he would give her an
ultimatum and settle things, one way or the other, for
Carmelita was beginning to show distinct signs of
restiveness.  Curse Carmelita!  He was getting very
weary of her airs and jealousies--a franc a day did
not pay for it all.  As soon as things were happily
settled with Madame he would be able to sell his rights
and goodwill in Carmelita and her Café.  But one must
not be precipitate.  There must be no untimely killing
of geese that laid golden eggs.  Carmelita must be
kept quiet until Madame's affair was settled.  'Twas
but a clumsy fool that would lose both the substance
and the shadow--both the Canteen and the Café.  If
Madame returned an emphatic and final No, to his
ultimatum, the Café must suffice until something
better turned up.  Luigi Rivoli and an unaugmented
halfpenny a day would be ill partners, and agree
but indifferently....

Revolving these things in his heart, the gentle
Luigi became conscious of a less exalted organ, and
bethought him of dinner, Chianti, and his cigar.  He
turned in the direction of the Café de la Légion, his
usual excellent appetite perhaps a trifle dulled and
blunted by uncomfortable thoughts as to what might
happen should this grey English dog survive the week,
in spite of the attentions of Messieurs Malvin, Tou-tou,
et Cie.  The choice between facing the rifle or revolver
of the Company marksman, or of being branded for
ever as *Rivoli the Coward* was an unpleasant one....
Should he choose steel and have a dagger-fight with
sword-bayonets?  No, he absolutely hated cold steel,
and his mighty strength would be almost as useless
to him as in a shooting-duel.  Suppose he selected
sword-bayonets, to be used as daggers--held his in
his left hand, seized his enemy's right wrist, broke
his arm, and then made a wrestle of it after all?  He
could strangle him or break his back with ease.  And
suppose he missed his snatch at the Englishman's
wrist?  The devil's bayonet would be through his
throat in a second! ... But why these vain and
discomforting imaginings?  Ten francs would buy a
hundred bravos in the *Village Négre* and slums, if
Malvin failed him....

He turned into Carmelita's alley and entered the Café.

Carmelita, whose eyes had rarely left the door
throughout the evening, saw him as he entered, and
her face lit up as does a lantern when the wick is
kindled.  Here was her noble and beautiful Luigi.
Away with all wicked doubts and fears.  Even the
good Jean Boule was prejudiced against her Luigi
She would now hear his version of the discovery of
the Russian girl.  How amused he would be to know
that she had guessed Mikhail's secret long ago.

Rivoli passed behind the bar.  Carmelita held open
the door of her room, and having closed it behind
him, turned and flung her arms round his neck.

"Marito amato!" she murmured as she kissed him
again and again.  How could she entertain these
doubts of her Luigi in his absence?  She was a wicked,
wicked girl, and undeserving of her fortune in having
so glorious a mate.  She decided to utter no reproaches
and ask no questions concerning the discovery of the
Russian girl.  She would just tell him that she had
taken her in and that she counted on his help in keeping
the girl's secret and getting her away.

"Beloved and beautiful Luigi of my heart," she
said, as she placed a steaming dish of macaroni before
him, "I want your help once more.  That poor, foolish,
little Mikhail Kyrilovitch has come and told me he is
in trouble, and begged my help.  Fancy his thinking
he could lead the life that my Luigi leads--that of a
soldier of France's fiercest Regiment.  Poor little fool....
Guess where he is at this moment, Luigi."

With his mouth full, the noble Luigi intimated
that he knew not, cared not, and desired not to know.

"I will tell my lord," murmured Carmelita, bending
over his lordship's huge and brawny shoulder, and
kissing the tip of the ear into which she whispered,
"He is in my bed."

Luigi had to think quickly.  How much had the
Russian girl told of what had happened in the
wash-house?  Nothing, or Carmelita would not be in this
frame of mind.  What did Carmelita know?  Did she
know that *he* knew?  He sprang to his feet with an
oath, and a well-assumed glare of ferocity.  He raised
his fist above his head, and by holding his breath,
contrived to induce a dark flush and raise the veins
upon his forehead.

"In your bed, *puttana*?" he hissed.  (Carmelita was
overjoyed, Luigi was angered and jealous.  Where
there is jealousy, there is love!  Of course, Luigi loved
her as he had always done.  How dared she doubt it?
Throwing her arms around his neck with a happy laugh,
she reassured her ruffled mate until he permitted himself
to calm down and resume his interrupted meal.  Jean
Boule had lied to her!  Luigi knew nothing!...)  She
went to the bar.

Curse this Russian anarchist!  But for her he
would not have been in danger of losing Madame, nor
of finding a violent death.  Curse Carmelita, the
stupid fool, for harbouring her.  What should he
do?  What could he say?  If he thwarted Carmelita's
plan, she would think he desired the Russian
wench for himself, and fly into a rage.  She would
be a very fiend from hell if she were jealous!  A
pretty pass he would be brought to if both Canteen
and Café were closed to him!  He had better walk
warily here, until he had ascertained the exact amount
of damage he had done by his most unwise allusion to
Madame's whiskers.  (Never tell a cross-eyed man he
squints.)  But he must get even with this Russian
she-devil who had thwarted him in the lavatory, struck
him across the face, humiliated him before the
Englishman, ruined his prestige with his comrades and
Madame, and brought him to the brink of an abyss
of danger....  He had an idea....  When Carmelita
came into the room again from the bar, she should
have the shock of her life, and the Russian *puttana*,
another.  Also the over-clever Jean Boule should learn
that the race is not always to the slow, nor the battle
to the weak....  Carmelita entered.  Picking up his
képi, he extended his arms, and with a smile of lofty
sadness, bade her come and kiss him while she
might....

*While she might*!  Carmelita turned pale, and Doubt
again reared its horrid head.  Was this his way of
beginning some tale concerning separation?  Some
tale in which Madame la Cantinière's name would
appear sooner or later?  By the Blessed Virgin and
the Holy Bambino, she would tear the eyes from
Luigi Rivoli's head, before they should look on that
French *meretrice* as his wife.

"While I may?  Why do you say that, Luigi?"
she asked in a dead voice.

The ruffian felt uncomfortable as he watched those
great, black eyes blazing in the pinched, blanched
face, and realised that there were depths in Carmelita
that he had not sounded--and would be ill-advised
to sound.  What a devil she looked!  Luigi Rivoli
would do well to eat no food to which Carmelita
had had access, when once she knew the truth.  Luigi
Rivoli would do well to watch warily, and, move
quickly, should Carmelita's hand go to the dagger
in her garter when he told her that he was thinking
of settling in life.  In fact it was a question whether
his life would be safe, so long as Carmelita was in
Sidi-bel-Abbès, and he was the husband of Madame!
Another idea!  *Madre de Dios*!  A brilliant one.
Denounce Carmelita for aiding and abetting a deserter!
Two birds with one stone--Carmelita jailed and
deported, and the Russian recaptured--Luigi Rivoli
rid of a danger from the one, and gratified by a
vengeance on the other!  As these thoughts flashed through
the Italian's evil mind, he maintained his pose, and
gently and sadly shook his head.

"While you may, indeed, my Carmelita," he
murmured, and produced the first of his brilliant
ideas.  "While you may.  Do not think I reproach you,
Carmelita, for you have acted but in accordance with
the dictates of your warm young heart in taking in
this girl.  How were *you* to know that this would
involve me in a duel to the death with the finest shot
in the Nineteenth Division, the most famous marksman
in the army of Africa?"

"What?" gasped Carmelita.

"What I say, my poor girl," was the reply, uttered
with calm dignity.  "Your English friend, this Jean
Boule, who fears to meet me face to face, and man
to man, with Nature's weapons, has forced a quarrel
on me over this Russian girl.  He challenged me in
the Canteen this night, and I, who could break him
like a dried stick, must stand up to be shot by him,
like a dog....  I do not blame *you*, Carmelita.  How
were you to know?..."

Carmelita suddenly sat down.

"I do not understand," she whispered and sat agape.

"The Englishman owns this girl...."

"He brought her here," Carmelita interrupted,
nodding her head.

"Ha!  I guessed it....  Yes, he owns her, and
when I discovered the shameless *puttana's* sex he drew
a pistol on me, an innocent, unarmed man....  Did he
tell you it was I who found the shameful hussy out?
What could I do against him empty-handed? ... And
now I must fight him--and he can put a bullet where
he will....  So kiss me, while you may, Carmelita."

With a low cry the girl sprang into his arms.

"My love!  My love!  My husband!" she wailed,
and Luigi hoped that she would release her clasp
from about his neck in time for him to avoid
suffocation....  Curse all women--they were the cause of
nine-tenths of the sorrows of mankind.  But one could
not do without them....  Suddenly Carmelita started
back, and clapped her hands with a cry of glee.  "The
Holy Virgin be praised!  I have it!  I have it!  Unless
Légionnaire Jean Boule confesses his fault and begs
my Luigi's pardon--out into the gutter goes his
Russian mistress," and Carmelita pirouetted with
joy....  Thank God!  Thank God!  Here was a
solution, and she embraced her lover again and again.
Luigi's face was wreathed in smiles.  *Excellente*!
That would do the trick admirably, and the
thrice-accursed, and ten-times-too-clever English
*aristocratico* should publicly apologise, if he wished to save
his mistress....  Yes, that would be very much
pleasanter than a mere stab-in-the-back revenge, as
well as safer.  There is always some slight risk, even in
Sidi-bel-Abbès, about arranging a murder, and
blackmail is always unpleasant--for the blackmailed.
Ho-ho!  Ho-ho!  Only to think of the cold and haughty
Englishman publicly apologising and begging Luigi,
of his mercifulness, to cancel the duel.  *Corpo di Bacco*,
he should do it on his knees.  "Rivoli the Coward,"
forsooth, and what of "Jean Boule the Coward,"
after this? ... Yes; Jean Boule defeated, the Russian
girl denounced when clear of Carmelita's Café, if Madame
proved unkind, and denounced in the Café together with
Carmelita if Madame accepted him.  He himself need not
appear personally in the matter at all.  And when
Carmelita was jailed or deported, and the Russian girl
sent to Biribi, or turned into a *figlia del reggimento*, the
Englishman should still get it in the back one dark
night--and Signor Luigi Rivoli would wax fat behind
Madame's bar, until his five years' service was
completed and he could live happy ever after, upon the
earnings of Madame....

Stroking her hair, he smiled superior upon Carmelita.

"A clever thought, my little one," he murmured,
"and bravely meant, but your Luigi's days are
numbered.  Would that proud, cold *aristocratico* eat
the words he shouted before half the Company?  No!
He will leave the girl to shift for herself."

Carmelita's face fell.

"Do not say so," she begged.  "No!  No!  He
would not do that.  You know how these English
treat women.  You know the sort of man this Jean
Boule is," and for a moment, involuntarily, Carmelita
contrasted her Luigi with Il Signor Jean Boule in
the matter of their chivalry and honour, and ere she
could thrust the thought from her mind, she had
realised the comparison to be unfavourable to her lover.

"Luigi," she said, "I feel it in my heart that, since
the Englishman has said that he will save his mistress,
he will do it at any cost whatsoever to himself....
Go, dearest Luigi, go now, and I will send to him,
and say I must see him at once.  He will surely come,
thinking that I send on behalf of this Russian fool."

And with a last vehement embrace and burning
kiss, she thrust him before her into the bar and watched
him out of the Café.

Le Légionnaire Jean Boule was not among the score
or so of Legionaries who sat drinking at the little
tables, nor were either of his friends.  Whom could
she send?  Was that funny English *ribaldo*, Légionnaire
Erbiggin, there? ... No....  Ah!--There sat the
poor Grasshopper.  He would do.  She made her way
with laugh and jest and badinage to where he sat,
*faisant Suisse* as usual.

"Bonsoir, cher Monsieur Cigale," she said.  "Would
you do me a kindness?"

The Grasshopper rose, thrust his hands up the sleeves
of his tunic as far as his elbows, bowed three times,
and then knelt upon the ground and smote it thrice
with his forehead.  Rising, he poured forth a torrent
of some language entirely unknown to Carmelita.

"Speak French or Italian, cher Monsieur Cigale,"
she said.

"A thousand pardons, Signora," replied the
Grasshopper.  "But you will admit it is not usual for a
Mandarin of the Highest Button to speak French.  I was
saying that the true kindness would be your allowing
me to do you a kindness.  May I doom your *wonk*\[#] of
an enemy to the death of the Thousand Cuts?"


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

   [#] Chinese pariah dog.

.. vspace:: 2

"Not this evening, dear Mandarin, thank you,"
replied Carmelita; "but you can carry a message of
the highest military importance.  It is well known that
you are a soldier of soldiers, and have never yet failed
in any military duty."

The Mandarin bowed thrice.

"Will you go straight and find le Légionnaire Jean
Boule of your Company, and tell him to come to me
at once.  Say Carmelita sent you and tell him you have
the countersign:--'Our Ally, Russia, is in danger!'"

"I am honoured and I fly," was the reply.  "I will
send no official of the Yamen, but go myself.  Should
the Po Sing, they of the Hundred Names, the [Greek: *hoi
polloi*], beset my path I will cry, '*Sha!  Sha!*--Kill!
Kill!--and scatter them before me.  Should the *kwei
tzu*, the Head Dragon from Hell, or the Military Police
(and they are *tung yen* you know--of the same race
and tarred with the same brush) impede me, they too
shall die the death of the Wire Net," and the
Grasshopper placed his képi on his head.

Carmelita knew that John Bull would be with her
that evening, and that the risk of eight days' *salle de
police*, for being out after tattoo, would not deter him.

In a fever of anxiety, impatience, hope and fear,
Carmelita paced up and down behind her bar, like
a panther in its cage.  One thought shone brightly
on the troubled turmoil of her soul.  Luigi loved her
still; Luigi so loved her that he had been ready to
strike her dead as the tide of jealousy surged in his
soul.  That was the sort of love that Carmelita
understood.  Let him take her by the throat until she
choked--let him seize her by the hair and drag her round
the room--let him stab her in the breast, so it be for
jealousy.  Better Luigi's knife in Carmelita's throat
than Luigi's lips on Madame's face.  Thank God!
Luigi had suffered those pangs--on hearing of a
Russian boy in her room--that she herself had suffered
on hearing Malvin and the rest couple Luigi's name
with Madame's.  Thank God! that Luigi knew jealousy
even as she did herself.  Where there is jealousy,
there is love....

And then Carmelita struck her forehead with her
clenched fists and laid her head upon her folded arms
with a piteous groan.  Luigi had been acting.  Luigi
had *pretended* that jealousy of the Russian.  Luigi
knew Mikhail Kyrilovitch was a girl--he had fooled
her, and once again doubt raised its cruel head in
Carmelita's poor distracted mind.  "Oh Luigi!
Luigi!" she sobbed beneath her breath.  And then
again a ray of comfort--the *bambino*.  Merciful Mother
of God grant that it might be true, and that her bright
and golden hopes were based on more solid foundation
than themselves.  Why had she not told him that
evening?  But no, she was glad she hadn't.  She would
keep the wonderful secret until such moment as it
really seemed to her that it should be produced as
the gossamer fairy chain, weightless but unbreakable,
that should bind them together, then and forever,
in its indissoluble bonds.  Yes, she must force herself
to believe devoutly and implicitly in the glorious and
beautiful secret, and she must treasure it up as long
as possible and whisper it in Luigi's ear if it should
ever seem that, for a moment, her Luigi strayed from
the path of justice and honesty to his unwedded wife.

Faith again triumphed over Doubt.

These others were jealous of her Luigi, or mistook
his natural and beautiful politeness to Madame, for
overtures and love-making.  Could not her Luigi
converse with, and smile upon, Madame la Cantinière
without setting all their idle and malicious tongues
clacking and wagging?  As for this Russian wretch,
Luigi had given her no more thought than to the dust
beneath his feet, and she should go forth into the gutter,
in Carmelita's night-shift, before her protector should
injure a hair of Luigi's head.  She was surprised at
Jean Boule, but there--men were all alike, all except
her Luigi, that is.  How deceived she had been in the
kindly old Englishman! ... Fancy coming to her
with their cock-and-bull story....

The voice of the man of whom she was thinking
broke in upon her reverie.

"What is it, little one?  Nothing wrong about Olga?"

"Come in here, Signor Jean Boule," said Carmelita,
and led the way into her room.

The Englishman involuntarily glanced round the
little sanctum into which no man save Luigi Rivoli
had been known to penetrate, and noted the clean
tablecloth, the vase with its bunch of krenfell and
oleander flowers, the tiny, tidy dressing table, the
dilapidated chest of drawers, bright oleographs,
cheap rug, crucifix and plaster Madonna--a room
still suggestive of Italy.

Turning, Carmelita faced the Englishman and
pointed an accusing finger at his face, her great black
eyes staring hard and straight into the narrowed
blue ones.

"Signor Jean Boule," she said, "you have played
a trick on me; you have deceived me; you have
killed my faith in Englishmen--yes, in all men--except
my Luigi.  Why did you bring your mistress
to me and beg my help while you knew you meant
to kill my husband, because he had found you out?
Oh, Monsieur Jean Boule--but you have hurt me so.
And I had thought you like a father--so good a man,
yes, like a holy padre, a *prête*.  Oh, Signor Jean Boule,
are you like those others, loving wickedly, killing
wickedly?  Are there *no* good honest men--except
my Luigi?..."

The Englishman shifted uncomfortably from foot
to foot, twisting his képi in his fingers, a picture of
embarrassment and misery.  How could he persuade
this girl that the man was a double-dealing, villainous
blackguard?  And if he could do so, why should he?
Why destroy her faith and her happiness together?
If this hound failed in his attempt upon the celibacy
of Madame, he would very possibly marry the girl,
and, in his own interests, treat her decently.
Apparently he had kept her love for years--why should
she not go on worshipping the man she believed her
lover to be, until the end?  But no, it was absurd.
How should Luigi Rivoli ever treat a woman decently?
Sooner or later he was certain to desert her.  What
would Carmelita's life be when Luigi Rivoli had the
complete disposal of it?  Sooner or later she must know
what he was, and better sooner than later.  A thousand
times better that she should find him out now, while
there was a risk of his marrying her....  It would
be a really good deed to save Carmelita from the
clutches of Luigi Rivoli.  Stepping toward her, he
laid his hands upon the girl's shoulders and gazed into
her eyes with that look which he was wont to fasten
upon the Grasshopper to soothe and influence him.

"Listen to me, Carmelita," he said, "and be
perfectly sure that every word I say to you is absolutely
true....  I did not know that Mikhail Kyrilovitch
was a woman more than half an hour before you did.
I only knew it when she rushed to me for protection
from Luigi Rivoli, who had discovered her and behaved
to her like the foul beast he is.  I have challenged him
to fight me in the only way in which it is possible for
me to fight him, and I mean to kill him.  I am going
to kill him partly for your sake, partly for my own,
and partly for that of every wretched recruit and
decent man in the Company."

Carmelita drew back.

"Coward!" she hissed.  "You only dare face my
Luigi with a gun in your hand."

"I am not a coward, Carmelita.  It is Rivoli who
is the coward.  He is by far the strongest man in the
Regiment, and is a professional wrestler.  He trades
on this to bully and terrorise all who do not become
his servants.  He is a brutal ruffian, and he is a coward,
for he would do anything rather than meet me in
fair fight.  He is only a *risquetout* where there are no
weapons and the odds are a hundred to one in his
favour....  If I hear one more word about my
trading on my marksmanship, he shall fight me with
revolvers across a handkerchief.  Besides, I have told
him he can choose any weapon in the world."

"And now hear *me*," replied Carmelita, "and I
would say it if it were my last word.  Either you take
all that back and apologise to my Luigi, or out into
the night goes this Russian girl," and she pointed with
the dramatic gesture of the excited Southerner to the
*bassourab*-cloth which screened off the little inner
chamber which was just big enough to hold Carmelita's bed.

The Englishman started.

"You don't mean that, Carmelita!" he asked anxiously.

The girl laughed bitterly, cruelly.

"Do you think a thousand Russians would weigh
with me against one hair of my husband's head?"
she answered.  "Give me your solemn promise now
and here, or I will do more than throw her out, I
will denounce her.  I will give her to the Turcos and
Spahis.  I will have her dragged to the Village Négre."

"Hush!  Carmelita.  I am ashamed of you.  Are you
mad?" said John Bull sternly.

"I am sorry," was the reply.  "Yes, I *am* mad,
Signor Jean Boule.  I am being driven mad by this
horrible plot against my Luigi.  Why are you all his
enemies?  It is because you are jealous of him and
because you fear him--but you shall not hurt him.
This, at least, I say and mean: Take the Russian girl
away with you now, or promise me you will never fight
my husband with lead or steel."

"I cannot promise it, Carmelita.  I have challenged
Rivoli publicly and must fight him.  To draw out now
would brand me as a coward, would make him twice
the bully he is, and would be a cruelty to you....
You ask too much, you ask an impossibility.  I must
make some other plan for Olga Kyrilovitch."

Carmelita staggered, and stared open-mouthed.
She could not believe her ears.

"What?" she gasped.

"The girl must go elsewhere," repeated the Englishman.
Carmelita appeared to be about to faint.  Could
he mean it?  Was it possible?  Was her brilliant
plan failing?

"Will you lend the girl some clothes?" asked John Bull.

"Most certainly will I not," she whispered.

"Then please go and tell her to dress again in
uniform," was the answer, as he pointed to the uniform
lying folded on a chair.

"And will you ruin her chance of escape, Signor
Jean Boule?" asked Carmelita.  "Is *that* how
Englishmen treat women who throw themselves on their
mercy?  Do you put your own vengeance before her
safety and honour and life?"

"No, Carmelita, I do not," answered the man.  "I
am in a terrible position, and am going to choose
the lesser of two evils.  It is better that I take the girl
away and help her brother to desert with her, than
let Rivoli wreck your life, break your heart, and doubly
regain the bully's prestige and power to make weaker
comrades' lives a misery and a burden.  He, at any
rate, shall be the cause of no more suicides."

Carmelita flung herself upon the hideous horsehair
couch and burst into a torrent of hysterical tears.
What could she say to this hard, cold man?  What
could she do?  What *could* she do?

John Bull, suffering acutely as he had ever
suffered in his life, stood silent, and wondered how
far the wish was father to the thought that, in
this ghastly dilemma, it was his duty to stand firm
in his attitude toward Rivoli.  For once, the thing he
longed to do was the right thing to do, and the course
which he would loathe to follow was the wrong course
for him to pursue.  Olga Kyrilovitch had brought her
fate upon herself, and he had no more responsibility
to her than the common duty of lending a helping
hand to a neighbour in trouble.  Had there been no
other consideration, he would have helped her to the
utmost of his power, without counting cost or risk.
When it came to a clear choice between saving
Carmelita, protecting recruits, making a stand for
self-respect and decency, and redeeming his own word
and honour and reputation on the one hand, and, on
the other hand, helping this rash and lawless Russian
girl, there could be no hesitation.

Carmelita sprang to her feet.

"I will denounce her," she cried.  "I will throw
open those shutters and scream and scream until
there is a crowd, and they shall have her in her
nightdress.  *Now* will you spare my husband?"

"You'll do nothing of the kind," answered John
Bull calmly.  "You know you would regret it
all the days of your life.  Is this Italian hospitality,
womanliness, and honour?  Be ashamed of yourself,
to talk so.  Be fair.  Be just.  Who needs protection
most--your bully, or this wretched girl?" and here
Legionary John Bull showed more than his wonted
wisdom in dealing with women.  Stepping up to
Carmelita he seized her by the shoulders and shook
her somewhat sharply, saying as he did so, "And
understand once and for all, little fool, I keep my
promise to Luigi Rivoli--whatever you do."

In return for her shaking, the surprising Carmelita
smiled up into the old soldier's face, and clasped her
hands behind his head.

"Monsieur Jean Boule," she said, "I think I would
have loved my father like I love you--but how you
try to hide the soft, kind heart with the hard, cruel
face!" and Carmelita gave John Bull the first kiss
he had received for over a quarter of a century.

He pushed her from him roughly.  Carmelita was
glad.  This was a thousand times better than that
glacial immobility.  This meant that he was moved.

"Save Olga's life, Babbo," she whispered coaxingly.
"Save Olga and make me happy.  Don't ruin two
women for fear men should not think you brave.  Who
doubts the courage of the man who wears the *médaille*?
The man who had the courage to challenge Luigi Rivoli
can have the courage to withdraw it if it suits him."

"The man who killed Luigi Rivoli would be your
best friend, Carmelita," was the reply, "and Olga
Kyrilovitch must be saved in some other way.  I must
keep my word.  It is due to others as well as to myself
that I do so."

The two regarded each other without realising
that it was across an abyss of immeasurable width
and unfathomable depth.  He was a man, she was a
woman; he a Northerner, she a Southerner.  To him
honour came first; and without love there could be,
she thought, neither honour nor happiness nor life itself.

How should these two understand each other, these
two whose souls spoke languages differing as widely
as those spoken by their tongues?  The woman
understood and appreciated the rectitude and honour of
the man as little as he realised and fathomed the depth
and overwhelming intensity of her love and devotion.

Carmelita now made a great mistake and took a
false step--a mistake which turned to her advantage
and a false step which led whither she so yearned to
go.  For Luigi's sake she played the temptress.  In
defence of her virtue let it be said that, as once before,
she believed that her Luigi's life was actually at
stake; in defence of her judgment, let it be
remembered that she had grown up in a hard school, and had
reason to believe that no man does something for
nothing where a woman is concerned.  She advanced
with her bewitching smile, took the Englishman's
face between her hands, drew his head down and kissed
him upon the lips.

The Englishman blushed as he returned her
kiss, and laughed to find himself blushing as the thought
struck him that he might have had a daughter older
than Carmelita.  The girl misunderstood the kiss and
smile.  Alas! all men were alike in one thing and the
best were like the worst.  She put her lips to his ear
and whispered....

John Bull drew back.  Placing his hands upon
the girl's shoulders, he gazed into her eyes.
Carmelita blushed painfully, and dropped her eyes
before the man's searching stare.  She heaved a sobbing
sigh.  Yes, all alike, all had their price--and any pretty
woman could pay it.  All alike--even grey-haired,
kind old Babbo Jean Boule, who looked as though he
might be her grandfather.

She felt his hand beneath her chin, raising her face
to his.  Again he gazed into her eyes and slowly shook
his head.

"And is this what men and Life have taught you,
Carmelita?" he said....

A horrid fear gripped Carmelita's heart.  Could she
be wrong?  Could she have offered herself in vain?
Could this man's pride and hatred be so great that
the bribe was not enough?

"And you would do this--*you*, Carmelita; for
that filthy blackguard?"

"I would do anything for my Luigi.  Sell me his
life and I will pay you now, the highest price a woman
can.  Kiss me on the lips, dear Monsieur Jean, and I
will trust you to keep your part of the bargain--never
to fight nor attack my Luigi with a weapon in
your hand.  Kiss me!  Kiss me!"

The Englishman drew the pleading girl to him
and kissed her on the forehead.  She flung her arms
around his neck in a transport of joy and relief.

"You will sell me my Luigi's life?" she cried.  "Oh
praise and thanks to the Mother of God.  You *will*?"

"I will *give* you your Luigi's life," said Sir Montague
Merline, and went out.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE CAFÉ AND THE CANTEEN`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER IX


.. class:: center medium

   THE CAFÉ AND THE CANTEEN

.. vspace:: 2

As the door closed behind the departing John
Bull, the heavy *purdah* between the sitting-room
and the tiny side-chamber or alcove in which
was Carmelita's bed, was pushed aside, and Olga
Kyrilovitch, barefooted and dressed in night attire
belonging to Carmelita, entered the room.  On
the sofa lay Carmelita sobbing, her hands pressed
over her eyes.

Looking more boy-like than ever, with her short
hair, the Russian girl advanced noiselessly and shook
Carmelita sharply by the shoulder.

"You fool," she hissed between clenched teeth.
"You stupid fool.  You blind, stubborn, hopeless
*fool*!"  Carmelita sat up.  This was language she could
understand, and a situation with which she could
deal.

"Yes?" she replied without resentment, "and why?"

"Those two men....  Compare them...  I heard
every word--I could not help it.  I could not come
out--I should not have been safe, even with you here,
with that vile, filthy Italian in the room, nor could I
come, for shame, like this, while the Englishman was
here....  *Why did you let him say he does not love
me?*" and the girl burst into tears.  Carmelita stared.

"Oho! you love him, do you?" quoth she....
"Then if you know what love is, why do you abuse
the man *I* love?"

The girl raised her impassioned tear-stained face
to Carmelita's.

"Will nothing persuade you, little fool?" she cried,
"that that Italian beast no more loves you than--than
Jean Boule loves me--that he is playing with you,
that he is battening on you, and that, the moment
the fat Canteen woman accepts him, he will marry
her and you will see him no more?  Why should Jean
Boule lie to you?  Why should the American?  Why
should I?--Ask any Legionary in Sidi."

Carmelita clenched her little fist and appeared to
be about to strike the Russian girl.

"Stop!" continued Olga, and pointed to the
uniform which lay folded on the chair.  "See!  Prove
your courage and prove us all liars if you can.  Put
on that uniform, disguise yourself, and go to the
Canteen any night in the week.  If your Rivoli is not
there behind the bar, hand-in-glove with Madame,
turn me into the street--or leave me at the mercy of
your Rivoli.  There now...."

"*I will*," said Carmelita, and then screamed and
laughed, laughed and screamed, as her overwrought
nerves and brain gave way in a fit of hysterics.

When she recovered, Olga Kyrilovitch discovered
that the seed which she had sown had taken root, and
that it was Carmelita's unalterable intention to pay
a visit to the Canteen on the very next evening.

"For my Luigi's own sake I will spy upon him,"
she said, "and to prove all his vile accusers wrong.
When I have done it I will confess to him with tears
and throw myself at his feet.  He shall do as he likes
with me....  But he will understand that it was
only to disprove these lies that I did it, and not because
I for one moment doubted him."

But doubt him Carmelita did.  As soon as her
decision was taken and announced, she allowed Olga
to talk on as she pleased, and insensibly came to
realise that at the bottom of her heart she knew John
Bull to be incapable of deceiving her.  Why should he?
Why should all the Legionaries, except Rivoli's own
hirelings, take up the same attitude towards him?
Why should there be no man to speak well of him save
such men as Borges, Hirsch, Bauer, Malvin, and the
others, all of whom carried their vileness in their
faces?  As her doubts and fears increased, so did her
wrath and excitement, until she strode up and down
the little room like a caged pantheress, and Olga
feared for her sanity and her own safety.  And then
again, Love would triumph, and she would beat her
breast and wildly reproach herself for her lack of
faith, and overwhelm Olga with a deluge of
vituperation and accusation.

At length came the relief of quiet weeping, and,
having whispered to Olga her Great Secret, or rather
her hopes of having one to tell, she sobbed herself
to sleep on the girl's shoulder, to dream of the most
wonderful of *bambinos*.

Meanwhile, John Bull spent one of the wretchedest
evenings of a wretched life.  Returning to his
*chambrée* to find himself hailed and acclaimed
"hero," he commenced at once, with his usual
uncompromising directness and simplicity, to inform
all and sundry, who mentioned the subject, that there
would be no duel.  It hurt him most of all to see the
face of his friend Rupert fall and harden, as he informed
him that he could not fight Rivoli after all.  On his
explaining the position to him, Reginald Rupert,
decidedly shocked, remarked--

"*Your* business, of course," and privately wondered
whether *les beaux yeux* of Carmelita, or of Olga, had
shed the light in which his friend had come to see
things so differently.  Surely, Carmelita's best friend
would be the person who saved her from Rivoli; and,
if it were really Olga whom Bull were considering, there
were more ways of killing a cat than choking it with
melted butter.  Anyhow, he didn't envy John Bull,
nor yet the weaker vessels of the Seventh Company.
What would John Bull do, if, on hearing of his change
of mind, Rivoli simply took him and put him across
his knee?  Would his promise to Carmelita sustain
him through that or similar indignities?  After all,
a challenge is a challenge; and some people would
consider that the prior engagement to Rivoli could not
in honour be cancelled afterwards by an engagement
with Carmelita or anybody else.

No.  To the young mind of Rupert this was not
"the clean potato," and he was disappointed in his
friend.  As they undressed, in silence, an idea struck
him, and he turned to that gentleman.

"I say, look here, Bull, old chap," quoth he.  "You'll
of course do as you think best in the matter, and so
shall I.  I'm going to challenge Rivoli myself.  I shall
follow your admirable example and challenge him
publicly, and I shall add point to it by wasting a litre
of wine on his face, which I shall also smack with
what violence I may.  I am not Company Marksman
like you, but, as Rivoli knows, I am a First Class shot.
I shall say I have been brooding over his breaking
my back, and now want to fight him on even terms."

A look of pain crossed the face of the old soldier.

"Rupert," he said, rising and laying his hand on
his friend's shoulder, "you'll do nothing of the kind....
Not, that is, if you value my friendship in the
least, or have the slightest regard for me.  Do you not
understand that I have given Carmelita my word
that I will neither fight Rivoli with a weapon in my
hand, nor attack him with one?  Would she not
instantly and naturally suppose that I had got you
to do it *for* me? ... Would anything persuade her
to the contrary?"

"Is he to go unpunished then?  Is he to ride roughshod
over us all?  He'll be ten times worse than before.
You know he'll ascribe your withdrawal to cowardice--and
so will everybody else," was the reply.

"They will," agreed John Bull.

"What's to be done then?"

"I don't know, but I'll tell you what is not to be
done.  No friend of mine is to challenge Rivoli to a
duel."

The Bucking Bronco entered.

"Say, John," he drawled, "I jest bin and beat up
Mister Mounseer Malvin, I hev'.  'Yure flappin' yure
mouth tew much,' I ses.  '*Vous frappez votre bouche
trop*,' I ses.  'Yew come off it, me lad,' I ses.  'Yew
jes' wipe off yure chin some.  *Effacez votre menton*,' I
ses.  Then I slugs him a little one."

"What was it all about, Buck?" enquired Rupert.

"Do yew know what the little greasy tin-horn of
a hobo was waggin' his chin about?  Sed as haow
yew was *a-climbin' down and a-takin' back the challenge
to our Loojey*!  I told him ef he didn't wipe off his
chin and put some putty on his gas-escape I'd do
five-spot in Biribi fer him.  'Yes, Mounseer Malvin,'
I ses when I'd slugged him, 'I'll git the *as de pique*\[#]
on my collar for yew!' ... '*It's true*,' he snivelled.
'*It's true*,' and lays on the groun' so as I shan't slug
him agin.  So I comes away--not seein' why I should
do the two-step on nuthin' at the end of a rope for
a dod-gasted little bed-bug like Mounseer Malvin."


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

   [#] Mark of the Zephyrs.

.. vspace:: 2

"It *is* true, Buck," replied John Bull.

"Well then, I wisht I'd stayed and plugged him
some more," was the remarkable reply.

"Rivoli told Carmelita about the duel, and I've
promised her I'd let him go," continued John Bull.

"Then yure a gosh-dinged fool, John," said the
Bucking Bronco.  "Yew ain't to be trusted where
wimmin's about.  It would hev' bin the best day's
work yew ever done fer Carmelita ef you'd let daylight
through thet plug-ugly old bluff.  He'll lie ter her
from Revelley to Taps[#] until old Mother Canteen
takes him into her shebang fer good--and then as
like as not, he'll put Carmelita up at auction....
There'll be no holding our Loojey now, John.  I
should smile.  Anybody as thinks our Loojey'll make
it easy fer yew has got another think comin'.  It's a
cinch.  He'll give yew a dandy time, John.  What's
a-bitin' yew anyway?"


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

   [#] Last Post.  So called (in the American Army) because it is the
   signal to leave the Canteen and turn off the beer-taps.

.. vspace:: 2

"Carmelita," was the reply.

"I allow the right stunt fer eny pal o' Carmelita's
is ter fill our Loojey up with lead as you perposed ter
do....  Look at here, John.  *I'll* do it.  I could hit
all Loojey's buttons with my little gun, one after
the other, at thirty yards--and I'd done it long ago,
but I know'd it meant the frozen mit fer mine from
Carmelita, and I wasn't man enuff ter kill him fer
Carmelita's good and make my name mud to her fer keeps."

"Same thing now, Buck," was the answer.  "Challenge
Luigi, and you can never set foot in the Café
de la Légion again.  If you killed him--it would be
Carmelita's duty in life to find you and stab you."

"Sure thing, John--an' what about yew?  Ef our
Looj was to be 'Rivoli the Coward' ef he wouldn't
fight, who's to be 'coward' now? ... Yew've bitten
off more'n yew can chew."

"Anyhow, Buck, if you're any friend of mine--you'll
let Rivoli alone.  *Qui facit per alium facit per
se*, and that's Dutch for 'I might as well kill Rivoli
with my own hand as kill him through yours.'"

The Bucking Bronco broke into song--

   |   "But serpose an' serpose,
   |   Yure Hightaliand lad shouldn't die?
   |   Nor the bagpipes shouldn't play o'er him
   |   Ef I punched him in the eye!"

.. class:: noindent

chanted he, as he placed his beloved "gun"--an
automatic pistol--under his pillow.  "I'll beat him
up, Johnnie.  Fer Carmelita's sake I ain't shot him up,
an' fer her sake and yourn I won't shoot him up now,
but the very first time as he flaps his mouth about this
yer dool, I'll beat him up--and there'll be *some* fight,"
and the Bucking Bronco dived into his "flea-bag."

The next day the news spread throughout the *caserne*
of the First Battalion of the Legion that the promised
treat was off, the duel between the famous Luigi
Rivoli and the Englishman, John Bull, would not
take place, the latter, in spite of the publicity and
virulence of his challenge, having apologised.

The news was ill received.  In the first place the
promise of a brilliant break in the monotony of Depôt
life was broken.  In the second place, the undisputed
reign of a despotic and brutal tyrant would continue
and grow yet heavier and more insupportable; while,
in the third place, it was not in accordance with the
traditions of the Legion that a man should fiercely
challenge another in public, and afterwards apologise
and withdraw.  Italian shares boomed and shot
sky-high, while John Bulls became a drug in the market.

That evening the Bucking Bronco, for the first time
in his life, received a message from Carmelita, a
message which raised him to the seventh heaven of
expectation and hope, while the sanguine blood
coursed merrily through his veins.

Carmelita wanted him.  At five o'clock without
fail, Carmelita would expect him at the Café.  She
needed his help and relied upon him for it....
*Gee*-whillikins!  She should have it.

At half-past five that evening, the Bucking Bronco
entered le Café de la Légion and stared in amazement
at seeing a strange Legionary behind Carmelita's bar.
He was a small, slight man in correct walking-out
dress--a blue tunic, red breeches and white spats.  His
képi was pulled well down over a small, intelligent
face, the most marked features of which were very
broad black eyebrows, and a biggish dark moustache.
The broad chin-strap of the képi was down, and pressed
the man's chin up under the large moustache beneath
which the strap passed.  The soldier had a squint
and the Bucking Bronco had always experienced a
dislike and distrust of people so afflicted.

"An' what'n Hell are *yew* a-doin' thar, yew swivel-eyed
tough?" he enquired, and repeated his enquiry
in Legion French.

The Legionary laughed--a ringing peal which was
distinctly familiar.

"Don't yew git fresh with me, Bo, or I'll come roun'
thar an' improve yure squint till you can see in each
ear-'ole," said the American, trying to "place"
the man.

Again the incongruous tinkling peal rang out and
the Bucking Bronco received the shock of his life
as Carmelita's voice issued through the big moustache.
Words failed him as he devoured the girl with his eyes.

"Dear Monsieur Bouckaing Bronceau," said she.
"Will you walk out to-night with the youngest
recruit in the Legion?"

The Bronco still stared agape.

"I am in trouble," continued Carmelita, "and I
turn to you for help."

The light of hope shone in the American's eyes.

"Holy Poker!" said he.  "God bless yure sweet
eyes, fer sayin' so, Carmelita.  But why *me*?  Have yew
found yure Loojey out, at last?  Why me?"

"I turn to you for help, Monsieur Bronco," said the
girl, "because you have told me a hundred times that
you love me.  Love gives.  It is not always asking,
asking, asking.  Now give me your help.  I want to get
at the truth.  I want to clear a good and honest man
from a web of lies.  Take me to the Canteen with you
to-night.  They say my Luigi goes there to see Madame
la Cantinière.  They say he flirts and drinks with her,
that he helps her there, and serves behind her bar.
They even dare to say that he asks her to marry
him...."

"It's true," interrupted the Bucking Bronco.

"Very well--then take me there now.  My Luigi
has sworn to me a hundred times that he never sets
foot in Madame's Canteen, that he would not touch
her filthy Algerian wine--my Luigi who drinks only
the best Chianti from Home.  Take me there and prove
your lies.  Take me now, and either you and your
friends, or else Luigi Rivoli, shall never cross my
threshold again."  Carmelita's voice was rising, tears
were starting to her eyes, and her bosom rose and fell
as no man's ever did.

"Easy, honey," said the big American.  "Ef yure
gwine ter carry on right here, what'll you do in the
Canteen when yew see yure Loojey right thar doin'
bar-tender fer the woman he's a-doin' his damnedest
to marry?"

"*Do?*" answered Carmelita in a low tense voice.
"Do?  I would be cold as ice.  I would be still and
hard as one of the statues in my own Naples.  All
Hell would be in my breast, but a Hell of frozen fire
do you understand, and I would creep away.  Like
a silent spirit I would creep away--but I would be
a spirit of vengeance.  To Monsieur Jean Boule would
I go and I would say, 'Kill him!  Kill him!  For the
love of God and the Holy Virgin and the Blessed
Bambino, *kill* him--and let me come and stamp upon
his face.'  That is what I would say, Monsieur Bronco."

The American covered the girl's small brown hand
with his huge paw.

"Carmelita, honey," he whispered.  "Don't go,
little gel--don't go.  May I be struck blind and balmy
right hyar, right naow, ef I tell you a word of a lie.
Every night of his life he's thar, afore he comes down
hyar with lies on his lips to yew.  Don't go.  Take my
word fer it, an' John Bull's word, and young Rupert's
word.  They're White Men, honey, they wouldn't
lie ter yew.  Believe what we tell yew, and give ole
John Bull back his promise, an' let him shoot-up this
low-lifer rattlesnake...."

"I will see with my own eyes," said Carmelita--adding
with sound feminine logic, "and if he's not
there to-night, I'll know that you have all lied to
me, and that he never was there--and never, never,
never again shall one of you enter my house, or my
Legionaries shall nail you by the ears to the wall
with their bayonets....  Shame on me, to doubt my
Luigi for a moment."

The American gave way.

"Come on then, little gel," he said.  "P'raps it's
fer the best."


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center medium

   §2

.. vspace:: 1

Entering the Canteen that evening for his modest
litre, 'Erb caught sight of his good friend, the Bucking
Bronco, seated beside a Legionary whom 'Erb did
not know.  The American beckoned and 'Erb emitted
a joyous sound to be heard more often in the Ratcliffe
Highway than in the wilds of Algeria.  Apparently
his pal's companion was, or had been, in funds, for
his head reposed upon his folded arms.

"Wotto, Bucko!" exclaimed the genial 'Erb.  "We
a-goin' to ketch this pore bloke's complaint?  Luvvus!
Wish I got enuff to git as ill as wot 'e is."

"Sit down t'other side of him, 'Erb," responded
the American.  "We may hev' to help the gay-cat
to bed.  He's got a jag.  Tight as a tick--an' lef me
in the lurch with two-francs' worth to drink up."

"Bless 'is 'eart," exclaimed 'Erb.  "I dunno
wevver 'e's a-drinkin' to drahn sorrer or wevver he's
a-drinkin' to keep up 'is 'igh sperrits--but he shan't
say as 'ow 'Erb 'Iggins didn't stand by 'im to the
larst--the larst boll' I mean," and 'Erb filled the large
glass which the American reached from the bar.

"'Ere's 'ow, Cocky," he shouted in the ear of the
apparently drunken man, giving him a sharp nudge
in the ribs with his elbow.

The drunken man gasped at the blow, gave a realistic
hiccough and murmured: "A votre santé, Monsieur."

"Carn't the pore feller swaller a little more, Buck?"
enquired 'Erb with great concern.  "Fency two francs--an'
he's 'ad ter giv' up! ... Never mind, Ole Cock," he
roared again in the ear of the drunkard, "p'raps you'll
be able ter go ahtside in a minnit an' git it orf yer chest.
Then yer kin start afresh.  See? ... 'Ope hon, 'ope
hever....  'Sides," he added, as a cheering
afterthought, "It'll tiste as good a-comin' up as wot it
did a-goin' dahn."  He then blew vinously into his
mouth-organ and settled down for a really happy
evening.

A knot of Legionaries, friends of Rivoli, stood at
the bar talking with Madame.

"Here he comes," said one of them, leaning with
his back against the bar.  "Ask him."

Luigi Rivoli strode up, casting to right and left
the proud glances of the consciously Great.

"Bonsoir, ma belle," quoth he to Madame.  "And
how is the Soul of the Soul of Luigi Rivoli?"

The drunken man, sitting between the Bucking
Bronco and le Légionnaire 'Erbiggin, moved his head.
He lay with the right side of it upon his folded arms
and his flushed face toward the bar.  His eyes were
apparently closed in sottish slumber.

Madame la Cantinière fixed Rivoli with a cold and
beady eye.  (She "wagged her beard" too much, did
she?  Oho!)

"And since when have I been the Soul of the Soul
of Luigi Rivoli?" she enquired.

"Can you ask it, My Own?" was the reply.  "Did
not the virgin fortress of my heart capitulate to the
trumpet of your voice when first its musical call rang
o'er its unsealed walls?"

"Pouf!" replied Madame, bridling....  (What a
way he had with him, and what a fine figure of a man
he was, but "*beards*" quotha!)  Raising the flap of
the zinc-covered bar, Luigi, as usual, passed within and
poured himself a bumper of wine.  Raising the glass--

"To the brightest eyes and sweetest face that I
ever looked upon," he toasted, and drank.

Madame simpered.  Her wrath had, to some extent,
evaporated....  Not that she would ever *dream* of
marrying him.  No! that "beard" would be ever
between them.  No!  No!  He had dished himself
finally.  He had, as it were, hanged himself in that
beard as did Absalom in the branches of a tree.  The
price he should pay for that insult was the value of
her Canteen and income.  There was balm and
satisfaction in the thought.  Still--until his successor
were chosen, or rather, the successor of the
late-lamented, so cruelly, if skilfully, carved by those
*sacrépans* and *galopins* of Arabs--the assistance of
the big man as waiter and chucker-out should certainly
not be refused.  By no means.

"And what is this tale I hear of you and le Légionnaire
Jean Boule?" enquired Madame.  "They
say that the Neapolitan trollop of Le Café de la Légion
(*sous ce nom-là!*) has begged your life of him."

The drunken man slowly opened his eyes and
Rivoli put down his glass with a fierce frown.

"And who invented that paltry, silly lie?" he
asked, and laughed scornfully.  Madame pointed a
fat forefinger at the Bucking Bronco who leant, head
on fist, regarding Rivoli with a sardonic smile.

"Sure thing, Loojey.  I'm spreadin' the glad joyous
tidin's, as haow yure precious life has been saved, all
over the whole caboodle," and proceeded to translate.

"Oh, is *that* the plot?" replied the Italian.  "Is
*that* the best lie the gang of you could hatch?  Corpo
di Bacco!  It's a poor one.  Couldn't the lot of you
think of a likelier tale than that?"

The Bucking Bronco opined as haow thar was
nuthin' like the trewth.

"Look you," said the Italian to Madame, and the
assembled loungers.  "This grey English
cur--pot-valiant--comes yapping at me, being in his cups, and
challenges me, *me*, Luigi Rivoli, to fight.  I say: 'Go
dig your grave, dog,' and he goes.  I have not seen
him since, but on all hands I hear that he has arranged
with this strumpet of the Café to say that she has
begged my life of him," and Luigi Rivoli roared with
laughter at the idea.  "Now listen you, and spread
this truth abroad....  Madame will excuse me," and
he turned with his stage bow to Madame....  "I am
no plaster saint, I am a Légionnaire.  Sometimes I go
to this Café--I admit it," and again turning to Madame,
he laid his hand upon his heart.  "Madame," he
appealed, "I have no home, no wife, no fireside to which
to be faithful....  And as I honestly admit I visit
this Café.  The girl is glad of my custom and possibly
a little honoured--of that I would say nothing....
Accidents will happen to the bravest and most skilful
of men in duels.  The girl begged me not to fight.  'You
are my best customer,' said she, 'and the handsomest
of all my patrons,' and carried on as such wenches
do, when trade is threatened.  'Peace, woman,' said
I, 'trouble me not, or I go to Zuleika across the way.'
... She then took another line.  'Look you, Signor,'
said she, 'this old fool, Boule, comes to me when he
has money; and he drinks here every night.  Spare
his miserable carcase for what I make out of it,' and
with a laugh I gave the girl my franc and half-promise....
Still, what is one's word to a wanton?  I may
shoot the dog yet, if he and his friends be not careful
how they lie."

The drunken man had turned his face on to his
arms.  No one but the American and 'Erb noticed
that his body was shaken convulsively.  Perhaps with
drunken laughter?

"Tole yer so, Cocky," bawled 'Erb in his ear.
"You'll be sick as David's sow in a minnit, 'an' we'll
all git blue-blind, paralytic drunk,'" and rising to
his feet 'Erb lifted up his voice in song to the effect
that--

   |   "White wings they never grow whiskers,
   |   They kerry me cheerily over the sea
   |   To ye Banks and Braes o' Bonny Doon
   |   Where we drew 'is club money this mornin'.
   |   Witin' to 'ear the verdick on the boy in the prisoner's dock
   |   When Levi may I menshun drew my perlite attenshun
   |   To the tick of 'is grandfarver's clock.
   |   Ninety years wivaht stumblin', Tick, Tick, Tick,--
   |   Ninety years wivaht grumblin', gently does the trick,
   |   When it stopped short, never to go agine
   |   Till the ole man died.
   |   An' ef yer wants ter know the time, git yer 'air cut."
   |

For the moment 'Erb was the centre of interest,
though not half a dozen men in the room understood
the words of what the vast majority supposed to be
a wild lament or dirge.

John Bull entered the Canteen, and 'Erb was forgotten.
All near the counter, save the drunken man,
watched his approach.  He strode straight up to the
oar, his eyes fixed on Rivoli.

"I wish to withdraw my challenge to you," he
said in a clear voice.  "I am not going to fight you
after all."

"*But, Mother of God, you are!*" whispered the
drunken man.

"Oho!" roared Rivoli.  "Oho!" and exploded
with laughter.  "Sober to-night are you, English
boaster?  And how do you know that I will not fight
you, *flaneur*?"

"That rests with you, of course," was the reply.

"Oho, it does, does it, Monsieur Coup Manqué?
And suppose I decide *not* to fight you, but to punish
you as little barking dogs should be punished?  By
the Wounds of God you shall learn a lesson, little
vur...."

The drunken man moved, as though to spring to
his feet, but the big American's arm flung round him
pressed him down, as he lurched his huge body
drunkenly against him, pinning him to the table.

"'Ere," expostulated 'Erb.  "'E wants ter be sick,
I tell yer.  Free country ain't it, if 'e *is* a bloomin'
Legendary....  Might as well be a bleed'n drummerdary
if 'e carn't be sick w'en 'e wants to....  'Ope
'e ain't got seven stummicks, eny'ow," he added as
an afterthought, and again applied himself to the
business of the evening.

John Bull turned, without a word, and left the
Canteen.  The knot about the bar broke up and Luigi
was alone with Madame save for two drunken men and
one who was doing his best to achieve that blissful state.

"Have you forgiven me, Beloved of my Soul?"
asked Rivoli of Madame, as she mopped the zinc
surface of the bar.

"No," snapped Madame.  "I have not."

"Then do it now, my Queen," he implored.  "Forgive
me, and then do one other thing."

"What is that?" enquired Madame.

"Marry me," replied Rivoli, seizing Madame's
pudgy fist.

The eyes of the drunken man were on him, and the
American watching, thought of the eyes of the snake
that lies with broken back watching its slayer.  There
was death and the hate of Hell in them, and while
he shuddered, his heart sang with hope.

"Marry me, Véronique," he repeated.  "Have pity
on me and end this suspense.  See you, I grow thin,"
and he raised his mighty arms in a pathetic gesture.

Madame glanced at the poor man's stomach.  There
was no noticeable *maigreur*.

"And what of the Neapolitan hussy and your
goings on in the Café de la Légion?" she asked.

"To Hell with the *putain*," he almost shouted.
"I am like other men--and I have been to her dive
like the rest.  Marry me and save me from this loose
irregular soldier's life.  Do you think I would stray
from *thee*, Beloved, if thou wert mine?"

"Not twice," said Madame.

"Then away with this jealousy," replied the ardent
Luigi.  "Let me announce our nuptials here and now,
and call upon my comrades-in-arms to drink long
life and happiness to my beauteous bride--whom they
all so chastely love and revere.  Come, little Star of
my Soul!  Come, carissima, and I will most solemnly
swear upon the Holy Cross that never, never, never
again will I darken the doors of the *casse-croûte* of that
girl of the Bazaar.  I swear it, Véronique--so help me
God and all the Holy Saints--your husband will die
before he will set foot in Carmelita's brothel."

"Come," said the drunken man, with a little piteous
moan.  "Could you carry me out, Signor?  I am going
to faint."

The Bucking Bronco gathered Carmelita up in his
arms and strode toward the door.

"'Ere 'old on," ejaculated 'Erb.  "'Arf a mo'!
I'll tike 'is 'oofs...."

"Stay whar yew are, 'Erb," said the American
sternly, over his shoulder.

"Right-o, ole bloke," agreed 'Erb, always willing to
oblige.  "Right-o!  Shove 'im in 'is kip[#] while I
'soop 'is bare.'"[#]


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

   [#] Bed.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent small

   [#] Drink his beer.

.. vspace:: 2

Outside, the Bucking Bronco set Carmelita down
upon a bench in a dark corner and chafed her hands
as he peered anxiously into her face.

"Pull yureself together, honey," he urged.  "Don't
yew give way yit.  Yew've gotter walk past the Guard
ef I carries yew all the rest of the way."

The broken-hearted girl could only moan.  The
American racked his brains for a solution of the
difficulty and wished John Bull and Rupert were
with him.  It would be utterly hopeless to approach
the gate with the girl in his arms.  What would
happen if he could not get her out that night?  Suddenly
the girl rose to her feet.  Pride had come to her rescue.

"Come, Monsieur Bronco," she said in a dead,
emotionless voice.  "Let me get home," and began to
walk like an automaton.  Slipping his arm through
hers, the American guided and supported her, and
in time, Carmelita awoke from a terrible dream to find
herself at home.  The Russian girl, in some clothing
and a wrap of Carmelita's, admitted them at the back
door.

"Get her some brandy," said the Bucking Bronco.
"Shall I open the Caffy and serve fer yew, Carmelita,
ma gel?" he asked.

Before he could translate his question into Legion
French, Carmelita had understood, partly from his
gestures.  She shook her head.

Olga Kyrilovitch looked a mute question at the
American.  He nodded slightly.  Carmelita caught
the unspoken communication between the two.

"Yes," she said, turning to Olga, "you were right....
They were all right.  And I was wrong....  He
is the basest, meanest scoundrel who ever betrayed
a woman.  I do not realise it yet--I am stunned....
And I am punished too.  I shall die or go mad when
I understand....  And I want to be alone.  Go now,
dear Signor Orso Americano, and take my love and
this message to Signor Jean Boule.  *I kiss his boots
in humility and apology, and if he will kill this Rivoli
for me I will be his slave for life.*"

"Let me kill him fer yew, Carmelita," begged the
American as he turned to go, and then paused as his
face lit up with the brightness of an idea.  "No," he
said.  "Almighty God!  I got another think come.  I'll
come an' see yew to-morrow, Carmelita--and make
yew a *pro*\posal about Mounseer Loojey as'll do yew
good."  At the door he beckoned to the Russian girl.

"Look at hyar, Miss Mikhail," he whispered.
"Stand by her like a man to-night.  Nuss her, and
coddle her and soothe her.  You see she don't do herself
no harm.  Yew hev' her safe and in her right mind in
the mornin'--an' we'll git yew and yure brother outer
Sidi or my name ain't Hyram Cyrus Milton."


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center medium

   §3

.. vspace:: 1

That night was one of the most unforgettable of
all the memorable nights through which Olga
Kyrilovitch ever lived in the course of her adventurous
career.  For it was the only night during which she
was shut up with a violent and dangerous homicidal
maniac.  In addition to fighting for her own life, the
girl had, at times, to fight for that of her assailant,
and she deserved well of the Bucking Bronco.  Nature
at length asserted herself and Carmelita collapsed.
She slept, and awoke in the middle of the next day
as sane as a person can be, every fibre of whose being
yearns and tingles with one fierce obsession.  Even
to the experienced Russian girl, the wildness of the
Neapolitan revenge-passion was an alarming revelation.

"Though I starve or go mad, I cannot eat nor sleep
till I have spat on his dead face," were the only words
she answered to Olga's entreaty that she would take
food.  But she busied herself about her daily tasks
with pinched white face, pinched white lips, and
cavernous black brooding eyes.

"Rivoli's next meal here will be his last," thought
Olga Kyrilovitch, and shuddered.

Terrible and unfathomable as was Carmelita's agony
of mind, she insisted on carrying out the programme
for the escape of the two Russians fixed for that day,
and Olga salved a feeling of selfishness by assuring
herself that anything which took the girl's thoughts
from her own tragedy was for her good.

That afternoon, Feodor Kyrilovitch made his
unobtrusive exit from the Legion and was admitted by
his sister at the back door of the Café.  In his pocket
was a letter enclosed in a blank envelope.  On an inner
envelope was the following name and address:
"*Lady Huntingten, Elham Old Hall, Elham, Kent,
England.*"

By the five-thirty train two flighty females--one
blonde, the other brunette--were seen off from the
little Sidi-bel-Abbès station of the Western Algerian
Railway, which runs from Tlemcen to Oran, by
Mademoiselle Carmelita of the Café de la Légion.
Their conversation and playful badinage with the
guard of Légionnaires, which is always on duty at
the platform gate, were frivolous and unedifying.
Sergeant Boulanger, as gallant to women as he was
ferocious to men, vowed to his admired Carmelita
that it broke his heart to announce that he feared
he could not allow her two friends to proceed on their
journey until--Carmelita's white face seemed to go
a little whiter--they had both given him a chaste
salute.  On hearing this, one of the girls fled squealing
to the train, while the other, with very real blushes and
unfeigned reluctance, submitted her face to partial
burial beneath the vast moustache of the amorous
Sergeant....  As the ramshackle little train crawled
out of the station, this girl said to the one who had
fled: "You *were* a sneak to bolt like that, Feodor,"
and received the somewhat cryptic reply--

"My dear Olga, and where should we both be now
if his lips had felt the bristles around mine? ... You
don't suppose that a double shave, twice over, makes
a man's face like a girl's, do you?..."

These two young females found Lady Huntingten
all, and more than all, her son had prophesied.  When
Feodor and Olga Kyrilovitch left the hospitable roof
of Elham Old Hall, she parried their protestations of
gratitude with the statement that she was fully repaid
and over-paid, for anything she had been able to do
for them, by the pleasure of talking with friends of
her son, friends who had actually been with him but
a few days before, and who so fully bore out the statements
contained in his letter to the effect that he was
in splendid health and having a splendid time.

.. vspace:: 2

On returning to her Café, Carmelita found the
Bucking Bronco, John Bull, Reginald Rupert,
'Erbiggins, and several other Légionnaires awaiting
admittance.  Having opened her bar and mechanically
ministered to her customers' needs, the unsmiling,
broken-looking Carmelita, all of whose vitality and
energy seemed concentrated in her burning eyes
beckoned to the American and led him into her room
Gripping his wrist with her cold hand, and almost
shaking him in her too-long suppressed frenzy:

"Have you told Jean Boule?" she asked.  "When
will he kill him?  Where?  Quick, tell me!  I must be
there.  I must see him do it....  Oh!  He will die
too quickly....  It is too good a death for such a
reptile....  It is no punishment....  Why should
he not suffer some thousandth part of what *I* suffer?"

"Look at hyar, Carmelita, honey," interrupted the
American, putting his arm round the little heaving
shoulders as he mentally translated what he must
first say in his own tongue.  "Thet's jest whar the
swine would git the bulge on yew.  Why shouldn't
he git a glimpse o' sufferin', sech as I had ter sit an'
see yew git, las' night? ... An' I gits it in the
think-box las' night, right hyar.  Listen, ma honey.  *I'm
gwine ter beat him up*, right naow, right hyar, in yure
Caffy--an' before yure very eyes.  In front of all his
bullies an' all the guys he's beat up, I'll hev' him on
his knees a-blubberin' an' a-prayin' fer mercy....
Then he shall lick yure boots, little gel, same as he
makes recruits lick his.  Then he shall grovel on the
ground an' beg an' pray yew to marry him, and at
that insult yew shall ask me to put him across my
knee and irritate his pants with my belt--an' then
throw him neck and crop, tail over tip, in the gutter!
Termorrer John Bull smacks his face on the barrack-square
an' tells him he was only playin' with him about
lettin' him off that dool."

When Carmelita clearly understood the purport of
this remarkable speech she put her arms around the
Bucking Bronco's neck.

"Dear Signor Orso Americano," she whispered.
"Humiliate him to the dust before his comrades,
bring him grovelling to my feet, begging me to marry
him--and I will be your wife....  Blind, blind,
unnameable *fool* that I have been--to think this dog
a god and you a rough barbarian....  Forgive me,
Signor....  I could kill myself."

The Bucking Bronco folded the woman in his arms.
Suddenly she struggled free, thrust him from her, and,
falling into a chair, buried her face in her arms and
burst into tears.  Standing over her the Bucking Bronco
awkwardly patted her back with his huge hand.

"Do yew good, ma gel," he murmured over and
over again.  "Nuth'n like a good cry for a woman....
Git it over naow, and by'n-by show a smilin' face an'
a proud one fer Loojey Rivoli to see fer the las' time."

"The *bambino*," wailed the girl.  "The *bambino*."

"*What?*" exclaimed the Bucking Bronco.

Rising, the girl looked the man in the face and
painfully but bravely stammered out what had been her
so-wonderful Secret, and the hope of her life.

The Bucking Bronco again folded Carmelita in his arms.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE WAGES OF SIN`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER X


.. class:: center medium

   THE WAGES OF SIN

.. vspace:: 2

It was soon evident that the word had been passed
round that there would be "something doing"
at the Café de la Légion that evening.  Never before
had its hospitable roof covered so large an assembly
of guests.  Though it was not exactly what could be
called "a packed house," it was far from being a
selected gathering of the special friends of Il Signor
Luigi Rivoli.  To Legionaries John Bull, Reginald
Rupert and 'Erb 'Iggins it was obvious that the
Bucking Bronco had been at some pains to arrange
that the spectators of whatever might befall that
evening, were men who would witness the undoing
of Luigi Rivoli--should that occur--with considerable
equanimity.  Scarcely a man there but had felt at
some time the weight of his brutal fist and the indignity
of helpless obedience to his tyrannous behest.  Of
one thing they were sure--whatever they might,
or might not behold, they would see a Homeric fight,
a struggle that would become historic in the annals
of la Légion.  The atmosphere was electric with
suppressed excitement and a sense of pleasurable expectation.

In a group by the bar, lounged the Bucking Bronco
and the three Englishmen with a few of their more
immediate intimates, chiefly Frenchmen, and members
of their *escouade*.  Carmelita, a brilliant spot of colour
glowing on either cheek, busied herself about her
duties, flitting like a butterfly from table to table.
Never had she appeared more light-hearted, gay,
and *insouciante*.  But to John Bull, who watched her
anxiously, it was clear that her gaiety was feverish
and hectic, her laughter forced and hysterical.

"Reckon 'e's got an earthly, matey?" asked 'Erb
of Rupert.  "'E'll 'ave ter scrag an' kick, same as
Rivoli, if 'e don't want ter be counted aht."

"I'd give a hundred pounds to see him win,
anyhow," was the reply.  "I expect he'll fight the brute
with his own weapons.  He'll go in for what he calls
'rough-housing' I hope....  No good following
Amateur Boxing Association rules if you're fighting a
bear, or a Zulu, or a Fuzzy-wuzzy, or Luigi Rivoli...."

And that was precisely the intention of the American,
whose fighting had been learnt in a very rough and
varied school.  When earning his living as a professional
boxer, he had given referees no more than the average
amount of trouble; and in the ring, against a clean
fighter, had put up a clean fight.  A tricky opponent,
resorting to fouls, had always found him able to
respond with very satisfying tricks of his own--"and
then some."  But the Bucking Bronco had also done
much mixed fighting as a hobo[#] with husky and
adequate bulls[#] in many of the towns of the free and
glorious United States of America, when guilty of
having no visible means of support; with exasperated
and homicidal shacks[#] on most of that proud country's
railways, when "holding her down," and frustrating
their endeavours to make him "hit the grit"; with
terrible and dangerous lumber-jacks in timber camps
when the rye whiskey was in and all sense and decency
were out; with cow-punchers and ranchers, with
miners, with Bowery toughs, and assorted desperadoes.


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

   [#] Tramp, a rough.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent small

   [#] Policemen.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent small

   [#] Train conductors.

.. vspace:: 2

To-night, when he stood face to face with Luigi
Rivoli, he intended to do precisely what his opponent
would do, to use all Nature's weapons and every device,
trick, shift and artifice that his unusually wide
experience had taught him.

He knew, and fully admitted, that, tremendously
powerful and tough as he himself was, Rivoli was far
stronger.  Not only was the Italian a born Strong Man,
but he had spent his life in developing his muscles,
and it was probable that there were very few more
finely developed athletes on the face of the earth.
Moreover, he was a far younger man, far better fed
(thanks to Carmelita), and a trained professional
wrestler.  Not only were his muscles of marvellous
development, they were also trained and educated
to an equally marvellous quickness, skill and poise.
Add to this the fact that the man was no mean
exponent of the arts of *la savate* and *la boxe*, utterly
devoid of any scruples of honour and fair-play, and
infused with a bitter hatred of the American--and
small blame accrues to the latter for his determination
to meet the Italian on his own ground.

As he stood leaning against the bar, his elbows on
it and his face toward the big room, it would have
required a very close observer to note any signs of the
fact that he was about to fight for his life, and, far
more important, for Carmelita, against an opponent
in whose favour the odds were heavy.  His hard strong
face was calm, the eyes level and steady, and, more
significant, the hands and fingers quiet and reposeful.
Studying his friend, John Bull noticed the absence of
any symptoms of excitement, nervousness, or anxiety.
There was no moistening of lips, no working of jaw
muscles, no change of posture, no quickening of speech.
It was the same old Buck, large, lazy, and lethargic,
with the same humorous eye, the same measured
drawl, the same quaint turn of speech.  In striking
contrast with the immobility of the American, was
the obvious excitement of the Cockney.

"It'll be an 'Ellova fight," he kept on saying.
"Gawdstreuth, it'll be an 'Ellova fight," and bitterly
regretted the self-denying ordinance which he had
passed upon himself to the effect that no liquor should
wet his lips till all was o'er....

Luigi Rivoli, followed as usual by Malvin, Tou-tou
Boil-the-Cat, Borges, Hirsch and Bauer, strode into
the Café.  He was accustomed to attracting attention
and to the proud consciousness of nudges, glances
and whisperings wherever he went.  Not for nothing is
one the strongest and most dangerous man in the
Foreign Legion.  But to-night he was aware of more
than usual interest as silence fell upon the abnormally
large gathering in Carmelita's Café.  He at once ascribed
it to the widespread interest in the public challenge
he had received from John Bull to a *duel à l'outrance*
and the rumour that the Englishman had as publicly
withdrawn it.  He felt that fresh lustre had been
added to his brilliant name....  Carmelita *had* been
useful there, and had delivered him from a very real
danger, positively from the fangs of a mad dog.  Very
useful.  What a pity it was that he could not marry
Madame, and run Carmelita.  Might she not be brought
to consent to some such arrangement?  Not even
when she found she could have him in no other
way? ... Never!

*Absolutamente* ... Curse her.... Well, anyhow,
there were a few more francs, dinners, and bottles
of Chianti.  One must take what one can, while one
can--and after all the Canteen was worth ten Cafés.
Madame had been very kind to-night and would give
her final answer to-morrow.  That had been a subtle
idea of his, telling her that, unless she married him,
she should marry no one, and remain a widow all
the days of her life, for he'd break the back of any
man who so much as looked at her.  That had given
the old sow something to think about.  Ha!  Ha! ...

As he entered, John Bull was just saying to the
Bucking Bronco, "Don't do it, Buck.  I know all about
that

   |   'Thrice-armed is he who hath his quarrel just,
   |   But four times is he who gets his blow in fust.'

.. class:: noindent

But thrice is quite enough, believe me, old chap.
You've no need to descend to such a trick as hitting
him unawares, by way of starting the fight."

"Is this my night ter howl, John, or yourn?  Whose
funeral is it?"

... "Fight him by his own methods if you like,
Buck--but don't put yourself in the wrong for a start....
You'll win all right, or I shall cease to believe in
Eternal Justice of Things."

It had been the purpose of the Bucking Bronco
to lessen the odds against himself, to some extent,
by intimating his desire to fight, with a shattering
blow which should begin, and, at the same time, half
win the battle.

Rivoli approached.

Ha!  There was that cursed Englishman, was he?
Well, since he had given his promise to Carmelita
and was debarred from a duel, he should repeat his
apology of last night before this large assembly.
Moreover, he would now be free to handle this English
dog--to beat and torture and torment him like a new
recruit.  Bull's hands would be tied as far as weapons
were concerned by his promise to Carmelita....  The
dog was leaning against the flap of the bar which he
would have to raise to pass through to his dinner.
Should he take him by the ears and rub his face in
the liquor-slops on the bar, or should he merely put
him on the ground and wipe his feet on him?  Better
not perhaps, there was that thrice-accursed American
*scelerato* and that indestructible young devil Rupert,
who had smitten his jaw and ribs so vilely, and wanted
to fight again directly he had left hospital and *salle
de police*.  The Devil smite all Englishmen....  His
wrath boiled over, his arm shot out and he seized John
Bull by the collar, shook him, and slung him from his
path.

And then the Heavens fell.

With his open, horny palm, the Bucking Bronco
smote the Italian as cruelly stinging a slap as ever
human face received.  But for his friend's recent behest,
he would have struck with his closed fist, and the
Italian would have entered the fight, if not with a
broken jaw, at least with a very badly "rattled"
head.

"*Ponk!*" observed 'Erb, dancing from foot to foot
in excitement and glee.

"Ah--h--h!" breathed Carmelita,

The Italian recovered his balance and gathered
himself for a spring.

"No you don't," shouted Rupert, and the three
Englishmen simultaneously threw themselves in front
of him, at the same time calling on the spectators
to make a ring.

In a moment, headed by Tant-de-Soif, the Englishmen's
friends commenced pulling chairs, tables and
benches to the walls of the big room.  Old Tant-de-Soif
had never received a sou or a drink from the
bully, though many and many a blow and bitter
humiliation.  Long he had served and long he had
hated.  He felt that a great hour had struck.

The scores and scores of willing hands assisting, the
room was quickly cleared.

"This American would die, it appears, poor madman,"
observed M. Malvin ingratiatingly to Carmelita.

"I do not think he will die," replied the girl.  "But I
think that anyone who interferes with him will do so."

The eyes of the good M. Malvin narrowed.  Lay the
wind in that quarter?  The excellent Luigi was found
out, was he?  Well, there might be a successor....

Meantime the Italian had removed and methodically
folded his tunic and canvas shirt.  A broad belt
sustained his baggy red breeches.

So it had come, had it?  Well, so much the better.
This American had been the fly in the ointment of
his comfort too long.  Why had he not strangled the
insolent, or broken his back long ago?  He would
break him now, once and for all--maim him for life
if he could; at least make a serious hospital case of him.

Bidding Malvin mount guard over his discarded
garments, Rivoli stepped forth Into the middle of
the large cleared space, flexing and slapping his muscles.
Having done so, he looked round the crowded sides
of the room for the usual applause.  To his surprise
none followed.  He gazed about him again.  Was this
a selected audience?  It was certainly not the audience
he would have selected for himself.  It appeared to
consist mostly of *miserabile* whom he had frequently
had to punish for insubordination and defiance of
his orders.  They should have a demonstration, that
evening, of the danger of defying Luigi Rivoli.

As the American stepped forward John Bull caught
his sleeve.  "Take off your tunic, Buck," he said in
surprise.

"Take off nix," replied the American.

"But he'll get a better hold on you," remonstrated
his friend.

"I should worry," was the cryptic reply, as the
speaker unbuttoned the upper part of his tunic and
pushed his collar well away from his neck at the back.

"'E'll cop 'old of 'im wiv that coller, an' bleed'n
well strangle 'im," said 'Erb to Rupert.

"Fancy that now, sonny," said the Bucking Bronco,
with an exaggerated air of surprise, and stepped into
the arena.

Complete silence fell upon the room as the two
antagonists faced each other.

*Nom de nom de bon Dieu de Dieu*!  Why had not
le Légionnaire Bouckaing Bronceau stripped?  Was
it sheer bravado?  How could he, or any other living
man, afford to add to the already overwhelming risks
when fighting the great Luigi Rivoli?...

The Bucking Bronco got his "blow in fust" after
all, and, as his friend had prophesied, was glad that
it had not been a "foul poke"--taking his opponent
unawares.

"Come hither, dog, and let me snap thy spine,"
growled the Italian as the Bucking Bronco faced him.
As he spoke, he thrust his right hand forward, as though
to seize the American in a wrestling-hold.  With a
swift snatch the latter grabbed the extended hand,
gave a powerful jerking tug and released it before
his enemy could free it and fasten upon him in turn.
The violent pull upon his arm swung the Italian half
left and before he could recover his balance and regain
his position, the Bucking Bronco had let drive at
the side of his face with all his weight and strength.
It was a terrific blow and caught Rivoli on the right
cheek-bone, laying the side of his face open.

Only those who have seen--or experienced--it,
know the effect of skilled blows struck by hands
unhampered by boxing gloves.

The Italian reeled and, like the skilled master of
ringcraft that he was, the Bucking Bronco gave him
no time in which to recover.  With a leap he again put
all his strength, weight, and skill behind a slashing
right-hander on his enemy's face, and, as he raised
his arms, a left-hander on his ribs.  Had any of these
three blows found the Italian's "point" or "mark,"
it is more than probable that the fight would have been
decided.  As it was, Rivoli was only shaken--and
exasperated to the point of madness....

Wait till he got his arms round the man! ... Corpo
di Bacco!  But wait!  Let him wait till he got
his hand on that collar that the rash fool had left
undone and sticking out so temptingly?

Ducking swiftly under a fourth blow, he essayed
to fling his arms round the American's waist.  As the
mighty arms shot out for the deadly embrace, the
Bucking Bronco's knee flew up with terrific force,
to smash the face so temptingly passed above it.
Like a flash the face swerved to the left, the knee
missed it, and the American's leg was instantly seized
as in a vice.

The spectators held their breath.  Was this the end?
Rivoli had him!  Could there be any hope for him?

There could.  This was "rough-housin'"--and at
"rough-housin'" the Bucking Bronco had had few
equals.  He suddenly thought of one of *the* fights of
his life--at 'Frisco, with the bucko mate of a hell-ship
on which he had made a trip as fo'c's'le-hand, from
the Klondyke.  The mate had done his best to kill
him at sea, and the Bucking Bronco had "laid for
him" ashore as the mate quitted the ship.  It had
been "some" fight and the mate had collared his
leg in just the same way.  He would try the method
that had then been successful....  He seized the
Italian's neck with both huge hands, and, with all
his strength, started to throttle him--his thumbs on
the back of his opponent's neck, his fingers crushing
relentlessly into his throat.  Of course Rivoli would
throw him--that was to be expected--but that would
not free Rivoli's throat.  Not by any manner of means.
With a fair and square two-handed hold on the skunk's
throat, it would be no small thing to get that throat
free again while there was any life left in its proprietor....

With a heave and a thrust, the Italian threw the
Bucking Bronco heavily and fell heavily upon him.
The latter tightened his grip and saw his enemy going
black in the face....  Swiftly Rivoli changed his
hold.  While keeping one arm round the American's
leg, at the knee, he seized his foot with the other hand
and pressed it backward with all his gigantic strength.
As the leg bent back, he pressed his other arm more
tightly into the back of the knee.  In a moment the
leg must snap like a carrot, and the American knew
it--and also that he would be lame for life if his
knee-joint were thus rent asunder.  It was useless to hope
that Rivoli would suffocate before the leg broke...
Nor would a dead Rivoli be a sufficient compensation
for perpetual lameness.  Never to walk nor ride nor
fight....  A lame husband for Carmelita....
Loosing his hold on his antagonist's throat, he punched
him a paralysing blow on the muscle of the arm that
was bending his leg back, and then seized the same
arm by the wrist with both hands, and freed his foot....
A deadlock....  They glared into each other's eyes,
mutually impotent, and then, by tacit mutual consent,
released holds, rose, and confronted each other afresh.

So far, honours were decidedly with the American,
and a loud spontaneous cheer arose from the spectators.
"Vive le Bouckaing Bronceau!" was the general
sentiment.

Carmelita sat like a statue on her high chair--lifeless
save for her terrible eyes.  Though her lips
did not move, she prayed with all the fervour of her
ardent nature.

Breathing heavily, the antagonists faced each other
like a pair of half-crouching tigers....  Suddenly
Rivoli kicked.  Not the horizontal kick of *la savate*
in which the leg is drawn up to the chest and the foot
shot out sideways and parallel with the floor, so that
the sole strikes the object flatly--but in the ordinary
manner, the foot rising from the ground, to strike
with the toe.  The Bucking Bronco raised his right
foot and crossed his right leg over his left, so that the
Italian's rising shin met his own while the rising foot
met nothing at all.  Had the kick been delivered fully,
the leg would have broken as the shin was suddenly
arrested while the foot met nothing.  (This is the
deadliest defence there is against a kicker, other than
a savatist.)  But so fine was the poise and skill of the
professional acrobat, that, in full flight, he arrested
the kick ere it struck the parrying leg with full violence.
He did not escape scot-free from this venture, however,
for, even as he raised his leg in defence, the Bucking
Bronco shot forth his right hand with one of the terrible
punches for which Rivoli was beginning to entertain
a wholesome respect.  He saved his leg, but received
a blow on the right eye which he knew must, before
long, cause it to close completely.  He saw red, lost
his temper and became as an infuriated bull.  As he
had done under like circumstances with the Légionnaire
Rupert, he rushed at his opponent with a roar, casting
aside wisdom and prudence in the madness of his
desire to get his enemy in his arms.  He expected to
receive a blow in the face as he sprang, and was
prepared to dodge it by averting his head.  With an
agility surprising in so big a man, the Bucking Bronco
ducked below the Italian's outstretched arms and,
covering his face with his bent left arm, drove at his
antagonist's "mark" with a blow like the kick of
a horse.  The gasping groan with which the wind was
driven out of Rivoli's body was music to the Bucking
Bronco's ears.  He knew that, for some seconds, his
foe, be he the strongest man alive, was at his mercy.
Springing erect he punched with left and right at his
doubled-up and gasping enemy, his arms working like
piston-rods and his fists falling like sledge-hammers.
The cheering became continuous as Rivoli shrank and
staggered before that rain of terrific blows.  Suddenly
he recovered, drew a deep breath and flung his arms
fairly round the Bucking Bronco's waist.

Corpo di Bacco!  He had got him!...

Clasping his hands behind the American, he settled
his head comfortably down into that wily man's neck,
and bided his time.  He had got him....  He would
rest and wait until his breathing was more normal.
He would then tire the *scelerato* down ... tire him
down ... and then ...

This was his programme, but it was not that of the
Bucking Bronco, or not in its entirety.  He realised
that "Loojey had the bulge on him."  For the moment
it was "Loojey's night ter howl."  He would take a
rest and permit Loojey to support him, also he would
feign exhaustion and distress.  It was a pity that it
was his right arm that was imprisoned in the bear-hug
of the wrestler.  However, nothing much could happen
so long as he kept his back convex.

Seconds, which seemed like long minutes, passed.

Suddenly the Italian made a powerful effort to draw
him closer and decrease the convexity of his arched
back.  He resisted the constriction with all his strength,
but realised that he had been drawn slightly inward.

Again a tremendous tensing of mighty muscles,
again a tremendous heave in opposition, and again
he was a little nearer.

The process was repeated.  Soon the line of his back
would be concave instead of convex.  That would
be the beginning of the end.  Once he bent over
backward there would be no hope; he would finally drop
from the Italian's grasp with a sprained or broken
back, to receive shattering kicks in the face, ribs
and stomach, before Rivoli jumped upon him with
both feet and twenty stone weight.  For a moment
he half regretted having so stringently prohibited any
sort or kind of interference in the fight, whatever
happened, short of Rivoli's producing a weapon.  But
only for a moment.  He would not owe his life to the
intervention of others, after having promised
Carmelita to beat him up and bring him grovelling to her
feet.  He had been winning so far....  He *would*
win....  As the Italian again put all his force into
an inward-drawing hug, the American, for a fraction
of a second, resisted with all his strength and then
suddenly did precisely the opposite.  Shooting his
feet between the straddled legs of his adversary, he
flung his left arm around his head, threw all his weight
on to it and brought himself and Rivoli crashing
heavily to the ground.  As the arms of the latter burst
asunder, the Bucking Bronco had time to seize his head
and bang it twice, violently, upon the stone floor.

Both scrambled to their feet.

It had been a near thing.  He must not get into that
rib-crushing hug again, for the trick would not avail
twice.  Like a springing lion, Rivoli was on him.
Ducking, he presented the top of his head to the
charge and felt the Italian grip his collar.  With an
inarticulate cry of glee he braced his feet and with
tremendous force and speed revolved his head and
shoulders round and round in a small circle, the centre
and axis of which was Rivoli's hand and forearm.
The first lightning-like revolution entangled the
tightly-gripping hand, the second twisted and wrenched
the wrist and arm, the third completed the terrible
work of mangling disintegration.  In three seconds
the bones, tendons, ligaments, and tissue of Rivoli's
right hand and wrist were broken, wrenched and torn.
The bones of the forearm were broken, the elbow and
shoulder-joints were dislocated.  Tearing himself
free, the American sprang erect and struck the roaring,
white-faced Italian between the eyes and then drove
him before him, staggering backward under a ceaseless
rain of violent punches.  Drove him back and back,
even as the bully put his uninjured left hand behind
him for the dagger concealed in the hip pocket of
his baggy trousers, and sent him reeling, stumbling
and half-falling straight into the middle of his silent
knot of jackals, Malvin, Borges, Hirsch, Bauer, and
Tou-tou Boil-the-Cat.  Against these he fell.  Malvin
was seen to put out his hands to stop him, Borges and
Hirsch closed in on him to catch him, Bauer pressed
against Malvin, Tou-tou Boil-the-Cat stooped with a
swift movement.  With a grunt Rivoli collapsed, his
knees gave way and, in the middle of the dense throng,
he slipped to the ground.  As the Bucking Bronco
thrust in, and the crowd pressed back, Rivoli lay on
his face in the cleared space, a knife in his left hand,
another in his back.

He never moved nor spoke again, but M. Tou-tou
Boil-the-Cat did both.

As he left the Café he licked his lips, smiled and
murmured: "*Je m'en ai souvenu*."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`GREATER LOVE...`:

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   CHAPTER XI


.. class:: center medium

   GREATER LOVE...

.. vspace:: 2

At the bottom of the alley, le bon Légionnaire
Tou-tou Boil-the-Cat encountered Sergeant
Legros....  A bright idea! ... Stepping up to
the worthy Sergeant, he saluted, and informed him
that, passing the notorious Café de la Légion, a minute
since, he had heard a terrible *tohuwabohu* and, looking
in, had seen a crowd of excited Legionaries fighting
with knives and side-arms.  He had not entered,
but from the door had seen at least one dead man
upon the ground.

The worthy Sergeant's face lit up as he smacked
his lips with joy.  Ah, ha! here were punishments....
Here were crimes....  Here were victims for *salle
de police* and *cellules*....  Fodder for the *peloton des
hommes punis* and the Zephyrs....  Here was
distinction for that keen disciplinarian, Sergeant Legros.

"*V'la quelqu'un pour la boîte*," quoth he, and betook
himself to the Café at the *pas gymastique*.


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center medium

   §2

.. vspace:: 1

At the sight of the knife buried in the broad naked
back of the Italian, the silence of horror fell upon the
stupefied crowd.

*Nombril de Belzébuth*!  How had it happened?

*Sacré nom de nom de bon Dieu de Dieu de Dieu de
sort*!  Who had done it?  Certainly not le Légionnaire
Bouckaing Bronceau.  Never for one second had the
Légionnaire Rivoli's back been toward him.  Never for
one instant had there been a knife in the American's
hand.  Yet there lay the great Luigi Rivoli stabbed
to the heart.  There was the knife in his back.  *Dame*!

Men's mouths hung open stupidly, as they stared
wide-eyed.  Gradually it grew clear and obvious.  Of
course--he had been knocked backwards into that
group of his jackals, Malvin, Borges, Hirsch and Bauer,
and one of them, who hated him, had been so excited
and uplifted by the sight of his defeat that he had
turned upon him.  Yes, he had been stabbed by one
of those four.

"Malvin did it.  I saw him," ejaculated Tant-de-Soif.
He honestly thought he had--or thought he
thought so.  "God bless him," he added solemnly.

He had many a score to settle with M. Malvin,
but he could afford to give him generous praise--since
he was booked for the firing-party beside the
open grave, or five years *rabiau* in Biribi.  It is not
every day that one's most hated enemies destroy
each other....

"Wal!  I allow thet's torn it," opined the Bucking
Bronco as he surveyed his dead enemy.

Carmelita came from behind the bar and down the
room.  What was happening?  Why had the fight
stopped?  She saw the huddled heap that had been
Rivoli....  She saw the knife--and thought she
understood.  This was as things should be.  This was
how justice and vengeance were executed in her own
beloved Naples.  Il Signor Americano was worthy to
be a Neapolitan, worthy to inherit and transmit
*vendetta*.  How cruelly she had misjudged him in
thinking him a barbarian....

"*Payé*," she cried, turning in disgust from the body,
and threw her arms round the Bucking Bronco's
neck, as the Sergeant burst in at the door.  Sergeant
Legros was in his element.  Not only was there here
a grand harvest of military criminals for his reaping,
but here was vengeance--and vengeance and cruelty
were the favourite food of the soul of Sergeant Legros.
Here was a grand opportunity for vengeance on the
Italian trollop who had, when he was a private
Legionary, not only rejected his importunities with
scorn, but had soundly smacked his face withal.
Striding forward, as soon as he had roared, "*Attention!*"
he seized Carmelita roughly by the arm and shook
her violently, with a shout of: "To your kennel,
*prostituée*."  Whereupon the Bucking Bronco felled
his superior officer to the ground with a smashing
blow upon the jaw, thereby establishing an indisputable
claim to life-servitude in the terrible Penal
Battalions.

Among the vices of vile Sergeant Legros, physical
cowardice found no place.  Staggering to his feet,
he spat out a tooth, wiped the blood from his face,
drew his sword-bayonet, and rushed at the American
intending to kill him forthwith, in "self-defence."
At the best of times Sergeant Legros looked, and was,
a dangerous person--but the blow had made him a
savage, homicidal maniac.  The Bucking Bronco was
dazed and astonished at what he had done.  Circumstances
had been too strong for him.  He had naturally
been in an abnormal state at the end of such a fight,
and in no condition to think and act calmly when his
adored Carmelita was insulted and assaulted....
What had he done?  This meant death or penal
servitude from the General Court Martial at Oran.
He had lost her in the moment of winning her, and he
dropped his hands as the Sergeant flew at him with
the sword-bayonet poised to strike.  No--he would
fight....  He would make his get-away....  He
would skin out and Carmelita should join him....
He would fight...  Too late! ... The bayonet was
at his throat....  Crash! ... Good old Johnny! ... That
had been a near call.  As the maddened
Legros was in the act to thrust, Legionary John Bull
had struck him on the side of the head with all his
strength, sending him staggering, and had leapt
upon him to secure the bayonet as they went crashing
to the ground.  As they struggled, Legionary Rupert
set his foot heavily on the Sergeant's wrist and
wrenched the bayonet from his hand.

The problem of Sir Montague Merline's future was
settled and the hour for Reginald Rupert's desertion
had struck.

An ominous growl had rumbled round the room
at the brutal words and action of the detested Legros,
and an audible gasp of consternation had followed
the Bucking Bronco's blow.  Sacré Dieu!  Here were
doings of which ignorance would be bliss--and there
was a rush to the door, headed by Messieurs Malvin,
Borges, Hirsch and Bauer.

Several Legionaries, as though rooted to the spot
by a fearful fascination, or by the hope of seeing
Legros share the fate of Rivoli, had stood their ground
until John Bull struck him and Rupert snatched the
bayonet as though to kill him.  Then, with two
exceptions, this remainder fled.  These two were
Tant-de-Soif and the Dutchman, Hans Djoolte; the former,
absolutely unable to think of flight and the establishment
of an *alibi* while the man who had made his life
a hell was fighting for his own life; the latter, clear
of conscience, honestly innocent and wholly unafraid.
Staring round-eyed, they saw Sergeant Legros mightily
heave his body upward, his head pinned to the ground
by 'Erb 'Iggins, his throat clutched by Légionnaire
Jean Boule, his right hand held down by Légionnaire
Rupert.  Again he made a tremendous effort, emitted
a hideous bellowing sound and then collapsed and lay
curiously still.  Meanwhile, Carmelita had closed and
fastened the doors and shutters of the Café and was
turning out the lamps.  Within half a minute of the
entrance of the Sergeant, the Café was closed and in
semi-darkness.

"The bloomin' ol' fox is shammin' dead," panted
'Erb, and removed his own belt.  "'Eave 'im up and
shove this rahnd 'is elbers while 'e's a-playin' 'possum.
Shove yourn rahnd 'is legs, Buck," he added.

While still lying perfectly supine, the Sergeant was
trussed like a fowl.

"Naow we gotter hit the high places.  We gotter
vamoose some," opined the Bucking Bronco, as the
four arose, their task completed.  They looked at
each other in consternation.  Circumstances had been
too much for them.  Fate and forces outside themselves
had whirled them along in a spate of mischance, and
cast them up, stranded and gasping.  Entering the
place with every innocent and praiseworthy intention,
they now stood under the shadow of the gallows and
the gaol.  With them in that room was a murdered
man, and an assaulted, battered and outraged
superior....

The croaking voice of Tant-de-Soif broke the
silence.  "*Pour vous*," quoth he, "*il n'y a plus que
l'Enfer*."

"Shut up, you ugly old crow," replied Reginald
Rupert, "and clear out....  Look here, what are you
going to do about it?  What are you going to say?"

"I?" enquired Tant-de-Soif.  "Le Légionnaire
Djoolte and I have seen each other in the Bar de
Madagascar off the Rue de Daya the whole evening.
We have been here *peaudezébie*.  Is it not, my Djoolte?
Eh, *mon salop*?"

But the sturdy Dutch boy was of a different moral fibre.

"I have not been in the Bar de Madagascar,"
replied he, in halting Legion French.  "I have been
in le Café de la Légion the whole evening and seen all
that happened."

"'E's a-seekin' sorrer.  'E wants a fick ear," put in
'Erb in his own vernacular.

"If my evidence is demanded, I saw a fair fight
between the Légionnaire Bouckaing Bronceau and
le Légionnaire Luigi Rivoli.  I then saw le Légionnaire
Luigi Rivoli fall dead, having been stabbed by either
le Légionnaire Malvin or le Légionnaire Bauer, if it
were not le Légionnaire Hirsch, or le Légionnaire
Borges.  I believe Malvin stabbed him while these
three held him, but I do not know.  I then saw le
Sergent Legros enter and assault and abuse Mam'zelle
Carmelita.  I then saw him fall as though someone
had struck him and he then attempted to murder le
Légionnaire Bronco with his Rosalie.  I then saw
some Légionnaires tie him up....  That is the
evidence that I shall give if I give any at all.  I may
refuse to answer, but I shall tell no lies."

"That is all right," said the Bucking Bronco.
"Naow yew git up an' yew git--an' yew too, Tant-de-Soif,
and tell the b'ys ter help Carmelita any they
can, ef Legros gits 'er inter trouble an' gits 'er Caffy
shut....  An' when yew gits the Gospel truth orf
yure chest, Fatty, yew kin say, honest Injun, as
haow I tol' yew, thet me an' John Bull was a-goin'
on pump ter Merocker, an' Mounseers Rupert an' 'Erb
was a-goin' fer ter do likewise ter Toonis.  Naow git,"
and the two were hustled out of the Café.

"Now," said John Bull, taking command, "we've
got to be quick, as it's just possible the news of what's
happened may reach the picket and you may be
looked for before you're missing.  First thing is
Carmelita, second thing's money, and third thing's
plan of campaign....  Is Carmelita in any danger
over this?"

"Don't see why she should be," said Rupert.  "It's
not her fault that there was a fight in her Café.  It
has never been in any sense a 'disorderly house,' and
what happened, merely happened here."

"Yep," agreed the Bucking Bronco.  "But I'm
plum' anxious.  I'm sure tellin' yew, I don't like ter
make my gitaway an' leave her hyar.  But we can't
take a gal on pump."

"Arx the young lidy," suggested 'Erb, and with
one consent they went to the bar, leaning on which
Carmelita was sobbing painfully.  The strain and
agony of the last twenty-four hours had been too
much and she had broken down.  As they passed the
two silent bodies, 'Erb stopped and bent over Sergeant
Legros, remarking: "Knows 'ow ter lie doggo, don't
'e--the ol' cunnin'-chops?"  He fell silent a moment,
and then in a very different voice ejaculated, "Gawds-treuth
'e's *mort*, 'e is.  'E's *tué*."

John Bull and Reginald Rupert looked at each
other, and then turned back quietly to where the
Sergeant was lying.

"Cerebral hemorrhage," suggested John Bull.  "I
struck him on the side of the head."

"'Eart failure," suggested 'Erb.  "I set on 'is 'ead
till 'is 'eart stopped, blimey!"

"Apple Plexy, I opine," put in the Bucking Bronco.
"All comes o' gittin' excited, don't it?"

"He certainly made himself perfectly miserable
when I took his bayonet away," admitted Legionary
Rupert.

"Anyhow, it's a fair swingin' job nah, wotever
it was afore," said 'Erb.  Whatever the cause and
whosesoever the hand, Sergeant Legros was
undoubtedly dead.  They removed the belts, straightened
his limbs, closed his eyes and 'Erb placed the dead
man's képi over the face, bursting as he did so into
semi-hysterical song--

   |   "Ours is a 'appy little 'ome,
   |   I wisht I was a kipper on the foam,
   |   There's no carpet on the door,
   |   There's no knocker on the floor,
   |   Oo!  Ours is a 'appy little 'ome."
   |

"Shut that damned row," said Legionary Rupert.

"Carmelita, honey," said the Bucking Bronco,
stroking the hair of the weeping girl.  "Yew got the
brains.  Wot'll we do?  Shall we stop an' look arter
ye?  Will yew come on pump with us?  Will yew
ketch the nine-fifteen ter Oran?  Yew could light
out fer the railroad *de*-pot right now--or will yew
stick it out here, an' see ef they takes away yure
licence?  They couldn't do nuthin' more....  Give
it a name, little gal--we've gotter hike quick, ef
we ain't a-goin' ter stay."

Carmelita controlled herself with an effort and dried
her eyes.  Not for nothing had her life been what it had.

"You must all go at once," she said unhesitatingly.
"Take Signor Rupert's money and make for Mendoza's
in the Ghetto.  He'll sell you mufti and food.  Change,
and then run, all night, along the railway.  Lie up
all day, and then run all night again.  Then take
different trains at different wayside stations, one by
one, and avoid each other like poison in Oran; and
leave by different boats on different days.  I shall
stay here.  After trying for some hours to revive
Legros, I shall send for the picket.  You will be far
from Sidi then.  I shall give the Police all information
as to the fight, and as to the murder of *that*, by Malvin;
and shall conceal nothing of Legros' murderous attempt
upon the Légionnaire Bouckaing Bronceau and of
his death by *apoplessia*....  They will see he has
no wound....  This will give weight and truth to
my evidence to the effect that it was a fair, clean
fight and that no blame attaches to le Légionnaire
Bouckaing Bronceau....  Where am I to blame? ... No,
you can leave me without fear.  Also will I give
evidence to having heard you plotting to make the
promenade in different directions and to avoid the
railway and Oran...."

The Bucking Bronco was overcome with admiration.

"Ain't that horse-sense?" he ejaculated.

Laying her hands upon his shoulders, Carmelita
looked him in the eyes.

"And when you write to me to join you also, dear
Americano, I will come," she said.  "I, Carmelita,
have said it....  Now that *that* is dead, I shall be
able to save some money.  Write to me when you are
safe, and I will join you wherever you are--whether
it be Napoli or Inghilterra or America."

"God bless ye, little gal," growled the American,
folding her in his arms, and for the first time of his
life being on the verge of an exhibition of
weakness.  "We'll make our gitaway all right, an' we
couldn't be no use ter yew in prison hyar....  I'll
earn or steal some money ter send yer, Carmelita,
honey."

"I can help you there," put in Legionary Rupert.

"You and your loose cash are the *deus ex machina*,
Rupert, my boy," said John Bull....  "But for
you, the Russians would hardly have got away so
easily, and now a few pounds will make all the
difference between life and death to Buck and Carmelita,
not to mention yourself and 'Erb."

"I am very fortunate," said Rupert, gracefully.
"By the way, how much have we left Carmelita?"
he added.

"Exactly seven hundred francs, Monsieur," she
replied.  "Monsieur drew one thousand, he will
remember, and the Russians after all, needed only
three hundred in addition to their own roubles."

"What are you going to do, 'Erb?" asked John
Bull.  "You haven't committed yourself very deeply
you know.  Legros can't give evidence against you
and I doubt whether Tant-de-Soif or Djoolte will....
I don't suppose any of the others noticed you, but
there's a risk--and ten years of Dartmoor would be
preferable to six months in the Penal Battalions.
What shall you do?"

"Bung orf," replied 'Erb.  "I'm fair fed full wiv
Hafrica.  Wot price the Ol' Kent Road on a Sat'day
night!"

"Then seven hundred francs will be most ample for
three of you, to get mufti, railway tickets and
tramp-steamer passages from Oran to Hamburg."

"Why three?" asked Rupert.

"You, Buck and 'Erb," replied John Bull.

"Oh, I see.  You have money for your own needs?"
observed Rupert in some surprise.

"I'm not going," announced John Bull.

"*What?*" exclaimed four voices simultaneously,
three in English and one in French.

"I'm not going," he reiterated, "for several
reasons....  To begin with, I've nowhere to go.
Secondly, I don't want to go.  Thirdly, I did not kill
Legros," and, as an inducement to the Bucking Bronco
to agree with his wishes, he added, "and fourthly,
I may be able to be of some service to Carmelita
if only by supporting her testimony with my evidence
at the trial--supposing that I am arrested."

"Come off it, old chap," said Rupert.  "There are
a hundred men whose testimony will support Carmelita's."

"Wot's bitin' yew naow, John?" asked the Bucking
Bronco.  "Yew know it's a plum' sure thing as haow
it'll come out thet yew slugged Legros in the year-'ole
when we man-handled him.  Won't that be enuff
ter give yew five-spot in Biribi?"

"Yus.  Wot cher givin' us, Ole Cock?" expostulated
'Erb.  "Wot price them blokes Malvin, an'
Bower, an' Borjis, an' 'Ersh?  Fink they'll shut their
'eads?  An' wot price that bloomin' psalm-smitin',
Bible-puncher of a George Washington of a Joolt?
Wot price ole Tarntderswoff?  Git 'im in front of a
court martial an' 'e wouldn't jabber, would 'e?  Not
arf, 'e wouldn't.  I *don't* fink."

"And don't talk tosh, my dear chap, about having
nowhere to go, please," said Rupert.  "You're coming
home with me of course.  My mother will love to have
you."

"Thanks awfully, but I'm afraid I can't go to
England," was the reply.  "I must..."

"*Garn*," interrupted 'Erb.  "I'm wanted meself,
but I'm a-goin' ter chawnst it.  No need ter 'ang abaht
Scotland Yard....  I knows lots o' quiet juggers.  'Sides,
better go where it's a risk o' bein' pinched than stop
where it's a dead cert....  Nuvver fing.  You ain't
goin' ter be put away fer wot you done, Gawd-knows-'ow-many
years ago.  That's all blowed over, long ago.
Why you've bin 'ere pretty nigh fifteen year, ain't
yer?  Talk sinse, Ole Cock--ain't yer jest said yer'd
raver do a ten stretch in Portland than 'arf a one in
Biribi?"

John Bull and Reginald Rupert smiled at each other.

"Thanks awfully, Rupert," said the former, "but
I can't go to England."  Turning to the Cockney he
added, "You're a good sort, Herbert, my laddie--but
I'm staying here."

"Shucks," observed the American with an air of
finality, and turning to Carmelita requested her to
fetch the nuggets, the spondulicks, the dope--in short,
the wad.  Carmelita disappeared into her little room
and returned in a few moments with a roll of notes.

"Well, good-bye, my dear old chap," said John
Bull, taking the American's hand.  "You understand
all I can't say, don't you? ... Good-bye."

"Nuthin' doin', John," was the answer.

"Hurry him off, Carmelita, we've wasted quite
time enough," said John Bull, turning to the girl.  "If
he doesn't go now and do his best for himself, he
doesn't love you.  Do clear him out.  It's death or
penal servitude if he's caught.  He struck Legros before
Legros even threatened him--and Legros is dead."

"You hear what Signor Jean Boule says.  Are you
going?" said Carmelita, turning to the American.

"No, my gal.  I ain't," was the prompt reply.
"How can I, Carmelita? ... I'm his pal....  Hev'
I got ter choose between yew an' him?"

"Of course you have," put in John Bull.  "Stay
here and you will never see her again.  It won't be
a choice between me and her then; it'll be between
death and penal servitude."

The Bucking Bronco took Carmelita's face between
his hands.

"Little gal," he said, "I didn't reckon there was
no such thing as 'love,' outside books, ontil I saw
yew.  Life wasn't worth a red cent ontil yew came
hyar.  Then every time I gits inter my bunk, I thinks
over agin every word I'd said ter yew thet night, an'
every word yew'd said ter me.  An' every mornin'
when I gits up, I ses, 'I shall see Carmelita ter-night,'
an' nuthin' didn't jar me so long as that was all right.
An' when I knowed yew wasn't fer mine, because yew
loved Loojey Rivoli, then I ses, '*Hell!*'  An' I didn't
shoot 'im up because I see how much yew loved him.
An' I put up with him when he uster git fresh, because
ef I'd beat 'im up yew'd hev druv me away from the
Caffy, an' life was jest Hell, 'cause I knowed 'e was
a low-lifer reptile an' yew'd never believe it....
An' now yew've found 'im out, an' he's gorn, an' yure
mine--an' it's too late....  Will yew think I don't
love yew, little gal? ... Don't tell me ter go or I
might sneak off an' leave John in the lurch."

"You can't help me, Buck," put in John Bull.
"I shall be all right.  Who'll you benefit by walking
into gaol?"

The American looked appealingly at the girl, and
his face was more haggard and anxious than when
he was fighting for his life.

"This is my answer, Signor Bouckaing Bronceau,"
spake Carmelita.  "Had you gone without Signor
Jean Boule, I should not have followed you.  Now I
have heard you speak, I trust you for ever.  Had you
deserted your friend in trouble, you would have
deserted me in trouble.  If Signor Jean Boule will not
go, then you must stay, for he struck Legros to save
your life, as you struck him to avenge me.  Would *I*
run away while you paid for that blow?..."

Carmelita then turned with feminine wiles upon
John Bull.

"Since Signor Jean Boule will not go on pump,"
she continued, "you must stay and be shot, or sent
to penal servitude, and I must be left to starve in
the gutter."

Sir Montague Merline came to the conclusion that
after all the problem of his immediate future was not
settled.

"Very well," said he, "come on.  We'll cut over
to Mendoza's and go to earth.  As soon as he has rigged
us out, we'll get clear of Sidi."

(He could always give himself up when they had
to separate and he could help them no more.  Yes,
that was it.  He would pretend that he had changed
his mind and when they had to separate he would
pretend that he was going to continue his journey.
He would return and give himself up.  Having told
the exact truth with regard to his share in the matter,
he would take his chance and face whatever followed.)

"*A rivederci*, Carmelita," said he and kissed her.

"*Mille grazie*, Signor," replied Carmelita.  "*Buon
viaggio*," and wept afresh.

"So-long, Miss," said 'Erb.  "Are we dahn'arted?
*Naow!*"

Carmelita smiled through her tears at the quaint
English *ribaldo*, and brought confusion on Reginald
Rupert by the warmth of her thanks for his actual
and promised financial help....

"We'd better go separately to Mendoza's," said
John Bull.  "Buck had better come last.  I'll go first
and bargain with the old devil.  We shan't be missed
until the morning, but we needn't exactly obtrude
ourselves on people."

He went out, followed a few minutes later by Rupert
and 'Erb.

Left alone with Carmelita, the Bucking Bronco
picked her up in his arms and held her like a baby,
as with haggard face and hoarse voice he tried to tell
her of his love and of his misery in having to choose
between losing her and leaving her.  Having arranged
with her that he should write to her in the name of
Jules Lebrun from an address which would not be
in France or any of her colonies, the Bucking Bronco
allowed himself to be driven from the back door of
the Café.  Carmelita's last words were--

"Good-bye, *amato*.  When you send for me I shall
come, and you need not wait until you can send me
money."


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center medium

   §3

.. vspace:: 1

The good Monsieur Mendoza, discovered in a dirty
unsavoury room, at the top of a broken winding
staircase of a modestly unobtrusive, windowless house,
in a dirty unsavoury slum of the Ghetto, was exceedingly
surprised to learn that le Légionnaire Jean Boule
had come to *him*, of all people in the world, for
assistance in deserting.

The surprise of le bon Monsieur Mendoza was in
itself surprising, in view of the fact that the facilitation
of desertion was his profession.  Still, there it was,
manifest upon his expressive and filthy countenance,
not to mention his expressive and filthy hands, which
waggled, palms upward, beside his shrugged shoulders,
as he gave vent to his pained astonishment, not to say
indignation, at the Legionary's suggestion....  He
was not that sort of man....  Besides, how did he
know that Monsieur le Légionnaire had enough?...

John Bull explained patiently to le bon Monsieur
Mendoza, of whose little ways he knew a good deal,
that he had come to him because he was subterraneously
famous in the Legion as the fairy god-papa who
could, with a wave of his wand, convert a uniformed
Légionnaire into a most convincing civilian.  Further,
that he was known to be wholly reliable and
incorruptibly honest in his dealings with those who could
afford to be his god-sons.

All of which was perfectly true.

(Monsieur Mendoza did not display a gilt-lettered
board upon the wall of his house, bearing any such
inscription as "*Haroun Mendoza, Desertion Agent.
Costumier to Poumpistes and All who make the
Promenade.  Desertions arranged with promptitude and
despatch.  Perfect Disguises a Speciality.  Foreign
Money Changed.  Healthy Itineraries mapped out.
Second-hand Uniforms disposed of.  H.M.'s Agents
and Interpreters meet All Trains at Oran; and Best
Berths secured on all Steamers.  Convincing Labelled
Luggage Supplied.  Special Terms for Parties*...." nor
advertise in the *Echo d'Oran*, for it would have been
as unnecessary as unwise....)

All very well and all very interesting, parried
Monsieur Mendoza, but while compliments garlic
no *caldo*, shekels undoubtedly make the mule to go.
Had le bon Légionnaire shekels?

No, he had not, but they would very shortly arrive.

"And how many shekels will arrive?" enquired
the good Monsieur Mendoza.

"Sufficient unto the purpose," was the answer, and
then the bargaining began.  For the sum of fifty francs
the Jew would provide one Legionary with a satisfactory
suit of clothes.  The hat, boots, linen and tie
consistent with each particular suit would cost from
thirty to forty francs extra....  Say, roughly, a
hundred francs for food and complete outfit, per
individual.  The attention of the worthy Israelite was
here directed to the incontrovertible fact that he was
dealing, not with the Rothschild brothers, but with
four Legionaries of modest ambition and slender
purse.  To which, M. Mendoza replied that he who
supped with the Devil required not only a long, but
a golden spoon.  In the end, it was agreed that, for
the sum of three hundred francs, four complete outfits
should be provided.

The next thing was the production and exhibition
of the promised disguises.  Would M. Mendoza display
them forthwith, that they might be selected by the
time that the other clients arrived?

"*Si, si*," said M. Mendoza.  "*Ciertamente.  Con
placer*."  It was no desire of M. Mendoza that any
client should be expected *comprar a ciegas*--to buy
a pig in a poke.  No, *de ningun modo*....

Shuffling into an inner room, the old gentleman
returned, a few minutes later, laden with a huge
bundle of second-hand clothing.

"Will you travel as a party--say two tourists
and their servants?  Or as a party of bourgeoisie
interested in the wine trade?  Or--say worthy artisans
or working men returning to Marseilles? ... What
do you say to some walnut-juice and haiks--wild
men from the *Tanezrafet*?  One of you a Negro, perhaps
(pebbles in the nostrils), carrying an *angareb* and a
bundle.  I could let you have some *hashish*....  I
could also arrange for camels--it's eighty miles to
Oran, you know....  Say, three francs a day, per
camel, and *bakshish* for the men....  Not *meharis*
of course, but you'll be relying more on disguise
than speed, for your escape...."

"No," interrupted John Bull.  "It only means
more trouble turning into Europeans again at Oran.
We want to be four obvious civilians, of the sort
who could, without exciting suspicion, take the train
at a wayside station."

"What nationalities are you?" enquired the Jew.

"English," was the reply.

"Then take my advice and don't pretend to be
French," said the other, and added, "Are any of
the others gentlemen?"

Sir Montague Merline smiled.

"One," he said.

"Then you and that other had better go as what
you are--English gentlemen.  If you are questioned,
do not speak too good French, but get red in the face
and say, 'Goddam' ... Yes, I think one of you
might have a green veil round his hat....  the others
might be horsey or seamen....  Swiss waiters....
Music-hall artistes....  Or German touts, bagmen or
spies....  Father Abraham!  That's an idea!  To
get deported as a German spy!  Ha, ha!"  There
was a knock at the door....

"*Escuche!*" he whispered with an air of mystery,
and added, "*Quien esta ahi?*"

"It's the Lord Mayor o' Lunnon, Ole Cock,"
announced 'Erb as he entered.  "Come fer a new
set of robes an' a pearly 'at."

"That one can go either as a dismissed groom,
making his way back to England, or an out-of-work
Swiss waiter," declared Mendoza, as his artist eye
and ear took in the details of 'Erb's personality.

A great actor and actor manager had been lost in
le bon M. Mendoza, and he enjoyed the work of adapting
disguises according to the possibilities of his clients,
almost as much as he enjoyed wrangling and
bargaining, for their last sous.  A greedy and grasping old
scoundrel, no doubt, but once you entrusted yourself
to M. Mendoza you could rely upon his performing
his part of the bargain with zeal, honesty, and secrecy.

The two Legionaries divested themselves of their
uniforms and put on the clothes handed to them.

Another knock, and Rupert came in.

"Hallo, Willie Clarkson," said he to Mendoza,
who courteously replied with a "*Buenas tardes,
señor*."

"That one will be an English caballero," he
observed.

"Thought I should never get here," said Rupert.
"Got into the wrong rabbit-warren," and took off
his tunic.

The Jew did not "place" the Bucking Bronco
immediately upon his entrance, but studied him
carefully, for some minutes, before announcing that
he had better shave off his moustache and be a Spanish
fisherman, muleteer, or sailor.  If questioned, he might
tell some tale, in execrable French, of a wife or daughter
kidnapped at Barcelona and traced to a Tlemcen
brothel.  He should rave and be violent and more
than a little drunk....

And could the worthy M. Mendoza supply a couple
of good revolvers with ammunition?

"*Si, si,*" said M. Mendoza.  "*Ciertamente.  Con
placer*.  A most excellent one of very large calibre and
with twenty-eight rounds of ammunition for forty
francs, and another of smaller calibre and longer
barrel, but with, unfortunately, only eleven rounds
for thirty-five francs...."

"Keep your right hand in your pocket, each of
you," said M. Mendoza as they parted, "or you'll
respectfully salute the first Sergeant you meet...."


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center medium

   §4

.. vspace:: 1

The two Englishmen, in light summer suits, one
wearing white buckskin boots, the other light brown
ones, both carrying gloves and light canes, attracted
no second glance of attention as they strolled along
the boulevard, nor would anyone have suspected
the vehement beating of their hearts as they passed
the Guard at the gate in the fortification walls.

Similarly innocent of appearance, was an ordinary-looking
and humble little person who shuffled along,
round-shouldered, shrilly whistling "Viens Poupoule,
viens Poupoule, viens."

Nor more calculated to arouse suspicion in the breast
of the most observant Guard, was the big, slouching,
blue-jowled Spaniard, who rolled along with his *béret*
over one eye, and his cigarrillo pendent from the corner
of his mouth.  The distance separating these from the
two English gentlemen lessened as the latter, leaving
the main promenades, passed through a suburb and,
turning to the right, followed a quiet country road,
which led to a railway station.

Making a wide détour and avoiding the station,
the four, marching parallel with the railway line,
headed north for Oran.

So far, so good.  They were clear of Sidi-bel-Abbès
and they were free.  Free, but in the greatest danger.
The next thing was to get clear of Africa and from
beneath the shadow of the tri-couleur.

"*Free!*" said Rupert, as the other two joined
him and John Bull, and drew a long, deep breath, as
of relief.

"Not a bit of it, Rupert," said John Bull.  "It's
merely a case of a good beginning and a sporting
chance."

"Anyhow, well begun's half done, Old Thing.  I feel
like a boy let out of school," and he began to sing--

   |   "Si tu veux
   |     Faire mon bonheur,
   |   Marguerite, Marguerite,
   |   Si tu veux
   |     Faire mon bonheur,
   |   Marguerite, donne-moi ton coeur,

.. class:: noindent

You'll have to sing that, Buck, and put 'Carmelita'
for 'Marguerite,'" he added.

"Business first," interrupted John Bull.  "This is
the programme.  We'll go steady all night at the
'quick' and the 'double' alternately, and five minutes'
rest to the hour.  If we can't do thirty miles by
daylight, we're no Legionaries.  Sleep all day to-morrow,
in the shadow of a boulder, or trees....  By the
way, we mustn't fetch up too near Les Imberts or
we might be seen by somebody while we're asleep.
Les Imberts is about thirty miles from Sidi, I believe.
To-morrow night, we'll do another thirty miles and
that'll bring us to Wady-el-hotoma.  From there I
vote we go independently by different trains...."

"That's it," agreed Rupert.  "United for
defence--separated for concealment.  We'd better hang together
as far as Wady-what-is-it, in case a Goum patrol
overtakes us."

"Why not bung orf from this 'ere Lace Imbear?"
enquired 'Erb.  "Better'n doin' a kip in the desert,
and paddin' the 'oof another bloomin' night.  I'm
a bloomin' gennelman naow, Ole Cock.  I ain't a
lousy Legendary."

"Far too risky," replied John Bull.  "We should
look silly if Corporal Martel and a guard of men from
our own *chambrée* were on the next train, shouldn't
we?  Whichever of us went into the station would
be pinched.  The later we hit the line the better,
though on the other hand we can't hang about too
long.  We're between the Devil and the Deep
Sea--station-guards and mounted patrols."

It occurred to the Bucking Bronco that his own best
"lay" would be an application of the art of "holding
her down."  In other words, waiting outside Sidi-bel-Abbès
railway station until the night train pulled
out, and jumping on to her in the darkness and
"decking her"--in other words, climbing on to the
roof and lying flat.  As a past-master in "beating an
overland," he could do this without the slightest
difficulty, leaving the train as it slowed down into
stations and making a détour to pick it up again as
it left.  Before daylight he could leave the train
altogether and book as a passenger from the next
station (since John strongly advised against walking
into Oran by road, as that was the way a penniless
Legionary might be expected to arrive).  By that
means he would arrive at Oran before they were missed
at roll-call in the morning.  Should he, by any chance,
be seen and "ditched" by what he called the
"brakemen" and "train-crew," he would merely
have "to hit the grit," and wait for the next train.
Yes, that's what he would do if he were alone--but
the four of them couldn't do it, even if they possessed
the necessary nerve, skill and endurance--and he
wasn't going to leave them.

"Come on, boys, *en avant, marche*," said John Bull,
and they started on their thirty-mile run, keeping a
sharp look-out for patrols, and halting for a second
to listen for the sound of hoofs each time they changed
from the *pas gymnastique* to the quick march.  Galloping
hoofs would mean a patrol of Arab gens-d'armes, the
natural enemies of the *poumpiste*, the villains who
make a handsome bonus on their pay by hunting
white men down like mad dogs and shooting them,
as such, if they resist.  (It is not for nothing that the
twenty-five francs reward is paid for the return of a
deserter "*dead* or alive.")

On through the night struggled the little band,
keeping as far from the railway as was possible without
losing its guidance.  When a train rolled by in the
distance, the dry mouth of the Bucking Bronco almost
watered, as he imagined himself "holding her down,"
"decking her," "riding the blind," or perhaps doing
the journey safely and comfortably in a "side-door
Pullman" (or goods-waggon).

Before daylight, the utterly weary and footsore
travellers threw themselves down to sleep in the
middle of a collection of huge boulders that looked
as though they had been emptied out upon the plain
from a giant sack.  During the night they had passed
near many villages and had made many détours
to avoid others which lay near the line, as well as
farms and country houses, surrounded by their fig,
orange and citron trees, their groves of date-palms,
and their gardens.  For miles they had travelled over
sandy desert, and for miles through patches of
cultivation, vineyards and well-tilled fields.  They had
met no one and had heard nothing more alarming
than the barking of dogs.  Now they had reached an
utterly desert spot, and it had seemed to the leader of
the party to be as safe a place as they would find in
which to sleep away the day.  It was not too near road,
path, building, or cultivation, so far as he could tell,
and about a mile from the railway.  The cluster of
great rocks would hide them from view of any possible
wayfarer on foot, horseback, or camel, and would also
shelter them from the rays of the sun.  He judged
that they were some two or three miles from Les
Imberts station, and four or five from the village of
that name.

The next trouble would be water.  They'd probably
want water pretty badly before they got it.  Perhaps
it would rain.  That would give them water, but would
hardly improve the chances of himself and Rupert
as convincing tourists.  Thank Heaven they had a
spare clean collar each, anyhow.  Good old Mendoza.
What an artist he was!...

John Bull fell asleep.


.. vspace:: 2

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   §5

.. vspace:: 1

"Look, my brothers!  Behold!" cried "Goum"
Hassan ibn Marbuk, an hour later, as he reined in
his horse and pointed to where the footprints of four
men left a track and turned off into the desert.
"Franzwazi--they wear boots.  It is they.  Allah be
praised.  A hundred francs for us, and death for four
Roumis.  Let us kill the dogs."

Turning his horse from the road, he cantered along
the trail of the footsteps, followed by his two companions.

"Allah be praised!" he cried again.  "But our
Kismet is good.  Had it been but five minutes earlier
it would have been too dark to notice them."

"The footprints lead into that el Ahagger," he
added later, pointing to the group of great boulders.

The three men drew their revolvers and rode in
among the rocks.  The leading Arab gave a cry of
joy and covered Rupert, who was nearest to him.
As the Arab shouted, John Bull awoke and, even as
he opened his eyes, yelled "*Aux armes!*" at the top
of his voice.  (He had shouted those words and heard
them shouted, off and on, for fifteen years.)  As he
cried out, Hassan ibn Marbuk changed his aim from
Rupert to John Bull and fired.  The report of the
revolver was instantly followed by three others in
the quickest succession.  John Bull's cry had awakened
the Bucking Bronco and that wary man had slept
with his "gun" in his hand.  A second after Hassan
ibn Marbuk fired, the Bucking Bronco shot him
through the head, and then with lightning rapidity
and apparently without aim, fired at the other two
"Goums" who were behind their leader.  Not for
nothing had the Bucking Bronco been, for a time,
trick pistol-shot in a Wild West show.  Hassan ibn
Marbuk fell from his saddle, the second Arab hung
over his horse's neck, and the third, after a convulsive
start, drooped and slowly bent backward, until he
lay over the high crupper of his saddle.

"Arabs ain't no derned good with guns," remarked
the Bucking Bronco, as he rose to his feet, though it
must, in justice, be admitted that the leading Arab
had decidedly screened the view, and hampered the
activity of the other two as he emerged from the little
gully between two mighty rocks.

"Gawd luvvus," said 'Erb, sitting up and rubbing
his eyes.  "Done in three coppers in a bloomin' lump!"

The Bucking Bronco secured the horses.

"I say," said Rupert, who was bending over Sir
Montague Merline, "Bull's badly hit."

"Ketch holt, quick," cried the Bucking Bronco,
holding out to 'Erb the three reins which he had drawn
over the horses' heads.  He threw himself down beside
his friend and swore softly, as his experienced eye
recognised the unmistakable signs.

"Is he dying?" whispered Rupert.

"His number's up," groaned the American.

"Done in by a copper!" marvelled 'Erb, and,
putting his arm across his face, he leaned against
the nearest horse and sobbed....  He was a child-like
person, and, without knowing it, had come to
centre all his powers of affection on John Bull.

The dying man opened his eyes.  "Got it where the
chicken got the axe," he whispered.  "Good-bye,
Buck....  See you in the ... Happy Hunting
Grounds ... I hope."

The Bucking Bronco looked at Rupert.

"Carmelita put thisyer brandy in my pocket,
Rupert," he said producing a medicine bottle.  "Shall
I dope him?"

He coughed and swallowed, his mouth and chin
twitched and worked, and tears trickled down his face.

"Can't do much harm," said Rupert, and took the
bottle from the American's shaking hand.

The brandy revived the mortally wounded man.

"Good-bye, Rupert," he said.  "I advise you to
go straight down to Les Imberts station ... and take
the next train....  There will be a patrol ... after
this patrol ... before long.  You can't lie up here
for long now....  Buck might take a horse and gallop
for it....  Lie up somewhere else....  And ride
to Oran to-night....  'Erb should go as Rupert's
servant ... or by a different train....  Remember
Mendoza's tips."

The stertorous, wheezy breathing was painfully
interrupted by a paroxysm of coughing.

"Much pain, old chap?" asked the white-faced
Rupert, as he wiped the blood from his friend's lips.

"No," whispered Sir Montague Merline.  "I am
dead ... up to ... the heart....  Expanding
bullet....  Lungs ... and spine ... I
... ex- ... pect.  Shan't be ... long."

"Anything I can do--any message or anything?"
asked Rupert.

The dying man closed his eyes.

The Bucking Bronco was frankly blubbering.
Turning to the dead "Goum" who had shot his friend,
he swore horribly, and deplored that the man was
dead and beyond the reach of his further vengeance.
He fell instantly silent as his stricken friend spoke
again.

"If you ... get ... to Eng ... land, Rupert
... will ... you go ... to ... my wife?  She's
Lady..." he whispered.

"Yes--Lady ... *who*?" asked Rupert eagerly.

"NO," continued the dying man, in a stronger
voice, as he opened his eyes.  "I never ... had ... a
... wife."

Silence again.

"Why *Marguerite* ... My ... darling ... girl.
*Darling* ... at ... last.  *Marguerite*."

Sir Montague Merline's problem was solved, and the
last of his wages paid....


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center medium

   §6

.. vspace:: 2

The Honourable Reginald Rupert Huntingten never
forgot the hour that followed.  The three broken-hearted
men buried their friend in a shallow, sandy
grave and piled a cairn of rocks and stones above the
spot.  It gave them a feeling akin to pleasure to realise
that every minute devoted to this labour of love,
lessened their chance of escape.

Their task accomplished, they shook hands and
parted--the Bucking Bronco incapable of speech.
Before he rode away, Huntingten thrust a piece of
paper into his hand, upon which he had scribbled:
"*R. R. Huntingten, Elham Old Hall, Elham, Kent,*"
and said, "Wire me there.  Or--better still, come--and
we'll arrange about Carmelita."

The Bucking Bronco rode away in the cool of the
morning.

Having settled by the toss of a coin whether he
or 'Erb should attempt the next train, he gave that
grief-stricken warrior the same address and invitation.

With a crushing hand-clasp they parted, and
Huntingten, with a light and jaunty step, and a sore
and heavy heart, set forth for the station of Les
Imberts to put his nerve and fortune to the test.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`epilogue`:

.. class:: center large

   EPILOGUE

.. vspace:: 2

"Well, good night, my own darling Boy," said
the beautiful Lady Huntingten, as she lit
her candle from that of her son, by the table in the
hall.  "Don't keep Father up all night, if he and
General Strong come to your bedroom."

"Good night, dearest," replied he, kissing her
fondly.

Setting down her candlestick, she took him by
the lapels of his coat as though loth to let him out of
her sight and part with him, even for the night.

"Oh, but it is good to have you again, darling,"
she murmured, gazing long at his bronzed and weather-beaten
face.  "You won't go off again for a long, long
time, will you?  And we must keep your promise
to that wholly delightful 'Erb, if it's humanly possible.
But I really cannot picture him as a discreet and
silent-footed valet....  I simply loved him and the
Bucking Bronco.  I don't know which is the more
precious and priceless....  I do so wonder whether
he'll be happy with his Carmelita....  I shall love
seeing her."

"Yes, 'Erb and Buck are great birds," replied
her son, "but poor old John Bull was the chap."

"Poor man, how awful--with freedom in sight....
You knew nothing of his story?" she asked.

"Absolutely nothing, dearest.  All I know about
him is that he was one of the very best.  Funny thing,
y' know, Mother--I simply lived with that chap,
night and day, for a year, and know no more about
him than just that.  That, and his marks--and by
Jove, he'd got some....  Simply a mass of scars,
beginning with the crown of his head, where was a
hole you could have laid your thumb in.  Been about
a bit, too; fought in China, Madagascar, West Africa,
the Sahara and Morocco, in the Legion.  Certainly
been in the British Army--in Africa, too.  I fancy he'd
been a sailor as well--anyhow he'd been in Japan
and got the loveliest bit of tattooing I ever set eyes
on.  Wonderful colours--snake winding round his
wrist and up his forearm.  Thing looked alive though
it had been done for over thirty years.  Nagasaki,
I think he said...."  He yawned hugely.  "But here
I am rambling on about a person you never saw, and
keeping you up," he added.  He bent to kiss his mother
again.

"Mother!--*darling*!  Don't you feel well?  Here,
I'll get you a little brandy."

Lady Huntingten was clutching at the edge of the
table, and staring at her son, white-lipped.  Her face
looked drawn and suddenly old.

"No, no," she said.  "Come back.  I--sometimes--a
little..." and she sat down on the oak settle
beside the table.

"The heat ..." she continued incoherently.
"There, I'm all right now.  Tell me some more about
this--John Bull....  He *is* dead? ... You buried
him yourself, you said."

"Yes, poor old chap, it was awful."

"And he gave you no messages for his people?
He did not tell you his real name?"

"No.  Nothing.  He's taken his story with him.
The last words he said were 'Will you go and tell
my wife, Lady...' and there he pulled himself up,
and said he never had a wife.  But he had, I'm sure--and
he called to her by her Christian name.  As
he died, he cried out, '*At last--my darling--*'"

"*Marguerite*," whispered Lady Huntingten.

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   Made and Printed in Great Britain by Butler & Tanner Ltd., Frome and London

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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   ALSO BY P. C. WREN

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   BEAU GESTE

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"Well-told, absorbing romance."--*Morning Post*.

"A story of rare quality from every point of view."--*Daily
Telegraph*.

"Told with rare skill and delicacy."--*Westminster Gazette*.

"A most stimulating, and at times hair-raising, story of
adventure."--*Daily Graphic*.

"Very exciting reading."--*Spectator*.

"A spanking yarn, brimming with high spirits and
vitality."--*The New Statesman*.

"His Algerian pen-pictures are quite unusually forceful and
descriptive."--*The Field*.

"Unquestionably a great story."--*Truth*.

"Should find a big public."--*The Graphic*.

"The best kind of wholesome romance and the best of all its
author's books.  A splendid story very splendidly told."--*T.P.'s
and Cassell's Weekly*.

"A wonderfully vivid and enthralling piece of work."--*John o'
London's Weekly*.

"If you want romance of the healthiest kind, 'Beau Geste' will
give it you."--*Bystander*.

"A really stirring and romantic story."--*Queen*.

"One of the best and strangest adventure stories of recent
years."--*The Gentlewoman*.

"One of the most exciting stories we have read for many a long
day--ingenious and thrilling."--*Guardian*.

"A story to stir the pulses: a vivid picture."--*Christian World*.

"Its swift popularity is well deserved; it is a novel of high
quality."--*Oxford Chronicle*.

"Deserves every whit of the success which it is now
attaining."--*Manchester Guardian*.

"One of the very best novels that we have read for a very long
time."--*Western Mail*.

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ILLUSTRATED EDITION, with coloured and black-and-white
Drawings by Helen McKie.  7s. 6d. net.

Also an Edition-de-luxe, limited to 600 copies for sale in England,
numbered and signed by the Author, 21s. net.

FIRST CHEAP EDITION.  Without Illustrations.  3s. 6d. net.



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   BEAU SABREUR

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   *First Cheap Edition.  3s. 6d. net*

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In this latest story, Major Wren presents the fascinating
life and personality of that Major Henri de Beaujolais
who appeared in "Beau Geste."  It is a typical Wren
story--healthy, gripping romance plus mystery and
adventure--based on the conflict between the claims of
love and duty.

Spahis, legionaries, touaregs, play their several parts with
intense reality, while over all flares the pitiless sun of
those desert wastes in Northern Africa.  A novel which is
being read and enjoyed in all parts of the world.



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   THE WAGES OF VIRTUE

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   *3s. 6d. net and 2s. net*

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"A story of the French Foreign Legion ... the tale's the
thing, no doubt--but by no means the whole thing either,
for not only is it told with verve and real, if unobtrusive
human sympathy, but it abounds richly in various kinds
of knowledge as well as Legionary lore....  It is all
skilfully worked out, and we leave it with the utmost
confidence to more than one kind of reader.  There is
strong internal evidence that the author knows something
of this amazing life (amazing even in these times) from
the inside.  Furthermore, he uses with great effect a
quite astonishing acquaintance with many vernaculars to
emphasize the motley of many-hued characters and
circumstances showing beneath the common uniform."--*The Times*.



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   STEPSONS OF FRANCE

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   *3s. 6d. net and 2s. net*

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"Those who have read Captain Wren's 'The Wages of
Virtue' will renew with pleasure their acquaintance with
several of its principal characters....  Old Jean Boule
moves through these pages like the good angel he is, and
the Bucking Broncho and 'Erb 'Iggins are also here to
provide humour when it is needed."--*Yorkshire Post*.

"The stories themselves are extraordinarily
thrilling--sometimes uncomfortably thrilling."--*Bystander*.



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   DEW AND MILDEW

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   *First Cheap Edition.  3s. 6d. net*

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"Immense snap, vivacity and resource."--*The Times*.

"Highly interesting to the lover of the mysterious.
Told with dramatic force."--*Western Daily Press*.

"Fascinating, powerful, amusing, and clever.  All who
love Kipling will admire Wren."--*Occult Review*.



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   DRIFTWOOD SPARS

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   *First Cheap Edition.  3s. 6d. net*

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A richly coloured novel of the East, full of dramatic
incident, in which every grade of Society is represented.
The central figure is the son of a Scottish mother and a
Pathan father, and his duality of temperament makes
him peculiarly fitted for the perilous tasks he undertakes.
His adventures form a story of unusual power.



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   THE SNAKE AND THE SWORD

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   *First Cheap Edition.  3s. 6d. net*

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"A really dramatic story."--*Evening Standard*.

"A story often tragic in its incident but powerful in
holding the reader's interest."--*Glasgow Herald*.

"A rousing exciting story, it presents a convincing, vivid
picture."--*The Bookman*.

"An extraordinary story."--*Daily Graphic*.

"Full of exciting but unusual incidents."--*Daily Telegraph*.



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   FATHER GREGORY

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   *First Cheap Edition.  3s. 6d. net*

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"A queer and interesting company depicted with
entertaining and not unsympathetic skill, always picturesque,
and sometimes affecting."--*Scotsman*.

"A peculiarly interesting book and one to be unreservedly
recommended."--*Liverpool Post*.

"Well worth reading."--*The Athenæum*.

"Original and cleverly told."--*Literary World*.

"Varied and enjoyable."--*The Times*.



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   THE YOUNG STAGERS

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   *New and Enlarged Edition.  3s. 6d. net*

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Being further Faites and Gestes of the Junior Curlton Club
of Karabad, India, this delightful book is quite different
from the adventurous fiction in which Major Wren has
made his name.  It is a book of smiles with much *naïveté*
and not a little profound sense.

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   JOHN MURRAY, Albemarle Street, LONDON, W.1

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