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.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 45061
   :PG.Title: The Call of the East
   :PG.Released: 2014-03-05
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Thurlow Fraser
   :DC.Title: The Call of the East
              A Romance of Far Formosa
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1914
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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THE CALL OF THE EAST
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      Cover art

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   .. _`They came over the last bluff`:

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      :alt: They came over the last bluff (See page 186.)

      They came over the last bluff (See page `186`_.)

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      THE
      CALL OF THE EAST

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      *A ROMANCE OF FAR FORMOSA*

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      BY

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      THURLOW FRASER

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      Illustrated

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      TORONTO
      WILLIAM BRIGGS

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      Copyright, 1914, by
      FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY

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      To
      Her who shared my life and
      suffered in the Beautiful Isle

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   FOREWORD

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In every port of the Orient the outposts of the
restless, aggressive West touch the lines of the
impassive East.  Consuls, military and naval
officers, merchants, missionaries force the ideas and
ideals of the West upon the reluctant East.  Many of
these representatives of western civilization are true
to the high standards of the nations and religions from
which they come.  Many others fall to the level, and
below the level, of those they live among.

This story is an attempt to picture this life where
the East meets the West, in one small port and for
the one short period covered by the Franco-Chinese
War of 1884-85.  Of the characters one, Dr. MacKay,
is unhesitatingly called by his own name.  Sergeant
Gorman and one or two others of the subordinate
figures are drawn from life.  The rest, including
the principal actors, are purely imaginary.

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   T. F.
   OWEN SOUND, ONT.

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   CONTENTS

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I.  `Storm Signals`_
II.  `A Lull`_
III.  `The Typhoon`_
IV.  `Parried`_
V.  `Introductions`_
VI.  `On the Defensive`_
VII.  `Sparring for Advantage`_
VIII.  `Sinclair's Opportunity`_
IX.  `A Quiet Life`_
X.  `Glorious War`_
XI.  `The Life-Healer Is Come`_
XII.  `Matutinal Confidences`_
XIII.  `More Confidences`_
XIV.  `The Appeal of the Heroic`_
XV.  `The Lure Of The East`_
XVI.  `Sergeant Whatisname`_
XVII.  `Wolves and Their Prey`_
XVIII.  `To the Rescue`_
XIX.  `Allister`_
XX.  `The Infallible Experts`_
XXI.  `The Language of Song`_
XXII.  `Halcyon Days`_
XXIII.  `Impending Storms`_
XXIV.  `The Ball Begins`_
XXV.  `The Ball Proceeds`_
XXVI.  `A Game of Ball`_
XXVII.  `The Charge of the Tamsui Blues`_
XXVIII.  `Unholy Confessors`_
XXIX.  `Flags of Truce`_
XXX.  `The Mystery of Love`_
XXXI.  `Ancestors and Pedigrees`_
XXXII.  `A Man and a Woman`_
XXXIII.  `My Children in the Lord`_
XXXIV.  `The Soldier of the Legion`_
XXXV.  `The Language of Paradise`_
XXXVI.  `An Apparition`_
XXXVII.  `"My Son!  My Son!"`_
XXXVIII.  `Rejected`_
XXXIX.  `A Realized Dream`_
XL.  `The Coward`_
XLI.  `"Good Will Toward Men"`_

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   ILLUSTRATIONS

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`They came over the last bluff`_ . . . . . . *Frontispiece*

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`Sinclair threw off his coat, rolled up his sleeves,
and went to work`_

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`A yell from one of the Chinese attracted the
attention of Sinclair and Gorman`_

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`"I'll be thinking of you, Donald, and you'll be
thinking of me"`_

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.. _`STORM SIGNALS`:

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   I


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   STORM SIGNALS

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"Pardon me, Miss MacAllister!  Is there any
way in which I can be of service to you?"

The young lady addressed turned quickly
from the deck-rail on which she had been leaning,
and with a defiant toss of her head faced her
questioner.  A hot flush of resentment chased from her
face the undeniable pallor of a moment before.

"In what way do you think you can be of service
to me, Mr. Sinclair?" she demanded sharply.

"I thought that you were ill, and——"

"And is it so uncommon to be sea-sick, or is it such
a dangerous ailment, that at the first symptom the
patient must be cared for as if she had the plague?"

"Perhaps not!  But I am told that it is uncomfortable."

There was a humorous twinkle in his eyes.  At the
sight of it hers flashed, and the flame of her anger
rose higher.

"From that I am to understand, Mr. Sinclair, that
you are one of those superior beings who never suffer
from sea-sickness."

"I must confess to belonging to that class," he
replied good-humouredly.  "I have never experienced
its qualms."

"Then I abominate such people.  They call themselves
'good sailors.'  They offer sympathy to others,
and all the while are laughing in their sleeves.  They
are insufferable prigs.  I want none of their sympathy."

"But, Miss MacAllister, you misunderstand me.  I
am not offering you empty sympathy.  I am a medical
doctor, and for the present am in charge of the health
of the passengers on this ship."

"Then, Dr. Sinclair, I am not in need of your care.
I never yet saw a doctor who could do anything for
sea-sickness.  Their treatment is all make-believe.
They know no more about it than any one else.  I do
not propose to be the subject of experiments.
Good-evening."

She was again leaning on the rail, in an attitude
which belied her defiant words.

"Good-evening," replied the young doctor, as he
turned away with a scarcely perceptible shrug of his
shoulders, and with an expression of mingled
amusement and annoyance on his face.  A low chuckle of
laughter caught his ear.  He was passing the cabin
of the chief officer, and the door stood open.

"What is the matter with you, Mr. McLeod?" he
asked, the shade of annoyance passing from his face,
and a good-humoured laugh taking its place.

"Come in and close the door."

"You heard what she said?"

"Yes.  How do you feel after that, doctor?"

"Withered; ready to blow away like a dry leaf in
autumn!"

"You look it," laughed the mate, as he glanced
admiringly at the big, handsome man who seemed to
take up all the available space in the little cabin, and
who was laughing as heartily as if some one else had
suffered instead of himself.

"Isn't she a haughty one?" continued the chief.

"Who is she, anyway?  The captain made us
acquainted.  But you know he doesn't go into
particulars.  She was Miss MacAllister.  I was Sinclair.
That was our first encounter.  You witnessed the
second."

"Her father is senior member of the big London
firm of 'MacAllister, Munro Co., China Merchants.'  They
have hongs at every open port on the China
Coast.  He is making an inspection of all their agencies
and has brought his wife and daughter along for
company.  Being a Scot, he likes to keep on good terms
with the Lord, who is the giver of all good gifts.
So he is mixing religion with business.  In the
intervals between examining accounts and sizing up the
stock in their godowns, he is visiting missions, seeing
that the missionaries are up to their pidgin, and
preaching to the natives through interpreters."

"Easy seeing, McLeod, that you're a Scot yourself,
or the son of a Scot, from your faculty of
acquiring things.  Where did you get all this about the
MacAllisters?  They joined us only this afternoon
at Amoy."

"Oh, yes!  But they were with us from Hong-Kong
to Swatow last trip.  You missed that, doctor,
by going over to Canton.  Miss MacAllister and I got
quite chummy.  Bright moonlight; dead calm; too
hot to turn in and sleep!  So we just sat out or strolled
up and down nearly all night.  If you had been
there, I should have had no show.  See what you
missed."

"If what I got to-day be a fair sample of what I
missed last trip, you're welcome to it."

The mate laid back his head and laughed with boyish
glee at the rueful look which came over his friend's
countenance, at the mere memory of the stinging
rebuff he had suffered.

"Do not imagine that your lady friend is always
in the humour she showed to-day, doctor.  She is
pretty sick, and for the first time, too.  She told me
before what a good sailor she was.  Never missed a
meal at sea!  Never had an inclination to turn over!"

"Did she say that, McLeod?  That she was a 'good
sailor'?"

"Yes."

"The vixen!  And then you heard the way she has
just soaked it to me for being a 'good sailor.'"

McLeod shook with laughter.

"Don't be too hard on her, doctor.  She has got
it good and plenty this time, and she's disgusted with
herself, disgusted with the sea, the boat, and
everything and everybody connected with them."

"She doesn't hesitate to express her disgust,"
replied the doctor.  "I blundered upon her at an
unlucky moment and received the full contents of the
vials of her wrath."

"Never mind; she will soon get over this.  Then she
will be quite angelic."

"I guess she got some Chinese chow at Amoy,
which didn't agree with her."

"Perhaps!  But it doesn't need any chow to turn
over even good sailors on a sea like this.  The Channel
can be dirty when it likes.  This is one of the times
it has chosen to be dirtier than usual."

The two young men had stepped out of the mate's
cabin and were leaning on the rail looking at the
turbulent sea through which they were steaming.  The
coast-line had already faded out of sight in the
gathering gloom, but away to the northwest a great, white
light winked at slow intervals of a minute.  The tide
was setting strongly in a southerly direction, and the
ship was breasting almost directly against it.  The
southwest monsoon meeting the tidal current, and
perhaps several other wayward and variable ocean
streams which whisk and swirl through that vexed
channel, was kicking up a perfect chaos of broken
waves.  Through this choppy turmoil the *Hailoong*
ploughed her way, all the while pitching and rolling in
an exasperating fashion, no two successive motions
of the ship being alike.  None but seasoned sailors
could escape the qualms of sickness in such a sea.

"It certainly is nasty enough," said the doctor;
"and the appearance of the weather does not promise
much improvement."

"The storm signals were hoisted as we weighed
anchor," replied McLeod.  "They indicated a typhoon
near the Philippines, but travelling this way.  The
captain thought that we could make the run across before
it caught us.  But if we don't see some weather
before we cross Tamsui bar, I'm no prophet."

"Seven bells!  Guess I had better polish up a bit
for dinner."

"Don't throw away too much labour on yourself,
Sinclair.  She'll not appear at table this evening."

"*She* must have made considerable impression on
you, Mac, from the frequency with which your mind
recurs to her," retorted Sinclair, as the two separated
to make hasty preparations for dinner.





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.. _`A LULL`:

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   II


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   A LULL

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There were not many at dinner that evening.
The *Hailoong* never had a very heavy
passenger list.  Her cabin accommodation was
limited.  On this trip half of the small number of
passengers were in no humour for dinner.

When Dr. Sinclair entered the saloon, the chief
officer, McLeod, was already at the table.  His watch
was nearly due, and he did not stand upon ceremony.
Presently Captain Whiteley came in, and with him
a tall, broad-shouldered man of past middle age.
Sinclair had barely time to note the high, broad forehead,
and the square jaw, clean shaven except for a fringe
of side-whiskers, trimmed in old-fashioned style, and
meeting under the chin, before the captain introduced
him.

"Mr. MacAllister, this is Dr. Sinclair, a Canadian
medical man, spying out the Far East, and incidentally
acting as our ship's doctor."

"I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Dr. Sinclair.
I have been in your country, and have a great
respect for the energy and progressiveness of your
countrymen."

"I am glad to know that you have visited Canada,
Mr. MacAllister.  It seems to me that most British
business men and British public men are lamentably
ignorant of Britain's dominions beyond the seas.  It's
refreshing to meet one who has visited these new lands
and knows something of their possibilities."

"It must be acknowledged that too many of us in
the British Isles are insular and conservative in our
ideas.  But I have always felt that even in the matter
of trade we cannot make a success, unless we know
the people and the wants of the people with whom we
do business.  Our firm's largest foreign trade is with
China, and this is my fourth visit to the China Coast.
But we have interests in Canada also, and in connection
with them I have spent some months in the Dominion."

"I am quite sure that your interests there will grow.
It is a great country.  There is practically no limit
to its possibilities.  Even the Canadians themselves
are only now discovering that."

"With such a country, and with such possibilities
in it for a young man, I am surprised, Dr. Sinclair,
that you have forsaken it to seek your fortune on the
China Coast."

"Seeking one's fortune, in the ordinary meaning of
that phrase, is not the only thing worth living for,
Mr. MacAllister.  If that were the main object in life,
I should have remained in Canada."

The keen grey eyes of the successful business man
searched the young doctor's face, as if they would read
his very thoughts.  But Dr. Sinclair did not answer
their questioning gaze, nor volunteer any explanation
of his statement.

"Dr. Sinclair thinks with you," broke in Captain
Whiteley, "that a man is better of seeing life in
different parts of the world, even though he may end up
by finding a snug harbour in some out-of-the-way
corner."

"Yes," replied the merchant, "that is wise, if he
can make any use of the experience gained."

"And I think that the doctor is nearly as much
interested in missions as you are, Mr. MacAllister,
judging from the way he visits them and studies them at
every port."

"Is that so, Dr. Sinclair?"  The keen eyes were
again reading his face.

"I am interested in anything which proposes to
make this old world better, and to help the men who
are in it.  That's why I chose medicine as a profession.
I like to see things for myself.  That's why I visit
missions."

"And what are your conclusions?"

"I have hardly come to any conclusions yet.  I have
been only a few months on the Coast.  Tourists and
newspaper correspondents know all about the Far East
after spending ten or twelve hours at each of the
ports touched by the big liners.  I am not a genius.
I cannot form conclusions so rapidly.  But here is a
fellow-countryman of mine who knows more of missions
now than, in all probability, I ever shall know."

As he was speaking a man had entered the dining
saloon who would have attracted attention anywhere.
It was not his dress or his stature which would have
caused him to be noticed.  Like the rest he wore a
close-fitting suit of white drill.  He was of barely
middle height, though well-knit, wiry and erect.  But
the quick, nervous movements, the piercing dark eyes,
which seemed to take in with one swift glance
everything and everybody in the room, betokened the fiery
energy of the soul which burned within.  The high
forehead, a trifle narrow perhaps, and the straight
line of the mouth, with its firmly-closed lips, indicated
intensity of purpose and determination.  A long black
beard flowed down on his chest, contrasting sharply
with the spotless white of his clothing.

"Mr. MacAllister, have you met Dr. MacKay?"

"I have not had that pleasure.  Is this MacKay
of Formosa?"

"I am MacKay."

"It is a great pleasure to me to meet you.  I have
heard so much of your work."

"I hope it may have been good."

"What else could it be?  I am told that it is
marvellous what you have accomplished in so short a time
and almost alone."

"All have not that opinion of my work."

"All who spoke of it to me had that opinion.  If
what they told me is true, as I believe it is, how could
they think otherwise?"

"Different men have different methods.  So have
different missions.  Some can see no good in any but
their own.  My methods differ from those of others.
They have not approved themselves to many of my
seniors in the mission fields of China."

"I shall be glad to study your methods and see your
results for myself."

"You shall have the opportunity."

The little group of officers and passengers were
ere this seated at the table.  In addition to those
already mentioned there was the chief engineer, Watson,
a Scot from the Clyde.  There was also a passenger,
a tea-buyer from New York.

The latter sat opposite Dr. MacKay at the mate's
left.  He had been listening to the conversation with
a look of amused contempt on his flabby face.  At the
head of the table the captain, the engineer, Sinclair,
and MacAllister formed one group, who were soon
deep in conversation.  The tea-buyer took advantage
of their preoccupation to address his neighbour across
the table:

"So you are one of those missionaries."

"I am."

"Been gettin' a pretty fine collection of souls saved."

"I never saved a soul.  Never expect to."

The mate chuckled to himself.  But the point was
lost on the tea-buyer.  He thought that he had scored.

"Glad to see that you have come round to my point
of view," he said; "and that there is one missionary
honest enough to acknowledge it."

"And what is your point of view?"

"My point of view is that the red-skins and the
black-skins and the brown-skins and the yaller-skins
ain't got any souls, any more than a dog has."

"I do not know of any reason why the colour of
a man's skin should affect his possession of a
soul."  MacKay spoke very quietly.  The tea-buyer began
to bluster.

"Reason or no reason, no man is going to make me
believe that any of the niggers or Chinees or any of
the rest of them have souls.  Christian or no
Christian, a nigger is a nigger, a Chinee is a Chinee, a
Dago is a Dago, and a Sheeny is a Sheeny from first
to last.  All the missionary talk and missionary
money-getting is nothing but damned graft, and the
missionaries know it.  Boy!  One piecee whiskey-soda!
Chop-chop!"

"All lite!  Have got."  And the "boy," a Chinese
waiter perhaps sixty or seventy years old, quickly and
noiselessly brought the bottles.

"I suppose you have had abundance of opportunity
to see and judge for yourself before you came
to those conclusions, Mr. Clark," said MacKay.

There was that in his tone which would have made
most men careful in their reply.  But Clark was too
self-confident to be wary, and repeated whiskeys and
sodas had made him still less cautious.

"You may bet your bottom dollar I have," he
replied.  "I have known niggers and Dagos since I
was knee-high to a grasshopper; and I have spent every
season on the China Coast for the last five or six
years.  Oh, yes!  I know what I'm talking about.  I
know them from the ground up."

"Doubtless you have visited many of the churches
and chapels at the different ports where you have done
business, and have for yourself seen the natives at
worship."

"Me visit their churches!  Not on your life!  What
do you take me for?  I take no stock in any of their
joss pidgin.  I'd sooner go to a native temple than
to a native church.  But I've never been in either."

"Then I am afraid that I must assist your memory,
Mr. Clark.  You were in a native church."

"Me?  Never!"

"If I am not mistaken, Mr. Clark, you were a
passenger on the American bark *Betsy*, when she was
wrecked on South Point, just outside of Saw Bay, a
year ago last November."

"I was.  But I don't see what that has to do with
the subject we were discussing."

"The *Betsy's* boats were all smashed as soon as
they touched water."  MacKay was speaking in the
dead level tones of suppressed emotion.  But there
was something so penetrating in his voice that the
conversation at the other end of the table ceased, and
all were listening.  "The Pe-po-hoan or Malay natives
there went out through the surf in their fishing-boats
and took every man off safely."

"Yes," replied Clark uneasily, "that's all right
enough.  But I reckon we could have made the shore
ourselves."

"They took you to their village, called Lam-hong-o:
they opened their church: the preacher gave
up his own house to you: they made beds for you there
and fed you."

"Damned poor accommodation, and damned poor
grub!  Boy!  One piecee whiskey!  Be quick about it!"

"All lite!  No wanchee soda?  My can catchee."

"No!  Damn the soda!"

"All lite!  All lite!  Dammee soda!"

"I shall not say anything, Mr. Clark, of the return
those white men with souls made to those brown men
without souls who saved them.  But I shall tell you
what would have happened if the missionaries had not
gone to Lam-hong-o; if there had not been a chapel
there; if those brown-skins had not been Christians.
Your ship would have been pillaged.  Your heads
would have been cut off.  Your carcasses would have
been fed to the sharks.  But they were Christians.
So they saved you.  They fed you.  They clothed
you.  They sent you home with all your belongings
that they were able to save from the sea."

"Right you are, MacKay!" exclaimed Captain
Whiteley, bringing his fist down on the table with a
thump which threatened to throw on the floor the few
dishes which the motion of the ship had not already
dashed out of the retaining frames.  "Right you are!
Nearly thirty years ago I was on the *Teucer*, Captain
Gibson, as senior apprentice with rank of fourth mate.
We were bound from Liverpool to Shanghai, but ran
on the rocks a little farther down the East Coast than
the *Betsy* did.  There were thirty-one of us all told.
We got ashore without the loss of a man.  But when
those devils of natives were done with us, there were
only three of us left alive—the carpenter, an A.B.,
and myself.  And we wished that we were dead.  We
would have been dead, too, before long.  But after
being worked as slaves for nine months, a Chinaman,
who had been with the missionaries on the mainland,
bought us from the Malays, and rowed us out to the
first foreign ship he saw, the old *Spindrift*.  She took
us to Shanghai."

As the captain finished speaking MacKay rose
and left the table.  As was his wont, he had eaten
sparingly and quickly.  MacAllister was pressing
Captain Whiteley for more details of his captivity among
the head-hunters.  McLeod was on the point of going
out to his watch.

"That was score one on you, Clark," he said to
his neighbour.  "It doesn't pay to get too fresh even
with a parson."

"I don't see that it's any of your pidgin to stick
up for those fakirs," retorted the tea-buyer angrily.

"And I don't make it my pidgin," replied McLeod,
"but it wasn't up to you to butt in on a man like
MacKay the way you did.  He gave you what you
deserved."

"He needn't have flared up so and brought in all
those mock-heroics about what those niggers of his
did.  I was only jollying him.  He made things a great
deal worse than they were."

"He didn't make things half as bad as they were,
Clark.  What about the way the native preacher's
daughter was used by the men to whom the preacher
gave up his house and his church?  Those brown-skins
may have no souls.  But MacKay believes they
have.  To my thinking they have a good deal more
soul than the white-skins who did what was done
there.  You fellows went the limit.  I wonder that
MacKay let you off so easy."

"Oh!—Say!—Damn it, McLeod, that's going too
far.—I'll not stand for that.—Say!—Here!—McLeod!—Wait
and we'll break a bottle of champagne.—Here!—Boy!
One piecee champagne!"

"No, thank you, Clark!  It's my watch."

At the door the chief officer paused and called back:

"Say, Doc, when you are done feeding that big
body of yours, come up on the bridge."

"All right, Mac.  I'll be with you."





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.. _`THE TYPHOON`:

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   III


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   THE TYPHOON

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When Dr. Sinclair joined his friend on the
bridge, a very marked change had come over
the weather.  It was intensely hot and sultry
even where the circulation of air was freest.  The
wind was no longer blowing steadily from the south-west.
It came in short puffs, dying away entirely
between them, and veering around quarter of a circle.
The short, broken waves of earlier in the evening were
giving place to a long swell, coming up from the south.
The movement of the ship was much easier.  One or
two passengers who had been unable to appear at
dinner had recovered sufficiently to come on deck and
escape the unbearable sultriness and stuffiness of the
cabins.

"It's coming all right, doctor.  Going to catch us
sure.  I don't care so much if it will only wait till
daylight.  I have no ambition to be floundering around
this channel in a typhoon in the dark."

"How's the glass?"

"Away down, and still going.  Haven't seen it so
low since the big typhoon that cleaned up
Hong-Kong Harbour a couple of years ago."

"What prospect is there that the big blow will hold
off till morning?"

"Oh, pretty fair!  The rain hasn't started yet, and
on this coast we generally get splashes of rain for
quite a few hours before the real thing begins.  The
sea is rising, but not very fast yet.  I don't think we'll
see very bad weather till to-morrow."

Just then a merry ripple of woman's laughter
sounded from away aft.

"Listen to that, Sinclair," said the mate.  "That
'sweet Highland girl' of yours has evidently
recovered sufficiently to come on deck.  She's back there
talking to the captain.  I hope he may be as gallant
as he sometimes is with our rare lady passengers, and
may bring her up here to view the scenery.  I should
just like to see how you and she would act at your
first meeting after the little tiff you had to-day.  I'm
interested in this case, doctor."

"What the deuce is the matter with you anyway,
McLeod?  You are talking a lot of rot to me about
a young woman I have never seen before.  Surely our
experiences so far have been unpropitious enough.  If
it were not that I know about a little girl away back
on your own Island, I should say that those moonlight
promenades between Hong-Kong and Swatow had
turned your head."

"Never mind, Doc.  You know that a bad beginning
makes a good ending.  We people of Highland
blood have a sort of second sight.  We can see a
bit into the future.  I give you fair warning——"

There was another ripple of laughter, this time from
forward, almost under the bridge.  Then a woman's
voice said:

"Oh, Captain Whiteley, I behaved myself most
shockingly to-day."

"Surely not, Miss MacAllister.  I couldn't conceive
of your doing anything which wasn't charming."

"You told me that you were a Yorkshireman, Captain
Whiteley.  After such a speech as that I believe
that you must have been born near Blarney Castle.
But I really did behave shamefully."

"How?"

"I said just awful things to your doctor."

"And what ever did Dr. Sinclair do to deserve those
'awful things'?"

"It was all your fault, Captain Whiteley.  When
you introduced him, you did not tell me that he was
a doctor.  I was sea-sick, and—and in just dreadful
humour.  He offered assistance.  I did not know that
he was a medical doctor, sauced him, and sent him
about his business.  And now what shall I do to make
amends?  It was all your fault——"

Anything more was lost to the ears of the two young
men on the bridge, as she and the captain strolled
slowly aft.  But the rippling laughter reached their
ears from time to time.

"Not very penitent, that!" laughed McLeod.

"Did you catch on to the reason she gave for
saucing me, because she didn't know that I was a medical
doctor?  It was just when she found out that I was a
doctor that she gave me the worst.  Doesn't that beat
the Dutch?"

   |  "'O woman! in our hours of ease,
   |  Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,'"

quoted McLeod.

In the light of the binnacle lamp the two friends
looked into each other's eyes and laughed heartily.
There was no cynicism, no cheap scoff at a woman's
variableness.  Instead there was that manly
healthy-mindedness which can afford to laugh at her
inexplicable ways, and honour and admire her still.

"By the way, McLeod, Dr. MacKay put it all over
Clark this evening, didn't he?  I couldn't hear it all.
Caught just the last few sentences.  But I thought,
from what I heard, that he was giving that old
Mormon some knockout blows."

"You're right he was.  But not half as much as he
deserved.  There are some white men who come out
here who wouldn't be decent company for pigs.  Clark
is one of them.  I'm no paragon of virtue, and I don't
set up to preach to others.  But there are a lot of
us on the China Coast who try to keep decent enough
not to be ashamed to go home once in a while and
look our mothers and sisters in the face.  There are
a number of others who are simply rotten.  They give
us all a bad name.  Mormon!  Yes, worse than that!
He could give points to old Abdul Hamid of Turkey."

A dash of warm rain driving before a sharp squall
of wind struck them.  The *Hailoong* was rising and
falling with the mighty heave of the great swells which
were following each other in regular succession from
the south, each apparently bigger than the last.
Captain Whiteley climbed the ladder to the bridge.

"Looks as if we were in for a bad night, Mr. McLeod."

"Yes, sir; and a worse day to follow."

"From the way the sea is rising, I'm afraid we
cannot make Tamsui before it breaks."

"I am sure we cannot.  I'll be satisfied if it only
waits till daylight.  We may have our hands full even
with the light."

"I see that you have been making things snug.
That's right.  I'll have a look at everything before
eight bells."

The captain went down to see that every preparation
was made.  McLeod spoke to his companion.

"You had better turn in, Sinclair," he said.  "Get
a bit of rest.  You may be needed to-morrow.  Good-night."

"Good-night, Mac."

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center white-space-pre-line

   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1



How long he was in his berth, how much of that
time he slept, how much was spent in more or less
conscious efforts to keep from being thrown about his
cabin, Sinclair did not know.  Accustomed though he
was to the sea and to storms, there came a time when
he could remain in his berth no longer.  The angle
at which the ship lay over told him that she was still
holding in her course of the night before.  His cabin
was still on the lee side.  He opened his door and
stepped out, grasping the hand-rail with all his might
to keep from being hurled off his feet.

Such a sight met his eyes as is rarely seen even by
the sailor who spends his life at sea.  The *Hailoong*
was heeled over so far that it seemed hardly possible
that she could right herself.  It appeared to be the
force of the wind rather than of the waves which
had thrown her on her beam ends, for she did not
recover herself as she ought to have done between the
assaults of the billows.  Held in that position by sheer
wind pressure, she was deluged with water, rain,
spray, torn crests of waves—the air was full of them,
while ever and anon some mountainous roller, higher
than its fellows, swept across her decks in a smother
of green water and snowy foam.

So dark was it that at first Sinclair could scarcely
tell whether it was night or day.  Presently he made
out some figures clinging desperately to anything which
would afford a hold of safety.  He made his way
slowly towards them.  They were McLeod and a
couple of the crew, looking to the lashings of the
boats.

"Man, but it's a wild morning whatever!" roared
the mate in his ear, lapsing into the idiom of his native
province when his feelings were greatly stirred.

"How is she standing it?"

"Fine, so far!  The starboard boats are smashed.
No other damage done that I know of.  But it's hard
to tell what may be happening to starboard.  Nothing
to be seen but water!"

"The engines are working all right," said the
doctor, as he noted the steady throb and quiver running
like an undertone through the succession of terrific
shocks the ship was receiving from the waves.

"Ay, and if they don't work all right, it'll not be
Watson's fault.  Yon's a grand man whatever."

The mate was off, traversing the tilted deck with
marvellous agility and sureness of foot.  The doctor
went below to see if he could be of any service to the
passengers.  An hour or more passed, and he was
again on deck, working his way forward to get as
good a view as possible.

There in the shelter of the forward cabin stood
Dr. MacKay.  He was bareheaded; his long, black beard
was blowing in the wind; his white suit was drenched
as if he had been overboard; his keen eyes were
striving to pierce the murk of cloud and rain and spray
which turned the day almost into night.  He seemed
to be expecting to get a glimpse of the land.

He was not clinging to the hand-rail, but had his
hands clasped behind his back.  In spite of the
distressing angle at which the ship's deck was tilted, in
spite of her pitching and plunging, he seemed able to
accommodate himself to her every movement.  A man
of big stature and splendid physical development
himself, Sinclair could not help pausing for some minutes
to admire the poise and self-control of that comparatively
small, spare, but erect and athletic figure.  Then
he stepped a little nearer and shouted:

"Do you often have storms like this in Formosa?"

"I have seen as bad; perhaps worse: but not often."

"Do you think that we're near Tamsui?"

"We must be."

"Can we make the harbour?"

"Not this time.  We'll be late for the tide."

"A bad wind for putting about and getting out to
sea again!"

"'Who hath measured the waters in the hollow of
His hand?'"

At that instant a tremendous billow tumbled on
board with such a weight of water that for some
moments it seemed as if the *Hailoong* could not rise from
beneath it.  It caught two Chinese deck-hands, tore
them from the bridge supports to which they were
clinging, and swept them helplessly from starboard to
port.  Like a flash MacKay's left hand shot out,
grasped a thin brown wrist, and swung one of the
natives into the shelter of the cabin.  But the other
was dashed with terrific force against the deck-rail,
where he lay motionless.

Sinclair sprang forward to help him.  A second
wave hurled him against the rail.  He did not fall,
but performed some weird gymnastics in the effort to
keep his feet.  And through the shrieking of the wind
and the roar of the waves he heard a clear, joyous
woman's laugh, the same as he had heard the night
before.  There in the shelter of the cabin, on almost
the very spot where he had stood a moment before,
was Miss MacAllister, looking like the very spirit
of the storm.

That was too much.  Even Sinclair's usually
unruffled temper began to give way.  He caught up the
helpless Chinese as if he had been a child, and with
one quick spring was back to shelter.

"You seem to find it very amusing to see men hurt,
Miss MacAllister," he said almost fiercely.

"I did not know that you were hurt, Dr. Sinclair,
or I should not have laughed.  I am so sorry."

"I'm not hurt," said the young man even more
ferociously than before; "but this man is injured,
seriously injured, I'm afraid.  He's still unconscious."

"Oh, but I was not laughing at him.  I was laughing
at you.  You would have laughed yourself if you
could have seen the figure you cut going across the
deck.  Really, Dr. Sinclair, you would.  I simply could
not help it."

She looked up in his face with such a childlike
innocence of expression, such confidence in the validity
of the excuse, that even Dr. MacKay's somewhat stern
face relaxed, and he turned away to hide a smile.
As for Dr. Sinclair, he was helpless.  He could not
remain angry under the circumstances.  His
good-humoured laugh broke out as he replied:

"We must accept your confession, believe in your
penitence, and grant you absolution."

He and MacKay went below with the injured
Chinese, but in a few minutes reappeared on deck.

"I have not seen your father to-day, Miss MacAllister,"
said Dr. MacKay.

"He is in his stateroom with mother.  She is very
ill and he will not leave her."

"I must congratulate you on being so good a sailor.
You do not show a symptom of sea-sickness.  That
is quite remarkable in such a storm as this."

She shot a quick glance at Sinclair.  He did not
seem to be paying attention to what they were saying.
But a quizzical smile playing about his eyes and mouth
betrayed his interest in the conversation and his
remembrance of what had taken place the evening
before.

"Indeed, Dr. MacKay, I am not a good sailor at
all.  I have been sea-sick when there was only a little
chop on the water.  I was sea-sick yesterday.  I should
have been sick to-day, only this storm is so interesting
that I have not had time to think about myself.
When the officers and crew are being tossed about
the deck by the waves, like dead leaves on a burn in
autumn, it is really too interesting and amusing to be
missed."

The rare smile lighted up the missionary's face as
he glanced at Sinclair.  The latter accepted the
challenge, and a quick answer was on his tongue, when
McLeod hurried past.  He paused long enough to say
to Sinclair:

"We're opposite the harbour, doctor, but we can't
make it."  Then he ran up on the bridge to join
Captain Whiteley, who had not left it since midnight.

The words were intended for Sinclair alone.  But
a momentary lull in the storm made them louder than
McLeod anticipated.  Sinclair's two companions
heard them.  Yet neither showed any trace of
concern—neither the mature man who had faced death
scores of times on sea and on land, nor the young
woman who had never knowingly been in danger
before.

The same brief lull in the force of the wind brought
an equally momentary gleam of light through the
darkness, which had up till then made noonday as gloomy
as a late twilight.  That gleam lighted for a few short
seconds the landscape, and showed the storm-tossed
company where they were.  There directly ahead was
the harbour of Tamsui, with the green and purple
hills beyond.  There on the nearest hill-top was the
Red Fort which for two and a half centuries had
braved such storms as this.  Just beyond it were the
low white bungalows of the mission, nearly hidden
in the trees, where anxious eyes were watching for one
who was on that battling ship.  There, too, were the
black balls hanging on the yard-arm at the signal
station, saying that the tide was falling and the bar
impassable.  And the two white beacons for a single
instant in line, and then widening apart, told the
seamen that not only the tempest but the ebb tide,
sweeping past the mouth of the harbour, was bearing them
full upon the long curving beach of sand and shells
which lay just to the north, where the surf was
beating so furiously.

It takes time to tell.  But in reality the respite lasted
only a few seconds.  Then the typhoon burst upon
them again, with apparently redoubled violence.  The
darkness and the tumult of wind and waves were
appalling.

"I wonder that you are not afraid," said Sinclair
to Miss MacAllister, losing sight of their passages
at arms in the seriousness of the situation.

"Should I be afraid?" was her reply.

"Most people would be."

"Are you afraid?"

"No: I do not think I am."

"Well, if you and the other officers who know
whatever danger there may be are not afraid, I do not see
why I should.  They know the situation.  I do not.
When they tell me that there is serious danger, it
will be time enough for me to be frightened."

Then for the first time Sinclair turned upon her a
look of genuine admiration.  Up to that moment she
had been to him a mischievous, teasing, whimsical
girl, with a quick wit and a ready tongue, who had
been amusing herself at his expense.  Now he saw
another side to her character.  There was a strong,
brave nature under the light, changeful surface
humours he had seen before.

If she were not afraid, there was at least one
passenger who was.  During the brief lull in the storm
Clark, the tea-buyer, had come on deck.  He had
hardly reached it when the second fury of the typhoon
burst upon them.  He was now clinging to the hand-rail,
with a face so flabby and ghastly that it was
terrible to look upon.  He was not sea-sick.  He was
too experienced a sailor for that.  But he was afraid,
horribly afraid.  As the murk and gloom closed down
again, and a gigantic wall of water broke over the
ship, making her shudder and struggle like a living
thing in death agony, Clark's voice was heard rising
in a scream above the roar of the elements:

"MacKay, for God's sake, why don't you pray?"

MacKay looked at the man clinging there in abject
terror.  For a moment the keen, stern face softened
as if in pity.  Then it seemed as if the memory of
something—was it of that wreck on the East Coast,
and the evil deeds done in the chapel and the preacher's
house there?—flashed through his mind.  His face
hardened again, and in a voice like ice he replied:

"Men who honour God when the days are fine do
not have to howl to Him for help in the time of
storm."

What more the terror-stricken boaster of the
evening before may have said was lost on his companions,
for something was happening which engrossed all their
attention.  Down in the engine-room bells jangled
sharply.  The screw began to thresh the water at a
tremendous rate.  The *Hailoong* heeled still farther to
port, began to forge ahead, bumped something, was
caught by a mighty wave squarely on the stern,
righted herself, and plunged forward.  Then Sinclair
realized what was happening.

"Everybody below!" he shouted.  "Quick!  The
next will catch us on this side.  Dr. MacKay, help
Miss MacAllister."

Seizing the helpless Clark, he flung him by main
strength into safety.  They were scarcely under cover
when a big roller tumbled on board on the port side.
The *Hailoong* had turned almost completely around,
and was fighting her way out to sea.

All afternoon and far into the night the brave little
vessel battled with the waves to get back to the coast
of the mainland.  At last her anxious officers were
rewarded by a distant, hazy gleam of light through
the dense, water-laden atmosphere.  Fifteen seconds
passed, almost minutes in length.  Again the white
beam shot athwart the darkness.  Then regularly and
growing ever nearer, at intervals of fifteen seconds,
the great white light flashed, showing the way to
safety.  It was Turnabout lighthouse, behind which
lay Haitan Straits, winding among the islands, and
between them and the mainland shore.

Into one of their many natural harbours the
*Hailoong* cautiously felt her way, and cast anchor in
a quiet basin among the hills.  There nothing but the
torrents of rain falling and the roar of the surf
beyond the island barrier remained to tell of the dangers
they had passed through.  Then Captain Whiteley left
the bridge for the first time in more than twenty-four
hours.  Neither he nor his chief officer had found a
chance to sleep for forty-eight hours.

For years afterwards only three persons knew
exactly what happened on the bridge that day.  Then
when Captain Whiteley was commanding a Castle boat
running to the Cape, and McLeod had a big trans-Pacific
liner, the quarter-master, who with a Chinese
sea-cunny had been at the *Hailoong's* wheel, felt
absolved from the promise he had made to McLeod to
keep the secret, and told what he knew.

When the momentary lifting of the clouds showed
the captain that the wind combined with the ebb of
the tide had carried them past the line of entrance to
the harbour, towards the shoaling beach on which the
surf was beating, he shouted to his mate:

"My God, McLeod, we're lost!"

"Not so bad as that yet, sir!" was the reply.

"There isn't room to turn and clear that shoal water.
To starboard it's stern on: to port it's broadside on."

"We haven't tried, sir!"

"Then, for God's sake, McLeod, try!"

The words had hardly left the captain's lips when
the engineer received the signal for full steam ahead,
and the mate, springing into the wheel-house, flung
himself on the wheel, and with the combined strength
of three men forced it over.  The *Hailoong* responded
gallantly.  Her head swung directly towards the
dreaded shoal, passed it, and pointed out to sea.  So
close was she that when the wind caught her stern it
dropped just for an instant between two rollers on
the hard, smooth sand.  But the next one lifted her,
gave her churning screw a chance, and the ebb tide,
which a moment before had been threatening to send
her broadside to destruction, now helped to bear her
past the long receding curve of the sand bank, out
into the open sea.

"That was the tightest corner I ever was in," Whiteley
used to say afterwards; "and it was McLeod who
took us out."

But McLeod, in a moment of confidence, said to
Sinclair:

"Man, but that engineer, Watson, is the jewel
whatever!  He let his second handle the levers, while
himself held pistols to the heads of the Chinese stokers,
and told them to shovel or die in their tracks.  That's
what saved us.  He's a jewel.  I never saw his likes
whatever."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`PARRIED`:

.. class:: center large bold

   IV


.. class:: center large bold

   PARRIED

.. vspace:: 2

It was a bright, calm summer day, perfect in its
tropical splendour, when the *Hailoong* arrived off
the port of Tamsui.  On the blue, smiling sea
and rich green shore not a trace remained of the
furious storm of two days before.  Where, save for one
brief gleam, all had been hidden from sight by the
blackness of the tempest and the deluge of rain and
spray, there now lay before the ship's company as fair
a landscape as the eye could wish to look upon.

Immediately in front of them was the broad, brimming
river, its sand-spits and oyster-beds hidden
beneath the waters of the full tide.  On the right or
southern shore a mountain rose from its margin in
an isolated peak to the height of seventeen hundred
feet, clothed with dense verdure to the very summit.
To the left, on a hill and plateau two hundred feet
high, were the red brick buildings of the old Dutch
fort, the residence of the British consul, and the
mission schools, and the white bungalows of the missionaries
and customs officers.  At the foot of this hill and
along the river bank, the mean buildings of the Chinese
town of Tamsui straggled off until lost to sight around
the curve.  Its limits were marked by the little
forest of masts of the junks which lay along in front of
the town.  In the centre of the river, directly
opposite the mission houses, a trim gunboat rested at
anchor.  Over all rose the Taitoon Mountains in
successive ranges of green and purple and blue, the
highest and farthest summits blending with the unclouded
sky.

Exclamations of delight burst from those of the
passengers who had never looked upon the scene
before.

"Father, isn't this just glorious?"

"It certainly is.  I have often heard of the beauty
of Formosa, but this first view quite exceeds my
expectations."

"It was worth while experiencing that typhoon and
being delayed for two days.  It heightens the
enjoyment of a scene like this.  We should not have
appreciated it so much if we had been favoured with a
peaceful voyage.  Do you not think so, Dr. MacKay?"

"Perhaps you are right, Miss MacAllister.  But
Formosa is always beautiful to me.  It never loses
its charm.  I have gone up and down it for more than
a dozen years.  I never grow weary of it.  It never
palls upon me.  It is still to me as the first day I saw
it 'Ilha Formosa,' the Beautiful Isle.  It always will
be Beautiful Formosa."

There was an accent in his reply which spoke of
more than love for the scenery.  Miss MacAllister
was not slow to detect it.  She heard in it the
passionate devotion of a heroic soul to the cause to which
he had given his life.  It struck a responsive chord
somewhere in her own being.  It was with a softened
voice, a voice expressive of sympathy and admiration,
that she said:

"You love the island and its people, Dr. MacKay?"

"I do."

And Sinclair, who chanced to be standing near, as
once before during the storm, saw the veil of her
surface waywardness lifted and caught a glimpse of a
character beneath which was capable of serious
purpose.

"Mr. McLeod, that sampan over there with the
flag is hailing us."

It was the captain's voice which broke in on the
conversation of the group on deck.

"Yes, sir," replied the chief.  "It came out from
the pilot village, and has been waiting for us."

"I wonder what's up?"

"I don't know, sir.  Hold on, they are signalling
from the Customs."

In an instant the chief officer had a glass focussed
on the flagpole at the customs offices.  The other
officers and the passengers stood silent while the little
fluttering oblongs and triangles of red, white, yellow,
and blue talked.

"What do they say, chief?"

"Wait for a pilot.  Danger."

"A pilot!  The devil!  What do they take us for?
Some tramp which has never been here before?
Perhaps the typhoon shifted the bar."

While he spoke, McLeod had swung his glass upon
the approaching Chinese boat.  Two fishermen, standing
up and pushing forward on their long oars, were
driving it rapidly through the water.  Their bodies,
naked to the waist, and their legs, bare save for the
shortest of cotton trousers, were covered with
perspiration and shone in the sun like burnished copper.
In the stern sat a Chinese in a dress which was an
indescribable cross between Chinese official robes and
a Western uniform.

"That's a Chinese military or naval officer of some
kind, sir," said the mate.  "They must be in a mix-up
with somebody.  Perhaps the French have taken it
into their heads to annex Formosa."

The sampan shot alongside, and with unexpected
agility the Chinese officer clambered up the
sea-ladder.

"The captain will please to excuse me," he said in
slow, precise English, "for offering to pilot his ship
into the harbour.  The captain's skill as a pilot is
well known to me.  The government of China regrets
to find itself in a state of war with the government
of France.  Therefore, His Excellency, the Provincial
Governor of Formosa, has laid down mines for the
defence of the port of Tamsui.  As I have knowledge
of the position of the mines, he has commanded me
to pilot the captain's ship past the mines into the
harbour."

He concluded his little speech with a profound bow.
The captain's reply was brief:

"The ship is yours, sir."

Another profound bow, and the Chinese officer was
in charge.

Captain Whiteley turned to Mr. MacAllister.

"I am sorry, sir," he said, "that the French have
taken the notion to transfer their scrimmage with the
Chinese to Formosa just at this moment.  It will
interfere with your plans."

"It probably will interfere somewhat with our
movements.  But, on the other hand, it may be of
advantage to us.  We are out to learn, and are not
hampered by lack of time.  I am deeply interested in
your pilot.  He seems perfectly at home, and to know
his business thoroughly."

"Not the slightest doubt of that!  This is not the
first time he has navigated a ship.  Very likely he has
spent years of apprenticeship on board a British or
American man-of-war."

"Is China getting her young man trained like that?"

"They are getting themselves trained.  The
government isn't awake yet.  But many of the young
men are.  The old China is passing.  This is one of
the pioneers of the new China which is coming.  It
will take time.  But when it does come, mark my
words, the Western nations will have to sit up and
take notice."

Meanwhile the *Hailoong*, under the command of
her Oriental pilot, crossed the bar and zigzagged her
way slowly up the river, following invisible channels
through the field of hidden mines until she reached her
berth at the customs jetty.

Leaning on the rail, Sinclair watched with keenest
interest the little crowd of foreigners and natives
gathered on the shore and jetty, waiting for the passengers
to disembark.  He had met a number of them on a
former trip to this port, and occasionally waved his
hand or gave a greeting to some one he recognized.

There was a sprinkling of officers of the Imperial
Maritime Customs, sunburned young Britons for the
most part, who had taken service under the brilliant
Irishman whose genius had saved the Chinese Government
from bankruptcy.  There were the representatives
of the various foreign business firms, all British,
glad to leave their hongs for an hour, to experience
the little excitement caused by the coming of the weekly
steamer, and to welcome those whom they had almost
given up for lost.  The foreign community doctor had
found time from his not very pressing duties to come
down to the landing and call a "Wie geht es Ihnen?"
to his confrère on board the *Hailoong*.

Contrasting with the close-fitting snow-white
garments of the foreigners were the long, blue, or mauve
silk gowns with, in some cases, sleeveless yellow
jackets over them, of the Chinese Christian preachers and
students who were there to do honour to Dr. MacKay.
Darting back and forth, chattering, screaming,
quarrelling in high-pitched nasal tones, were bronzed,
sweating, almost naked coolies, each trying to get ahead
of the other and earn the most cash.

It was a scene of which Sinclair never tired.
Fascinated by this strange mingling of the East and the
West he leaned over the rail, watching every
movement.  A quick step approached him:

"Dr. Sinclair, as soon as your duties here are done,
you will come to my house and be my guest.  The
college coolies will bring up your baggage.  If I am
not there, Mrs. MacKay will receive you and look
after your wants."

"Thank you, Dr. MacKay.  I shall be very glad
to accept your hospitality for a time.  I shall
probably be with you to-morrow."

MacKay was gone as quickly as he had come.  A
minute or two later his native converts were receiving
him with the oft-repeated salutation: "Peng-an,
Kai Bok-su!  Kai Bok-su, peng-an!" (Peace, Pastor
MacKay!  Pastor MacKay, peace!).

One of the oldest preachers walked off with him up
the narrow, climbing path.  The rest tailed out in
single file behind.

There was another quicker and lighter step, accompanied
by the rustle of a woman's garments.  Sinclair
turned to find himself face to face with Miss
MacAllister.  Her eyes were sparkling with mischief, her
hand was extended in farewell:

"Good-bye, Dr. Sinclair.  I have enjoyed this
voyage so much.  I hope that we shall meet again.  But,
if we should not, I shall never forget your rescue of
that Chinese, the heroism and the grace you displayed.
Really, I never shall."

It was premeditated, and she intended to escape the
moment the shaft was shot.  But Sinclair was not so
nonplussed as he had been at their first encounter.
He held her hand firmly so that she could not get
away, long enough to reply:

"Good-bye, Miss MacAllister.  I am delighted to
know that I have given you pleasure.  I should
be happy to make a similar exhibition of myself
any day, if it would only contribute to your enjoyment."

He released her hand and she escaped into the
saloon.  The colour which overspread her face was
not all the flush of triumph.  This time she had met
the unexpected.

"Well parried, Doc," said a voice beside him.
"That fair tyrant was beginning to think that you
were an easy mark.  But you gave her as much as
you got this time....  Here's a chit for you....
From the consulate."

"Where's the boy?" said Sinclair, taking the letter
McLeod held out to him.  "I had better sign his
chit-book."

"You don't need to.  I signed for you.  There's the
boy going back," replied the mate, pointing to a
Chinese in the dark blue and red uniform of the British
consul's service, climbing the steep path up to where
the old Dutch fort and the consul's house crowned
the lofty hill above them.  "Don't think that you are
the only one to get a *billet-doux* like that.  The
captain and I are among the favoured.  It's a bid to
dinner at the consulate to-morrow evening."

Sinclair opened and glanced at the note.  It was
a brief and formal invitation:

.. vspace:: 2

"Mr. and Mrs. Beauchamp request the pleasure of the company
of Dr. Donald Sinclair at dinner at 7:30 on Tuesday the
5th instant.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

H. B. M. Consulate,
Tamsui,
August 4th, 1884."

.. vspace:: 2

"I guess I'll be able to go.  Though I promised to
put myself in MacKay's hands to-morrow, and he may
have something else on for me."

"No danger!  MacKay knows everything that's going
on as well as the next one.  He will not ask you
to do anything which will conflict with a dinner at
the consulate.  If he's at home, he'll be there himself.
You just lay out to be present.  Mrs. Beauchamp
is famous for the chow she provides.  Where she gets
it out here off the earth, I don't know.  And for
entertaining guests, she and Beauchamp haven't their
equals on the Coast."

"You're a great pleader, Mac.  I'll give you my
word.  I'll go."

"And the Highland girl will be there."

"Look here, McLeod, you're gone batty on that
subject.  I know an address in Prince Edward Island.
If you continue to talk as foolishly as you have been
doing the last few days, I'll write and peach on you."

"Oh, no, you won't!  But just to change the
subject, look at old De Vaux meeting them.  He's so
excited that I shouldn't wonder to see him take an
apoplectic fit."

Mr. MacAllister, his wife, and daughter had just
left the boat.  A large, fleshy man, with a clean-shaven,
florid face, bulging blue eyes, and all his features
except the double chin bunched unnecessarily close
together, was hurrying forward to meet them in a
state of perspiring excitement and nervousness.  He
was carrying his white sun-helmet in one hand,
mopping his brows with a huge handkerchief held in the
other, and all the while the mid-summer tropical sun
was beaming down on his shining face, and on his
head with its quite inadequate covering of hair.

"Mr. MacAllister! ... You cannot know what
pleasure it gives me to welcome you to Formosa....
'Pon my soul, you cannot! ... I have been twenty
years in Formosa, and this is the greatest pleasure I
have experienced....  'Pon my honour, it is!"

"Glad to see you again, Mr. De Vaux.  If I
remember right, the last time we saw each other was
in our office at Amoy, five years ago last May."

"That is so, Mr. MacAllister....  Lord, what a
memory you have! ... I don't know another man
on the China Coast who would have remembered a
date like that....  'Pon my soul, I do not!"

"Mr. De Vaux, I wish you to meet my wife and
daughter.  My dear, allow me to present Mr. De Vaux.
My wife, Mr. De Vaux.  My daughter, Mr. De Vaux."

The stout man bent double in profound bows, dropping
his hat to the very ground, gurgling something
almost inarticulate with excitement:

"Mrs. MacAllister! ... I am so pleased! ... Bless
my soul!  Miss MacAllister....  This is the
happiest moment of my life....  'Pon my honour, it is!"

Above them on the deck Sinclair was saying to McLeod:

"Who is this De Vaux, anyway?  Of course, I know
that he is chief agent in Formosa of MacAllister,
Munro Co.  But who is he and what are his antecedents?"

"That is just the question," replied McLeod.  "We
know, and we don't know.  We know that the
Honourable Lionel Percival Dudley de Vaux is the oldest
known son of the late Lord Eversleigh, the oldest
brother or half-brother of the present lord.  But why
he is out here sweltering and swearing in this
steambath of a climate while his younger brother enjoys the
cool shade of his ancestral parks and halls, and holds
down a seat in the Lords, no one seems to know.
Some say that he is the son of the late lord by a Scotch
marriage in his wild-oat stage; some that he is a son
born to the late lord by the countess dowager before
wedlock.  At any rate, he was shipped to the Far
East as a boy, and here he has been these more than
twenty years, pensioned, they say, to keep out of
England."

"He seems to be very excitable," said Sinclair, as
he looked down at the stout, perspiring individual, who
was still holding his hat in his hand, still bowing, still
gurgling in a high-toned voice, while his face and
head grew redder and shinier every moment.

"Yes, he is now.  When he came out first, they say
that he was a regular Lord Chesterfield in his
manners.  But he was here alone for years.  No comforts
but drink and a yellow woman.  He took to both.
These with the isolation and the climate have made
him what he is.  When he meets a white woman he
loses his head completely.  Any little irritation in
business sends him right up in the air.  Then he
swears.  We call him old De Vaux.  In fact he has
hardly reached middle age.  The life here is killing
him.  If he doesn't die of apoplexy one of those days,
he'll commit suicide.  And he's not a bad old soul.
Just the victim of his parent's wrong-doing.  Poor
old De Vaux!"

Just then they heard Miss MacAllister saying in a
tone of utmost concern:

"Mr. De Vaux, will you not put on your hat?  I am
so afraid that your head will get sunburned."

"A sunstroke you mean, my dear," said her father,
"a sunstroke."

"No, father, I mean sunburned.  Really, Mr. De
Vaux's head is becoming quite crimson."

"Lord! ... Miss MacAllister! ... How good
of you to notice that! ... Bless my soul! ... I
never thought of it....  'Pon my honour, I didn't! ... A
man should put on his hat in a sun like this....
'Pon my soul, he should!..."

He was still executing a sort of war-dance around
the ladies and still holding his hat in his hand.
Mr. MacAllister took him gently by the arm.

"My dear De Vaux," he said, "it has been exceedingly
kind of you to come down to meet us as you
have done, and to provide those sedan chairs, for I
can see that it is you who have engaged them.  With
your permission, we'll go to our quarters now.  The
captain promised to see that our baggage was sent over
at once.  After tiffin, I am sure that you will be so
good as to accompany me to call on the consul."

As the four chairs were borne off along the narrow
road by the shore, McLeod said to Sinclair:

"MacAllister's a trump.  He saved the situation.
Old De Vaux was just ready to go up like a balloon,
and—swear."

And Sinclair thought to himself as he turned away:

"Miss MacAllister has found another victim."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`INTRODUCTIONS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   V


.. class:: center large bold

   INTRODUCTIONS

.. vspace:: 2

A few minutes before the time appointed for
dinner, Sinclair strolled over to the consulate.  A
couple of the I.M.C. officers joined him on the
way.  Out on the broad verandah the consul and his
wife were receiving their guests, taking every
advantage possible of the slight coolness of the evening air.
None had yet gone inside.  Some lounged on the
verandah.  Most were strolling about the grounds, on
the gravelled walks or the green of the tennis lawn
between the house and the old Dutch fort.

Many coloured paper lanterns hung from the
cocoanut and areca palms, were nestled in the clumps of
oleanders, or were strung on wires around the
verandah.  On the side of the house shaded from the
sunset glow, native servants were already lighting them.

It was a scene of rare beauty.  The broad river
gleaming between its lofty banks: the green
mountain towering up on the opposite shore: the glassy
ocean stretching away to where the sun had sunk
to rest in its waters: the old fort lifting its dark,
massive walls and battlements, undecayed by centuries
of tropical storm and tropical sun, against the pale
yellow and rose and purple of the sunset sky: the
strange, rich vegetation of a tropic clime, amidst which
moved men and women in conventional evening dress,
as they would have done in the drawing-rooms of
England.

Save for the shrilling of the cicadas and the quiet
voices of the hosts and their guests, the air was as
still as if it had never known disturbance.  Yet all
that day, from eight A.M. till nearly sundown, it had
quivered with the roar of heavy ordnance and the
rattle of machine guns.  Less than twenty miles away,
across those hills to the east, the French fleet had
poured a tempest of shot and shell from its long naval
guns and mitrailleuses into the Chinese forts at
Keelung, and the Chinese had replied from their
Krupps and Armstrongs till their defences tumbled
about their ears.  Now the game of war was over
for the day, and all seemed as peaceful as if it had
never been played.  But the conversation of the guests
continually reverted to the tempest which had so
suddenly broken upon the island.

Just at the hour set for dinner the little gunboat,
the *Locust*, which had been away since early dawn,
was seen steaming up the harbour.  As she passed
the consulate, a boat dropped from her and pulled
swiftly in towards the jetty.  At the sight of it the
host and hostess led the way into the brightly-lighted
drawing-room.

"Commander Gardenier has made jolly good time,"
said the consul.  "We can well afford to wait a few
minutes for him.  He'll be here directly.  In the
meantime we can get acquainted."

While the host was busy with introductions, Sinclair
had time to consider the company.  He had met almost
all before.  But he had not by any means satisfied
his keen interest in their personal characteristics.
One by one he studied the men and women before
him, taking in with the celerity of one who has long
practised it as an art the physical type of each, and
estimating the mental peculiarities which lay behind
the outward forms.

The first was the consul.  Of barely middle height,
but perfectly proportioned, every movement betrayed
muscles trained and developed by consistent physical
exercise.  The keen, bright blue eyes, looking out of
a sunburned face, the small, closely-clipped moustache,
the nervous, vigorous movements, hardly needed the
confirmation of his short, quick sentences and decisive
accents to tell the story of his character.  The
interests of his country would not suffer at his hands for
lack of courage or decision.

Mrs. Beauchamp was a small woman, somewhat
delicate in appearance.  Her slight figure was well
set off by the rich simplicity of her evening gown.
The quiet ease of her manners spoke of a lifetime
spent in the atmosphere of polite society.

In sharp contrast was Mrs. MacAllister—large,
stout, middle-aged, with raven black hair, and the
bright colour characteristic of her Highland people
still warm in her cheeks.  Considering the occasion
and the tropic heat, she was over-dressed.  More
noticeable still was the fact that she was not at home
in her present surroundings.  With her husband she
had risen from a humble station in life to wealth,
and the entrée into social circles which wealth gives.
The wife of the great London merchant and financier
must not be overlooked.  Oh, no!  Indeed, she had
no desire to be overlooked.  She had brought from
an almost menial position an exaggerated reverence
for the gentry, and the ambition to associate with
them.  Yet she was never at ease in their company.
Her husband showed the poise of one who could adapt
himself to any position in life, and manifested no
embarrassment or awkwardness in any company.  But
Mrs. MacAllister was never free from constraint at
social functions, and her attempts to appear at home
sometimes resulted in disaster.

There was another married woman present—Mrs. Thomson,
the wife of Dr. MacKay's colleague.  Youthful
in face and figure, she was dressed plainly, almost
to the verge of severity.  But her quick wit and
vivacious manner gathered a little group of the guests
about her, and more than atoned for the commonplace
dulness of her husband.

Standing among some tropic plants just outside a
French window, Sinclair, unobserved himself, was able
to study each one in succession.  But ever and anon
his eyes turned to where nearly half the men present
had gathered around the only other woman who was
there to grace the occasion.  Miss MacAllister was
facing him, and he could note every play of expression
on her countenance.  There was a rapid exchange of
conversation, and she had an answer for every one.
The rippling laughter he had heard on the deck of
the *Hailoong* now sounded over the murmur of voices
in the drawing-room.

"What a queenly stature and bearing!" Sinclair
thought to himself.

It was true.  Miss MacAllister was taller than all
but one of the little circle of men gathered about
her.  She held her small head, with its wavy crown of
rich brown hair, as if she were proud of her
commanding height.  Her eyes, so dark a blue that in the
light of the candles they seemed black, looked right
over the heads of the men of average stature.

Yet, if her height was masculine, there was nothing
masculine about her figure.  Though well
proportioned and vigorous, it gave the general impression of
slightness.  Neither was there a trace of masculinity
about the face.  It was thoroughly feminine, with its
somewhat low forehead, its small, straight nose, the
rich, Highland colour in the softly-rounded cheeks, the
small chin, and the lips parted in merry laughter—a
thoroughly girlish face.

Keeping himself in the shadow, and looking at her
in the bright light of the drawing-room, Sinclair
thought that rarely, if ever, had he seen a more
strikingly beautiful woman.  He wondered that he had
not noticed it before.  Then he laughed to himself
as he remembered that, during their short acquaintance,
he had so often suffered from her raillery that
he had been in little humour for appreciation or
admiration.

"A pretty picture, that!" said McLeod's voice at his
shoulder.  "I am glad to see you enjoying it, doctor."

"Until I get better acquainted I prefer looking on
to taking part in the conversation.  It's an interesting
study."

"Isn't she a beauty?  That evening rig sets her off
to perfection."  McLeod generally used nautical terms
to describe dress, on which he was not an expert.

"I see that you are still on the same tack," replied
Sinclair, with a laugh.  "But really I agree with you
that the 'rig' does suit her, and that she is a beauty.
Who is that tall, dark fellow who is trying to
monopolize the conversation with her?"

"English remittance man.  A younger son, no better
than he ought to be.  Sent out here to be rid of
him.  In a moment of weakness the I.G.[#] gave him a
place on the customs....  But here comes Beauchamp."

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[#] Sir Robert Hart, Inspector-General of Chinese customs, was
familiarly known as the I.G.

.. vspace:: 2

"Is this where you are, Sinclair?  I have been
looking around for you.  Have you met every one yet?"

"I believe so, Mr. Beauchamp, except the tall
gentleman talking to Miss MacAllister."

"Come along then and I'll introduce you before I
have to receive Gardenier....  Miss MacAllister, I
am sure you will pardon me for interrupting your
conversation.  I should like to make these gentlemen
acquainted....  Dr. Sinclair, the Honourable
Reginald Carteret of the Imperial Maritime Customs
staff....  Will you excuse me now?  I see
Commander Gardenier at the door."

Sinclair saluted Carteret with the frank, easy
courtesy which suited so well his big, powerful frame and
pleasant countenance.  The acknowledgment was a
slight, stiff bow and a brief:

"Glad to make your acquaintance, I'm sure."

The tone and the words stung Sinclair.  His face
lost something of its good-humour.  His lips closed
tightly.  A gleam of anger showed for an instant in
his blue eyes.  The signs of irritation passed quickly.
But it was in a colder and more formal tone that he
uttered some commonplaces, to which Carteret made
a commonplace reply.

Slight as were the changes of tone and manner,
they were not lost on Miss MacAllister.  She had noted
the unconscious ease with which Sinclair had met
Carteret, and had been surprised at the superciliousness,
almost insolence, of the latter's response.  She
had caught that momentary flash of the eye, betraying
the rising anger, immediately brought under control.

Then as the two young men exchanged a sentence
or two of polite formalities, she mentally compared
them.  Both were tall men—with the possible exception
of her father, much the tallest men in the company.
Neither was less than six feet in height.  The
Englishman was the slighter of the two, though fairly
athletic in appearance.  He was black-haired and
dark-eyed.  A black moustache and well-trimmed pointed
beard gave him a foreign appearance and made him
look older than his five-and-twenty years.

The Canadian was equally tall, but broad-shouldered
and deep-chested.  The massive head with its abundance
of loosely-curled hair, so light in colour as to
be almost golden, the clear-cut features, fair complexion,
and singularly bright blue eyes reminded her of
pictures of idealized Vikings she had seen at home.
Perhaps it was more than a fanciful resemblance.
Sinclair's forefathers had come from Caithness to
Canada, and the blood of Norsemen probably flowed
in his veins.  Though older by a couple of years than
the Englishman, Sinclair's fair, clean-shaven face
looked years younger than Carteret's.  In spite of the
maturity of the broad, white forehead, it was almost
a boyish face, with its cheerful, eager outlook on
life.

"Allow me to apologize, Miss MacAllister, for having
interrupted your conversation with Mr. Carteret.
The consul simply projected me into the midst of it."

"A heavy projectile, Dr. Sinclair, for so light an
explosive!  With the thunder of the bombardment
still in our ears, I suppose that we cannot help talking
in terms of cannonading.  But I assure you that no
apologies are necessary.  I am ever so glad to meet
again a companion of our eventful voyage."

She looked so charmingly sincere that Sinclair
wondered to himself if she really meant it.

"Attention!  The consul is marshalling the company
for dining-room parade," said Mr. Boville, the
commissioner of customs.

"Exactly seven minutes and forty seconds late,"
said Carteret, looking at his watch.  "Beauchamp
will not recover from this for a year.  He'll have to
report it to the Foreign Office and ask that his leave
be postponed six months as a punishment."

"Why?  Is Mr. Beauchamp so particular about
being punctual?" asked Miss MacAllister.

"Latest for an engagement he was ever known to
be, three minutes and fifteen seconds.  That was
because of a typhoon."

"Pity that there were not more like him!" said
the commissioner tartly.

"Commander Gardenier, you will conduct my wife
to the dining-room.  Mr. MacAllister, will you take in
Mrs. Thomson?  And Mr. Boville, Miss MacAllister.
The less fortunate gentlemen will follow."

Offering his arm to Mrs. MacAllister, the consul
led the way.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`ON THE DEFENSIVE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   VI


.. class:: center large bold

   ON THE DEFENSIVE

.. vspace:: 2

The commissioner of customs had the honour
of conducting Miss MacAllister to the table,
because his official position and his long years
of residence in the island gave him precedence over
the newcomers, or those who were engaged in
mercantile pursuits.  In appearance he was ill-suited to be
the escort of such a young and queenly person.  He
was middle-aged, very bald, rotund in figure, and so
short that his head was hardly level with her shoulder.

When she took Boville's proffered arm, she realized
how absurd their disproportionate statures must
appear.  Involuntarily she glanced around to find
Sinclair.  He was just offering his arm to McLeod, for
lack of a lady companion.  A moment later she heard
their voices at her back, and knew that they had taken
their places in the little procession immediately behind
her and the commissioner.  Then the voices ceased,
and instinctively she felt that they were laughing
silently.  Her figure stiffened, and she held her head a
trifle higher than before.  Her escort made the most
of his five feet one or two, but do his best he couldn't
get the shiny top of his head above her shoulder.

As they entered the dining-room she caught a
glimpse of McLeod's face.  He was laughing
undisguisedly.  When she took her place at the table she
found herself facing Sinclair.  He was not looking
at her.  He was watching the last of the guests filing
in, and was trying to look unconcerned.  But there
was a suspicious quivering of his mouth and a sparkle
in his eyes.  Her quick Celtic blood took fire at once.

"He's laughing at me," she thought to herself.
"How dare he?  There's no limit to the presumption
of those Canadians.  But I'll teach him."

Strange to say, she quite forgot how she had laughed
at him on board the *Hailoong*.  Stranger still, she
seemed to take no offence at the laughter of McLeod,
who also was a Canadian.

As soon as they were seated, the natives out on the
verandah began to pull the cords; the punkah began
to wave to and fro and creak.  It wouldn't have been
a punkah if it hadn't creaked.  The consul, who had
nerves, had striven to put an end to the creaking,
but had failed.  The creak was an essential part of
the punkah.  But there was no creaking about the
movements of the waiters.  Noiseless as spectres, the
"boys" in their long blue gowns moved quickly in
and out, back and forth, their felt-soled shoes sliding
silently over the smooth tiled floor.

"Commander Gardenier, we have all been models
of patience.  No one has asked you how the day went
at Keelung.  But you cannot expect us to wait much
longer.  Such virtue would be superhuman.  Do tell
the company what all the noise was about to-day and
who got the better of it."

A murmur of applause greeted the consul's request,
and all eyes turned towards the bronzed sailor who
sat beside Mrs. Beauchamp.  He seemed a little
uncomfortable under the expectant gaze of so many
eyes and answered modestly:

"I do not know that I can tell you much about it.
The French had three ships at it.  On their part the
Chinese in the big new fort on the east side of the
harbour and in the old fortifications on the west side
were engaged.  Between them they put up a pretty
scrap for a while."

"Really!  Did the Chinese actually pretend to offer
any resistance to the French?" inquired Carteret.

"There was no pretending.  They offered resistance,
and a very effectual one for a time," replied
Gardenier.  "You know, Beauchamp, the lie of the
harbour?"

The consul nodded.

"The old corvette *Villars* was anchored in the inner
harbour, opposite the south side of Palm Island.  She
pelted away with her guns and mitrailleuses at the
new fort at a thousand-yard range.  The little
gunboat *Lutin* lay close in shore on the west side and
hammered the old fortifications there.  Admiral
Lespès, in *La Galissonnière*, lay in the outer harbour
and raked both sides with his long guns."

"I should think that he would be in little danger
there," said one of the merchants.  "The Chinese
gunners couldn't hit a range of mountains, let alone a
ship, at that range."

"That is just where you are mistaken.  They put
three holes into *La Galissonnière* just above water-line,
almost as soon as the game commenced.  If they
didn't beat off the French to-day, it was not the fault
of their gunners.  It was because their works could
not stand the French fire.  The Chinese worked their
guns till their forts were knocked to pieces."

"Did the French land any men?" inquired Boville.

"Yes," replied Gardenier.  "When we left Keelung,
a landing-party of marines had just hoisted the
French flag on the ruined Chinese fort."

"Then Keelung is in the hands of the French?"

"Yes.  That is if by Keelung you mean a strip of
a few hundred feet wide around the harbour.  But
the hills all around that again are occupied by the
Chinese."

"Little difference that will make," said Carteret.
"The Celestials have had all they want.  At the first
sign of a French advance they'll run, and never stop
running till they reach Taipeh."

"I'm not so sure about that," replied Gardenier,
a trifle coldly.  "In the first place, the French have
no land forces with which to make an advance.  In
the second place, the Chinese are better fighters than
you give them credit for, Mr. Carteret.  All they
need is a good leader, and I believe that they have
such a man in Liu Ming-chuan."

"And in the third place," said Beauchamp, "the
Keelung climate is enough to defeat the French if
there were no Chinese.  By the time their transports
arrive the northeast monsoon will be about due.
Then the Lord help them!  One of the wettest spots
on earth.  Boville, what is the annual rainfall over
there?"

"One hundred and fifty-eight inches on the average.
One year it lacked only an inch and a half of the
two hundred."

"One hundred and fifty-eight inches," repeated
MacAllister.  "That does not convey much meaning
to my mind.  How does it compare with some climates
we do know?  That of London, for example?"

"Ashamed to say that I don't know London's rainfall,"
said the consul.  "All I remember is that it
seemed to do little else but rain there when I was a
boy.  Boville? ... Carteret? ... You are
Londoners....  What?  Do none of you
know? ... Shocking ignorance!"

"I do not want to put forward my opinion on the
climate of London in a company of Englishmen," said
Sinclair; "but I believe the rainfall there is about
twenty-five inches."

"Easy seeing that you have not lived in England,"
said Carteret, with the same contemptuous tone he
had already used when introduced to Sinclair.  "A
hundred inches would be more like it."

"Dr. Sinclair is right," said Commander Gardenier,
who had been consulting a tiny memorandum book.
"No considerable part of the British Isles exceeds
eighty inches, and London has twenty-five."

Miss MacAllister flashed a quick glance at
Sinclair.  There was admiration in it; admiration that
he should know this simple scientific fact which those
who had better opportunities did not know.  She had
noted this peculiarity in him before, his remarkable
fund of accurate information on all manner of
subjects.

Then her mind took a curious twist.  What right
had he to know the rainfall of London?  What
business had this colonial to know a fact about London
which a company of Londoners did not know?  It was
another proof of his presumption.  She'd take some of
his self-confidence out of him.  She'd teach him.

The conversation drifted on about the climate, the
war, the probability of a bombardment at Tamsui,
the prospects of an easy victory which most conceded
to the French.

"I believe that you are rating the Chinese too low,"
said the consul, in reply to a number of expressions
of such views.  "From what I have seen of the new
Imperial Commissioner, Liu Ming-chuan, he will give
the French more than they bargained for.  As
Commander Gardenier says, leaders are what the Chinese
need.  When they get a few more men trained in
Western ideas, they are going to surprise the world.
What do you think, Mr. De Vaux?  You have known
them longer than any of us."

"'Pon my soul, Beauchamp, I believe you are
right! ... The Chinese are a smarter people than
they get credit for....  'Pon my honour, they
are! ... And they're honest, too....  The last
time I was in America, a man I had business with in
New York said that he did not know how I could stand
living among those pig-tails, as he called them....
He wouldn't live among them for a hundred thousand
a year....  It vexed me....  I told him that I'd
rather do business with a good Chinese firm any time
than with some Yankees....  'Pon my soul, I
would! ... Do you know, that duffer cheated me
the very next day!"

There was a burst of laughter at De Vaux's injured
tone.

"It's a fact," he continued, his face and head
growing redder and his voice higher at every sentence.
"And to think of that scoundrel casting reflections on
the Chinese! ... Bless my soul! ... It vexes me
so! ... By——! ... I mean it's a thundering
shame the way the Chinese have been treated by some
white people."

"What Mr. De Vaux says is true enough," said
the consul.  "I am sorry Dr. MacKay is not here.
He could give us more information about the preparations
the Chinese have made than any one else.  But
I understand that he has gone over to the vicinity of
Keelung to look after some of his converts who are
in the danger zone.  Is that not so, Dr. Sinclair?"

"Yes," replied Sinclair.  "He could hardly wait
for tiffin yesterday, he was in such a hurry to catch
the first launch up river."

"I saw him landing from the launch at Twatutia,"
added one of the merchants.  "He barely bade me
the time of day, and set off on foot for Keelung at
such a rate that the Chinese with him had to run to
keep up.  I never saw the like of him.  I wonder that
the heat does not kill him."

"It is perfectly marvellous the amount of work he
goes through, no matter how exhausting the heat
may be," said Mrs. Beauchamp.  "No person need
ever tell me again that missionaries take easy times."

"Dr. Sinclair, I'm so sorry!  I do believe that I
have all the wines here beside me, and your glasses
are empty.  Will you not allow me to pass some to
you?  Which shall it be, claret or sherry or port?"

It was Miss MacAllister, speaking in so clear a
voice that it caught everybody's ear and attracted the
notice of all to the fact that, while the wines had
frequently circulated around the table, Sinclair's
glasses had never been filled.  A slight flush, scarcely
noticeable under the tan, climbed into visibility above
the line which separated the sunburn from the white
of the broad forehead.  The attention suddenly
concentrated on him was evidently unwelcome.  But it
was with perfect courtesy and good-humour that he
replied:

"No apologies are necessary, Miss MacAllister.  To
do without wine is no privation to me.  My glasses
are not empty because the wines have not been offered
to me."

"Oh!  Perhaps you are a teetotaller."

"If you wish to so describe me."

"Really!  How interesting!  I do not think that I
ever met one before."

"Your own glasses have been filled, but, if I am not
mistaken, they are yet untasted, Miss MacAllister."

"Oh, yes!  That's all very well for a woman.  But
I mean a man.  I am sure that I never before met a
man who couldn't enjoy a glass of wine, except some
ministers and very immature youths in Bands of Hope."

A laugh went round the table.  Sinclair joined in
it.  But the flush deepened on his forehead.

"My dear," interrupted Mr. MacAllister, "I am
afraid that you are forgetting your father.  I am
practically a total abstainer."

"Oh, I know, father!  But then you are an elderly
man, and something of a preacher, too.  Such virtue
is to be expected in you.  But Dr. Sinclair is a young
man and—a medical doctor.  To find such extraordinary
rectitude in him is, as the Scotch would say, 'no
canny.'"

Again the laugh went round at the doctor's
expense.  The fair tyrant was getting even with him.
Mrs. Thomson, realizing the disadvantage he was at
in this verbal passage at arms with a woman, spoke
up in her fellow-countryman's behalf:

"You must remember, Miss MacAllister, that different
countries have different customs.  In your home
surroundings it may have been a manly thing to use
intoxicants.  Where Dr. Sinclair comes from one of
the highest standards of manliness is to be a total
abstainer."

"And pray tell us where such lofty standards
prevail?" asked Carteret.  "Where was Dr. Sinclair
reared?"

"On a Canadian farm."  Sinclair's voice had a
defiant ring.

"I shouldn't think that it would be the most up-to-date
school of social usages in the world."  Carteret's
tone was a trifle more insolent than before.

"Perhaps not, Mr. Carteret.  But there was one
thing we did learn there.  We learned——"  A biting
retort was on his tongue.  His eyes met those of the
hostess.  He paused and softened it.  "We learned to
give to others the same liberty of opinion as we claimed
for ourselves.  You claim the liberty to use wine.  I
do not interfere with your liberty.  I claim the
liberty to abstain.  I expect, Mr. Carteret, the same
courtesy in return."

Carteret's face flushed a dark red.  He, the son of
an English peer, to be taught a lesson in courtesy by
the son of a Canadian farmer.  Before he had time
to frame an answer Mrs. Beauchamp interposed:

"Dr. Sinclair is perfectly right to claim liberty on
this question.  Our social usages are apt to
become tyrannical.  I like, every once in a while, to
see some one independent enough to revolt against
them."

"I am glad to hear you say so, Mrs. Beauchamp,"
said Commander Gardenier.  "I was just beginning
to wonder where I came in.  I am an abstainer.  It
is not because I was trained to it from a boy, for I
wasn't.  Nor is it because of any pledge.  It is
because of my experience in the navy.  I have seen so
many of the most promising careers in the service
come to nothing, and so many of my seniors go down
and out through drink, that I felt it my duty to give
it up.  At our mess those who wish to drink even the
Queen's health in water are free to do so."

"This discussion must stop right now," broke in
the consul, "or, by Jove! every man at the table will
be confessing himself a teetotaller, except De Vaux
and myself.  We shall not forsake the good old ways,
shall we, De Vaux?"

"Bless my soul, no, Beauchamp!  A little wine for
thy stomach's sake," replied De Vaux amidst a burst
of laughter, for this was one of the most evident
weaknesses of this scion of a noble house.  Already his
high-pitched voice was noticeably thick.

Then the ladies retired to the drawing-room, leaving
the men to their cigars, wine, and black coffee.
Miss MacAllister knew that she had made Sinclair
uncomfortable for a time.  But she had also the
consciousness that her little coup had not been so
successful as she had intended.  Sinclair had come out
of the predicament she had contrived for him with
rather the better of her.  And, curious as it may
seem, her feelings were a bit injured.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`SPARRING FOR ADVANTAGE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   VII


.. class:: center large bold

   SPARRING FOR ADVANTAGE

.. vspace:: 2

"I think we ought to have some music," said
Mrs. Beauchamp, as the men rejoined the ladies
in the drawing-room.  "There is nothing which
takes me back home like the old home songs.  I
believe that there is considerable talent in our company
this evening.  May we not have some songs?"

"Nothing in the world I like better!  'Pon my
soul, there isn't," exclaimed De Vaux, who was
talking very freely and was disposed to be gallant
towards the ladies.  He raised his voice, trembling
perhaps with emotion, to a high pitch, and said: "Ladies
and gentlemen, permit me to have the honour on your
behalf of requesting our hostess to favour us with a
song.  Bless my soul!  I'd rather hear her sing to
the accompaniment of her guitar than Patti or
Albani, or any other of their prima donnas.  'Pon
my honour, I would! ... Mrs. Beauchamp, will
you not accede to our united request and give us the
happiness of hearing you?"

He finished with a bow intended to be as profound
as those of his Lord Chesterfield days.  He seemed
unconscious of the limitations imposed on him by the
aldermanic proportions which had come to him since
his slim and graceful youth.

Mrs. Beauchamp rose with a smile which had more
of sadness than of mirth, glanced at her husband,
and permitted De Vaux to conduct her to a seat near
the piano and to bring her guitar.  The consul sat
down at the piano, ran his fingers over the keys,
touching soft chords, to which the guitar was brought
into tune.  Then to the accompaniment of the two
instruments Mrs. Beauchamp sang in a voice, not
strong, but sweet and sympathetic, a tender old
English love song.

"By——! ... Bless my soul, I mean, it makes
me homesick to hear those old songs!" exclaimed De
Vaux, amidst the applause.  His voice was high and
trembling.  There was a suspicious redness and
moisture in his eyes.  "I've been more than twenty years
in this forgotten island.  But when I hear Mrs. Beauchamp
sing such a song as that I protest I want to
take the first boat home.  'Pon my honour, I do!"

"Oh, no!  You'll not go back to England just yet,
De Vaux," said the consul.  "We shouldn't know
Formosa without you.  But I'll tell you what you
will do.  You'll sing something for us yourself, will
you not?"

"Yes, yes, De Vaux!" exclaimed several voices.
"Do sing something.  Sing 'Rocked in the Cradle
of the Deep.'"

"That's De Vaux's Royal George," whispered
McLeod to Sinclair.  "He always sings that.  But he
won't sing it yet a while.  He'll need a few more
drinks first."

"'Pon my soul, it's awfully good of you to ask
me!  I do not profess to be a singer.  Really!
I do not....  But, since you have been so good as
to ask me, I shall do my best, on one condition, that
Mrs. Beauchamp will honour me by playing my
accompaniment....  Mrs. Beauchamp, will you be so
kind?"  Another bow meant to be profound.

"Certainly, Mr. De Vaux, with pleasure."

In a voice which had once been a sweet tenor, but
was now fat and breathless, he sang, "Silver Threads
Among the Gold."  He had to take a breath in the
middle of every long note.  As for the high ones, he
just touched them.  Then his breath failed him,
leaving the audience to imagine the rest.  But when he
was rewarded with a round of applause he responded
with an encore, "In the Gloaming."  His head was
becoming crimson with the effort.  Perspiration
streamed down his face and neck, in spite of the
constant use of his handkerchief.  His collar had melted
and fallen limply against his coat.  The starch of his
shirt front had disappeared, leaving it but a
crumpled rag.

Some of the guests were insisting on a third number,
when the consul came to the rescue:

"This sort of thing mustn't go any further.  If
my wife and De Vaux continue singing such sentimental
songs, they'll have us all homesick.  We cannot
afford to ship all the English residents of North
Formosa by the *Hailoong* to-morrow.  Just to change
the current of your thoughts, I'll make a break and
give you something different."

He took his place at the piano, and to his own
accompaniment sang with great spirit, in a strong
baritone voice, the old English song, "A Hunting
We Will Go."

The applause was as enthusiastic as the spirit in
which he had sung, and he was pressed for an encore.
The consul replied with mock stage bows, but
refused to sing again.  He had done his part in chasing
away the blue devils of homesickness.  Now it was
some other body's turn to perform.  He knew Miss
MacAllister could sing.  Would she not continue the
good work and give them something rousing?

Miss MacAllister did not wait to be urged, but
responded at once.  Her voice was a rich, strong
soprano.  With a verve and fire worthy of her choice,
she sang Lady Nairn's stirring war-song, "The
Hundred Pipers."  To the insistent demand for another
song she replied with "The March of the Cameron
Men."  With her stately figure at its full height, head
thrown back, and eyes which seemed to look away
beyond her tropic surroundings to the hills of old
Scotland, she sang as if possessed by the spirit of
generations of Highland ancestors.

Sinclair, from his place over by the mantel-piece,
was looking at her with undisguised admiration.

"Isn't she magnificent?  Yon's a prize for some
man! ... Sinclair, man, why don't you go in and
win?  If you don't try, I'll be ashamed of you,
whatever."

It was McLeod.  He was speaking in a low tone,
only for his friend's ear.  But he who had been the
personification of coolness during the typhoon was
now fairly quivering with excitement.  The songs of
his people had fired his blood.

"You needn't be ashamed of me, Mac.  I'm going
to try."

"Good for you!  I'll back you to win."

"Don't stake too much on me, Mac.  I'm new to
this game.  You might lose heavily.  Carteret is
ahead of me."

"That dirty snob!" exclaimed McLeod in a tone
of disgust.  "He wants her in just the same way
as he wants every pretty woman he sees.  And then
her money would help to repair the Carteret fortunes.
It's an insult to a good woman to mention him in
relation to her."

"All the same she and her family are not
supposed to know the things that you know against
him, whatever they may be.  He belongs to a titled
family.  That counts for a lot with most people who
have risen from the ranks.  Her mother is greatly
taken with him."

"Yes, but the daughter is not."

"I'm not so sure about that."

"I'd stake my life on it.  But look, Carteret is
going to sing."

It was evident that Carteret had expected to sing,
for he had just returned from the cloak-room with
a roll of music in his hand.  He placed it on the
piano, and then turning to Miss MacAllister he
conducted her to the instrument with almost an excess of
courtesy.  Yet his manners were easy and graceful.
If at times he seemed to exceed the requirements of
etiquette, his ultra politeness accorded well with his
Gallic cast of countenance and the cut of beard which
he affected.

His voice was a tenor, not very strong, but pure
in tone and evidently well-trained.  The first
selection was "Drink to Me Only with Thine Eyes."  It
was sung with feeling.  The strength of his voice
accorded well with the size of the drawing-room, and
passion was thrown into the tender lines.  As an
encore he sang another love song, still more amorous
in sentiment and manner.

"His musical talent is Carteret's hope of promotion
if he remains in the customs," said Boville, who
was one of a little group of guests near to where
Sinclair stood.  "He thinks that, if he could get the
opportunity to sing before the I.G., he would be
promoted to Pekin at once."

"Or better still, if he should succeed in marrying
a handsome wife who is musical," said a merchant.
"I am told that the I.G. is even more considerate
of a subordinate with an accomplished wife than one
who possesses the accomplishments himself."

"He has the voice already, and now he seems to be
making a bold stroke for the gifted wife,"
interjected another.

"I shouldn't wish Miss MacAllister any ill," replied
Boville.  "But I do hope something will happen to
take him off my hands.  If the I.G. wants him, he
will be most welcome to the fellow, so long as I am
well quit of him."

Sinclair took no part in the conversation.  But he
heard every word.  The careless references to Miss
MacAllister hurt him in a way which surprised
himself.  The callousness of the suggestion that
Carteret should get promotion by marrying her cut him
to the quick.  How could any one entertain such an
idea?

Then he wondered at himself.  What was Miss
MacAllister to him?  A passing stranger, who had
taken it into her whimsical head to amuse herself
at his expense.  Already she had succeeded in
making him feel most uncomfortable; indeed, for a time
something of a laughing-stock.  What need he care?
She was nothing to him, and he was nothing to her
but the subject of an evening's laughter.  What a
fool he had been to accept McLeod's challenge!  He
would have to straighten that out in the morning.
Then they both would have shaken off the glamour
of that face and figure, and those martial Highland
songs which had so stirred their blood.  They would
be in their cool senses then.  They had not been when
the one had made and the other had accepted the
challenge.

Meanwhile Miss MacAllister and Carteret were
still at the piano.  She was slowly turning over some
music.  He was bending low as if to see it, and
perhaps to choose another song.  All the while he was
speaking to her in a soft voice, and she was making
monosyllabic replies.  She realized that his head was
sinking lower and his face closer to hers.  She felt
his hot breath on her face and neck and shoulder.
It was hot and heavy with wine.

She turned her head slightly but quickly towards
him.  She saw his eyes fixed greedily on the rich
beauties of form only half concealed by her low evening
dress.  Her face flamed crimson, and she rose hastily
from the piano, disregarding his appeal that she
should play just one more selection.

As she passed from the instrument to a chair she
heard the consul say:

"Sinclair, you're the most confoundedly
comfortable-looking duffer I ever saw in a dress suit."

"That's because the tailor who made my suit put
side pockets in the trousers," was the reply.  "You
would be just as comfortable if you had pockets to
put your hands in.  I have noticed you trying to get
them into the seams half a dozen times this evening."

"You're right there.  But it's not my fault.  I laid
it on that tailor in Hong-Kong as a parting
injunction to put pockets in my trousers.  And he
promised.  When the suit arrived they had none, and I
was five hundred miles too far away to get my hands
on him and wring the beast's neck."

"Fortunate for the beast!"

"Yes.  But he'll get his punishment yet, that tailor
will.  He has a lot to answer for.  I have sworn
outwardly often, and inwardly more times than could
be numbered, whenever I have had these clothes on.
I envy you.  You do look comfortable in that suit.
It fits you as if you had been born in it, and with
your hands in the trousers' pockets."

Miss MacAllister, looking at Sinclair from the seat
she had taken near the French window, agreed with
the consul's judgment.  The big Canadian was in
conventional evening dress, except for one slight
concession made to the heat of the climate.  Instead of
the low-cut vest he wore a broad kamarband of black
silk about his waist.  The only trace of jewellery
was the gold locket on the end of a black leather watch
guard, which hung over the kamarband.  There was
a total absence of dressiness.  But as the girl who had
been for years familiar with London drawing-rooms
looked at the strong, clean-cut features, the massive
head with its fair hair contrasting with the black
clothing, the lazy grace of the powerful frame
leaning against the mantel-piece, she thought to herself
that she had never seen a man who had on him more
of the marks of being to the manner born.  Yet he
was the self-confessed son of a Canadian farmer, and
reared on a Canadian farm.  She found it hard to
remain offended with this big, good-looking,
good-tempered man.

Involuntarily she compared him again with Carteret,
the son of a noble English family.  The latter
was now talking to Mrs. Beauchamp.  She could see
that his ordinarily somewhat pallid face was flushed
and there was an expression in his eyes which was
not pleasant to see.  She thought again of that greedy
look and of the hot breath, heavy with wine.  She
turned her eyes once more towards Sinclair.  He was
talking to the consul and smiling.  The distinction
between the two young men took shape in her mind.
Sinclair was clean and his smile was frank and pure
as that of a child.

She heard the consul saying to him:

"McLeod tells me that you sing."

"McLeod tells a lot of things he knows very little
about.  I shall have to lay an injunction upon him
to hold his peace."

"That's all right for some other time.  But for
the present you do not deny the charge that you do
sing."

"I'll plead guilty to disturbing my neighbours
sometimes by singing college songs and such things.
But I have none of them here and no music for the
accompanist."

"Just what we want; something lively.  If there's
a chorus, we'll all join in.  Give me an idea how it
goes and I can chord for you."

Beauchamp ran his fingers over the keys while
Sinclair hummed or lilted the tune.  Soon the proper
chord was struck.  Sinclair repeated the words of the
chorus till all got them.  Then he sang a rollicking
college song.  When he reached the chorus all joined
in, and for the first time the walls of the old Dutch
fort and the listening palms and oleanders and
magnolias heard the jolly abandon of "The Old
Ontario Strand."

When the chorus was reached the second time, Sinclair
relinquished the leadership of the air to Miss
MacAllister.  She took it as if by prearrangement,
while he dropped into his rightful place and supplied
the undertone of a bass powerful enough to balance
the voices of all the rest of the company.

When it was finished there was an outbreak of
applause and even cheers, which showed that all
reserve had disappeared and the company were
prepared to give themselves up with childish delight to
singing.  Another college song was sung with the
same spirit as the first, and Sinclair was pressed to
lead still another.

"I will," he said at last, "if you will allow me to
choose one as characteristic of our French Canadian
people as those we were favoured with by Miss
MacAllister are of the Highland Scotch."

In response to the general consent he sang some
verses of—

   |  "En roulant ma boule roulant,
   |    En roulant ma boule,"

and a number of the company joined in the simple
refrain.  The song which had so often echoed on lake
and stream, by the evening campfire, where the paddle
dipped, or in the frosty stillness of the snow-laden
forests of the north rang out through the scented
darkness of the warm tropic night.

A number of other songs were rendered by different
members of the party.  Then Sinclair was
called for again.

"I am afraid that my repertoire has come very
near the point of being exhausted," he said.  "I have
only those songs the words of which I can remember,
and the selection is not very choice."

This time it was a plaintive negro melody of the
Sunny South.  Again Miss MacAllister found herself
singing heartily with the rest in the refrain,
and after the first verse leading the chorus while
Sinclair sang bass.  When the song was done she
suddenly said to herself:

"What a silly I am making of myself!  I came in
here determined to get even with that doctor.  And
here I am singing with him and for him like a sissy
in a Sunday-school concert.  He can do his own
singing from now on.  I'll pay him back yet."

The rest were urging Sinclair to sing again, when
Miss MacAllister said:

"Dr. Sinclair has shown wonderful versatility in
his choice of songs this evening.  English, French,
negro, he sings them all with equal facility.  I
wonder if he would not favour us with a Canadian
Indian song.  I have never heard any of their music.  I
should so love to have the opportunity.  Will you
not sing us one, Dr. Sinclair?"

Her face wore an expression of childlike innocence
and interest.  But McLeod thought he saw a
mischievous gleam in her eyes.  Mr. MacAllister looked
at his daughter with a puzzled face and shook his
head a little.  The consul eyed her doubtfully, as
though trying to fathom the purpose behind this
request.  He saw nothing but the appearance of almost
infantile guilelessness.  Then he heard Sinclair
saying:

"Certainly, Miss MacAllister.  I am happy to do
anything in my power to serve you.  Only it is a
little hard on Mr. Beauchamp to ask him even to
chord to a type of music he may never have heard
before."

"Thank you so much, Dr. Sinclair.  I am all
anxiety to hear you."

Then she added:

"I am sure Mr. Beauchamp will be able to accompany
you.  He is a man of infinite resource in music."  For
she was afraid that Sinclair's concern about placing
the consul in a difficult position was only an
attempt to provide a loop-hole for his own escape.

A buzz of conversation broke out in the room while
Sinclair bent over the instrument, softly humming a
slow, stately measure, and the consul's fingers felt
for the harmonious chords.  Soon the voice and the
chords were moving together in harmony.

"That may be an Indian tune," said Beauchamp,
"but it sounds remarkably like certain bars from an
old sixteenth-century mass I had to practise when a
boy until my fingers were nearly worn out."

"Perhaps the Indians learned it from the early
Roman Catholic missionaries," was the quick reply.
"In any case, I fancy it is the sound of the language
Miss MacAllister wishes to hear rather than the
music."

"If you like, I shall play the tune for you.  I
remember it perfectly."

"Thank you, I prefer the chords."

Sinclair straightened himself, and the buzz of
conversation instantly ceased.  Then his voice rolled
forth to the slow, solemn air, words as melodious as
the notes of the music.  At their first sound the
consul's head ducked below the level of the piano, which
hid him from most in the room.  Sinclair gave him
a vicious dig in the ribs, but sang on without the
quiver of an eyelid.  The full vowel sounds of the
unknown language brought out to perfection the tones
of his rich bass voice.

His eyes glanced around the room.  All were
listening intently, and all, save Commander Gardenier,
had their eyes on him.  He thought that he could
detect a grim smile on the naval officer's averted face.
Miss MacAllister had a keen look—was it a
suspicious look?—in her eyes.

Under cover of the applause which followed the
consul turned on him:

"You have the nerve to pass a chorus from a Greek
tragedy on a company like this for a Red Indian
war-song."

"I plead guilty," replied Sinclair.  "But I had to
do something or be again held up to ridicule as I was
at dinner.  I thought that you were the only one
likely to recognize it and I knew that you would not
betray me."

"I acknowledge that you had to do something.  For
some reason Miss MacAllister seems bound to make
game of you.  She deserves what you have given
her, and I'll not give you away.  But it was nervy
just the same."  And the consul laughed indulgently
as he turned away.

Miss MacAllister did not join in the general
applause.  But when it was done she said gravely:

"Thank you, Dr. Sinclair, for gratifying my whim
to hear a song in the Indian language.  I had no
idea that it would be so beautiful.  Thank you very
much."

Sinclair's face flushed as he replied:

"I am only too glad to have been able to do
anything which has pleased you."  At the same moment
he felt a pang of remorse for the deception.

He had not long to think of it when he heard
Mrs. MacAllister saying to Commander Gardenier:

"What a barbarous jargon to be called a language!"

"Yes," replied the officer drily, "but I have heard
a good many others more barbarous."

Then Thomson, the missionary, remarked in his
slow way:

"It—some—way—seems—to—me—that—I—have
—heard—some—thing—like—that—before."

Sinclair had to act quickly:

"You were a missionary once among the Indians
of Bruce Peninsula, were you not?"

"Yes—I—was."

"You probably heard it there."

"Well—perhaps—I—did."

Some of the guests rose to depart, and their
hostess rose with them.  Before they had time to begin
to say farewell, Carteret said loudly enough to be
heard by all in the room:

"Mrs. Beauchamp, before we go, may we not hear
Mr. De Vaux sing again?  I know that we should all
be delighted to hear him."

"I am afraid that we are imposing on Mr. De
Vaux," replied the hostess, who realized the
condition De Vaux ordinarily reached by that hour after
a dinner.  "I think that he is tired.  He has done
his part so well this evening that it seems unfair to
ask him for any more."

"I am sure, Mrs. Beauchamp, that Mr. De Vaux
will not feel it a hardship to sing again.  He is our
foremost vocalist in Formosa.  We want him to
uphold the honour of the local talent.  Mr. De Vaux, will
you not sing for us 'Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep'?"

"Lord! ... Mr. Carteret—ladies and gentlemen—how
good of you to ask me! ... By——! ... Bless
my soul, I mean! ... It is good of you....
I'm afraid....  I'm not in very good voice.  But
since you insist—I'll try....  By——! ... I mean
'pon my honour, I shall!"

"Shall I play your accompaniment, De Vaux?"
said the consul, in response to an appealing look from
his wife.

"How good of you, Beauchamp! ... By——! ... 'Pon
my soul, I mean—it is!"

Purple-faced, perspiring, steadying himself by the
piano, The Honourable Lionel Percival Dudley De
Vaux sang, in a series of high-toned asthmatic gasps,
"Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep."

Then the guests said their farewells and, preceded
by natives carrying lanterns, they began to move off
into the warm aromatic darkness of the southern
night.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`SINCLAIR'S OPPORTUNITY`:

.. class:: center large bold

   VIII


.. class:: center large bold

   SINCLAIR'S OPPORTUNITY

.. vspace:: 2

Sinclair and McLeod were awaiting their
opportunity to say good-night when one of the
consul's Chinese servants hastily entered and
handed his master a letter:

"One boy b'long Kai Bok-su come Keelung side,
one piecee chit new sick-boy-man can catchee."

"All right, boy," replied the consul.  "Dr. Sinclair,
here's a letter for you from Dr. MacKay."

The doctor cut the letter open and read:

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

   "CHINESE CAMP, LOAN-LOAN, NEAR KEELUNG,
       "Aug. 5th, 1884.

.. vspace:: 1

"DEAR DR. SINCLAIR:

.. vspace:: 1

"As you are aware, a battle is raging.  A number of the
Chinese have been killed.  Many more are wounded.  The end
is not yet.  They have no doctors but native fakirs.  They have
no medicines, no instruments, no knowledge of surgery.  There
is dreadful suffering.  Will you help?  Never a better
opportunity to serve humanity and win the Chinese.

"The consul will give you passports.  The bearer of this
will guide you.  A Hoa will come with you as far as Taipeh
and secure a permit from the governor.  Mrs. MacKay and
Dr. Bergmann will give you a free hand with the Mission's
stock of medicines, and will help you to pack them.  Will you
come?

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

   "Yours,
       "G. L. MACKAY."

.. vspace:: 2

Without a word Sinclair handed the open letter to
the consul, who had now bidden farewell to the rest
of the guests.  He read it quickly and looked up:

"You are going?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"First launch in the morning."

"Good!  I'll have your papers ready."

"Thank you, Mr. Beauchamp.  Good-night."

"I'll send the constable over to MacKay's with the
papers.  Take care of yourself.  Good-night, doctor.
Good-night, McLeod."

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center white-space-pre-line

   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1



The first faint rose of dawn was showing in the
sky behind the great bulk of the Taitoon Mountains
when Sinclair stepped out on the broad verandah of
the missionary's bungalow, ready for his journey.
The Chinese student who was to guide him was
already there.  A coolie bearing two round baskets
containing the medicines, instruments, and other
necessaries, balanced on the end of his long bamboo
carrying pole, came round the corner of the house.

The iron gate at the foot of the garden clicked
sharply.  A vigorous step sounded on the gravelled
walk.  An erect, soldierly figure stepped out of the
darkness into the light streaming from the doorway,
rapped his heels together, saluted, and handed
Dr. Sinclair a packet of letters.

"Good-morning, Sergeant Gorman.  You're sharp
on time."

"No credit to me, sir!  It's the consul, sir!  The
divil himself wud have to get up in the morning
before he went to bed at night to catch the consul
late."

There was no mistaking Sergeant Gorman's
native land.  Sinclair laughed as he said:

"I suppose these are my passports."

"Right you are, sir!  But wud you moind lookin'
at the last one furst, for, widout army conceit in
meself, it's the most important of thim all."

Sinclair opened it and read:

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent

"H. B. M. CONSULATE, TAMSUI, Aug. 6th, 1884.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent

"DEAR DR. SINCLAIR:

.. vspace:: 1

"I am presuming on your good nature to make a request of
you.  Will you accept of Sergeant Gorman's assistance in your
volunteer Red Cross Service?  Ever since the cannon fire began
yesterday morning, he has been aching to get into the field of
action.  Your going is an opportunity.  He will not be an
encumbrance.  He has been at various times surgeon's assistant
and hospital sergeant.  He speaks pidgin, and knows quite a
bit of vernacular.  Commander Gardenier will spare me a man
to take his place.  Feeling sure that you will grant my request
as soon as you read it, I have enclosed his passports with yours.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

"Wishing you a safe and speedy return, I am,
    "Your obedient servant,
        "H. R. L. BEAUCHAMP."

.. vspace:: 2

Sinclair read between the lines.  It was not merely
the desire to gratify Sergeant Gorman's passion to
be in any fighting which might be handy which had
actuated the consul.  It was solicitude for himself.
He was a stranger in the island.  He did not know
the language.  He had never been nearer war than
the annual camp of a brigade of Canadian militia.
This resourceful Irishman, with more than twenty
years of varied service, mostly in the Orient and
among Oriental peoples, would simply be invaluable
to him.  The consul had been up all night arranging
for his convenience and safety.  More to himself than
to any one else he exclaimed:

"Beauchamp's a trump!"

"An' the right bower at that!" interjected Gorman.

Sinclair dashed into MacKay's study, scribbled off
a hasty note of thanks, and was out again before the
sergeant had finished congratulating himself on his
good fortune.

"We must be off.  There goes the launch's whistle,"
said Sinclair, as he swung off with his long, powerful
strides, which put Gorman to his best gait and
made the natives drop into their peculiar little
jogging trot.

Although the day had scarcely broken when they
left the house, and it was but a few hundred yards
down the steep hill to the beach, the impatient sun
of the South had already sprung into the heavens
when they reached the little jetty at which the launch
lay.  A Hoa, the chief Chinese assistant of Dr. MacKay,
and McLeod were already there.

"Hallo, Mac!" exclaimed the doctor.  "I thought
you would be sleeping yet.  It's more than decent of
you to turn out so early to see me off."

"I am going with you as far as Twatutia," replied
McLeod.  "The Chinese are so excited over this war
that they have not forwarded part of our cargo.  I
am going up to see what persuasives I can apply to
the compradore.  We have to sail by this afternoon's
tide and want to take a full cargo.  We may not get
another chance for a while."

"I certainly am in luck this morning," said
Sinclair.  "You to keep me company as far as Twatutia;
A Hoa to get my passports viséd, and Sergeant
Gorman to act as my bodyguard and be generally
responsible for my safety and good conduct."

By this time the two friends and the Chinese
preacher had found for themselves as comfortable
positions as possible under the awning which covered
the decks of the little launch and sheltered them
from the rays of the sun.

The launch was threading its way through a fleet
of junks which were hasting to get out to sea with
the ebbing tide.  Some had already hoisted their huge,
brown, bat-wing sails and turned their watchful eyes
towards the open sea.  Some were just lifting their
anchors, while priests from the neighbouring temple
rowed around them in boats with beating drums and
droning pipes, to frighten away the demons, propitiate
the goddess of the sea, secure for the sailors a
prosperous voyage, undisturbed by the French, and
incidentally to get for themselves and their temple a
substantial contribution.  Some had not yet finished taking
cargo, and their crews were working with feverish
haste to get loaded in time not to miss the last of the
ebb.  From them all came the ceaseless shrill, nasal
shouting of the Chinese seamen as they pulled at the
ropes, or heaved up the anchor or hauled away at the
tackle hoisting their cargo on board.

It was all intensely interesting to Sinclair, who
never wearied of studying human life, especially when
it presented types and phases which were new and
strange to him.  But he was not so much interested
in the Chinese as to fail to notice the large house,
with its cool-looking upper and lower verandahs,
looking out on the river, in which the MacAllisters were
quartered.  He wondered if the maiden who had
teased him so were awake and plotting some new
mischief to make him or some one else uncomfortable.
Or was she sleeping as peacefully as if she had never
done a naughty deed in all her bright young life?  It
was with a start, as if a guilty secret had been
discovered, that he heard McLeod's voice saying:

"I suppose your Highland girl is having her beauty
sleep.  I never saw any one who to my mind needed
it less."

Sinclair was annoyed that McLeod so often seemed
to read his thoughts.  It was a little tartly that he
replied:

"Are you still harping at that?  If I were a suitor
for that young lady's hand, I should have to look upon
you as a rival, you seem so smitten with her."

"Not the slightest danger, Doc.  The fact that a
fellow admires a girl's looks or style doesn't
necessarily mean that he has fallen in love with her.  Oh,
no!  I have my own dreams of a trip I hope to make
next year to Prince Edward Island, and if I come
back to the China Coast I'll not come back alone.
That's good enough for me.  I admire Miss MacAllister.
I think she's splendid.  But falling in love with
her!  Not the slightest notion!  Any interest I have
in her is on your account."

"I'm sorry, Mac.  I shouldn't have said what I
did.  I knew that you were as true as steel."

"It's all right, doctor.  I've been jollying you too
much.  And the way she acts sometimes makes it a
little hard to bear.  But you'll win out in the end."

"I do not know about that," said Sinclair, somewhat
gloomily.  "The way she treated me last night
did not look much like it."

"Never mind that.  She would not treat you like
that if she were not taking more interest in you than
in any one else at present.  She doesn't know just
what is the matter with herself.  That is the way
she is taking to work it off.  She'll change after a
bit."

"I'll yield to your superior knowledge of the ways
of women," said the doctor, with a laugh which had
but little mirth in it.  "It may be all right.  Just
the same, it doesn't look good to me....  Here
comes Sergeant Gorman.  I had better see my
passports, and get him to instruct A Hoa what is to be
done when we get to Taipeh."

Opening the packet, he found copies of passports
in English, French, and Chinese.  One addressed to
the French Commander read:

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

"HER BRITANNIC MAJESTY'S CONSULATE,
    "TAMSUI, August 6th, 1884.

.. vspace:: 1

"*To the Officer in Chief Command of the French Forces at
Keelung*:

"The bearer of this paper, Doctor Donald Sinclair, a British
subject, has volunteered his services as a medical doctor to the
sick and wounded of the Chinese army, at present engaged
before Keelung.  He will observe strict neutrality, and will be
equally ready to perform humane offices and render skilled
medical and surgical assistance to any of the French troops,
should circumstances bring that within his power.  Wherefore
I, the undersigned consul for Great Britain at Tamsui, do beg
the Officer in Command of the French Forces at Keelung, to
accord to the said Doctor Donald Sinclair protection and
liberty to perform his offices of mercy, in accordance with the
terms of the Geneva Convention.  He will be accompanied by
one European assistant, likewise a British subject, Sergeant John
Gorman, and by one or more Chinese assistants, all wearing
the badge of the Red Cross.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

\    "H. R. L. BEAUCHAMP,
"Her Britannic Majesty's Consul."

.. vspace:: 2

Passports of a similar tenor were addressed to
the Chinese authorities.

"Sergeant Gorman, you know Chinese.  Tell A Hoa
what we want him to do when we get to Taipeh.
He is to get these viséd and, if possible, to get a
special permit from the governor.  It will carry more
weight than the passports."

"Very good, sir!  I'll make him understand."

Sergeant Gorman's mastery of the language was
not perfect.  But the Chinese preacher required
little instruction.  He knew better than either Sinclair
or the sergeant what should be done.  Before becoming
a Christian he had been private secretary to a
mandarin in an official position at Pekin.  He had
travelled much on the mainland as well as in
Formosa, and was well acquainted with official procedure
both in peace and in war.  Scarcely had Sergeant
Gorman begun his explanations when his
"Ho! ... Ho! ... An-ni ho! ... Put-tsi ho!" (Good! good!
That's good!  Very good!) showed that he
fully understood what was expected of him.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A QUIET LIFE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   IX


.. class:: center large bold

   A QUIET LIFE

.. vspace:: 2

Meanwhile McLeod and Sinclair were
studying the sergeant.  He was a man of
perhaps forty-five years, but could pass for
much younger.  Five feet eight or nine inches in
height, he was broad-shouldered and sturdily built.
No matter where he might be or how dressed, there
could be no mistaking that he had been a soldier.
Long military training spoke in every movement.
His thick hair was a red-brown, with the emphasis
on the red.  So was his heavy, fierce-looking
moustache.  So were his bristling eyebrows.  So were his
eyes.  His face, save where it was ordinarily covered
by the band of his sun-helmet, was pretty nearly the
same shade.

He talked rapidly; very rapidly; so rapidly that his
words often stumbled over one another in their
eagerness to get out, until he actually stuttered.  When he
tried, he spoke English with just enough Irish accent
to make it sweet on his tongue.  But when he didn't
try, and that was most of the time, the brogue was
rich and thick.  Nearly always he had the peculiarly
Irish trick of repeating the last words of a closing
sentence.

"How long has Gorman been here?" asked Sinclair
in a low tone.

"Only a couple of months," replied McLeod.
"Came over with us from Amoy."

"How does it come that a sergeant with his record
of service should end up by being consulate
constable in an out-of-the-way corner like Tamsui?"

"Search me!  I can't tell you."

"Probably the old story of a man who has served
his Queen and country well and then been dropped,
to live or die wherever he may chance to fall."

"Yes, and none of the blockheads who have
commanded him have sense enough to know how much
good service they could get out of a man like that,
if they would only give him a chance to rise.
Instead they turn him adrift like a worn-out horse."

"Perhaps he has a history behind him.  It seems
to me that most men out here, except you and I,
Mac, have histories.  Here he comes.  Perhaps he
will talk."

The sergeant crossed the little deck, stood at
attention, and saluted:

"I have the honour to report, sir, that I have given
the Chinese, A Hoa, the instructions you commanded
and that he seems to understand them very well, sir."

"Very good, sergeant.  There is nothing further
to be done until we reach Twatutia.  Be seated."

"Thank you, sir."

"By the way, sergeant, I notice by the passport
that your name is John Gorman."

"It is, sir."

"I used to know a Sergeant John Gorman on the
police force in Kingston, Canada.  They say that,
when the college boys were out on a frolic and
raising cain, he could do more to keep them within bounds
with a smile and a bit of blarney than all the rest of
the force could do with their batons."

"Och, but he'll be from Sleeahtballymackcurraghalicky,
in County Cork.  All the people there
are Gormans, an' most of thim are John Gormans.
An' as for the shmile, all the Gormans have it.  They
get it whin they're childer, sayin' the name of their
native place.  An' whin they grow up, no matther
where they go, the shmile wan't come off—the divil
a bit will it come off."

"You're right there, sergeant," said McLeod.
"You have the smile, sure enough.  But it never
shows to best advantage until you say the name of the
place where you were born.  What's this it is, again?"

"Sleeahtballymackcurraghalicky."

"Exactly!  That's a name to make any one smile."

"Och, Misther McLeod, but you shud have seen
it on me whin I furst left the ould place.  Me face
was all shmile.  But on the Afghan border wan day,
an ould black-face of a Pathan—may the divil fly
away wid him!—tuk a pot shot at me from betune
two rocks.  He got me through the two cheeks of me,
an' siv'ral of me teeth.  After the wounds healed up
I never had me natural shmile ag'in,—wud you
bel'ave me I niver was able to shmile natural ag'in."

"Did you get back at him at all?" inquired McLeod.

"That's jist what was hurtin' me.  For while I
was spittin' out me teeth, an' in no condishun to take
aim, the onderhanded, tricherous Afghan was dodgin'
away through the rocks.  But me next in file in the
Munsters, he was a Scotchman from Aberdeen got
a squint of him as he bint double, goin' round the
corner of a pricipice, an' be the blissin' of Hiven, took
a chip off the stern works of him—a mortial good
shot, for the target he hit was the only part in
sight."

"But how did you know that he was hit?" asked
McLeod.  "Did you take him prisoner?"

"Divil a bit!  A wounded Pathan can crawl loike
a wounded snake.  But eighteen months afterwards I
was up in the hills, wan of an escort of the p'ace
envoys.  The very first day wan of the native policemen
pointed out an ould black-face among the chiefs an'
tould me that was the man that put the bullet through
me two cheeks.  An' be the powers, that ould haythen
cud no more sit down than I cud shmile.  The shot
of me next in file had spoiled the joint in the middle
of him.  It was the furst rale comfort that had come
to me since the day I was shot.  I began to laugh whin
I saw him shtandin' up shtiff as a ramrod whin the
others sat; or lyin' on his back, shtraight as a
yardstick whin the rest were reclinin'-loike on the divans.
The more I thought of it, the more I laughed, an'
the shmile of the Gormans began to come back to me
little by little.  But I'll niver have the shmile ag'in
that I had in Sleeahtballymackcurraghalicky—sure as
I'm livin', I'll niver shmile ag'in as I used to whin I
left Sleeahtballymackcurraghalicky."

"How did you come to leave
Sleeahtballymack-what-a-ghalicky?" inquired Sinclair.

"Shure, docther, an' it wasn't me own doin'.  To
the best of me ricolliction it was the doin' of
Providence, wid a bit of help from the priests, an' me
father, an' the government, an' the recruitin' sergeant
thrown in."

"How did they all come to the help of Providence?"
asked the doctor.

"Faix, but you're of an inquirin' turn of moind,
docther; beggin' your pardon for makin' so bould as
to tell you that same."

"It's all right, sergeant.  Go on."

"Well, docther, to make a long story short, it
began this way.  Me father was an indepindint farmer,
wid a bit of land right forninst the dure of the church
at Sleeahtballymackcurraghalicky, an' a hundred
pounds in a bank in Cork.  He was gittin' on in
years.  Me mother was dead, an' I was the only
choild.  What does me father do but tips an' wills
his land to the Church for masses, me to be a priest,
an' the money to the college that was to educate me.
You'll onderstand that the land an' the money were
not to be paid over till me father was dead an' done
wid thim, d'ye see?  But I was to go to school
at wanst to be trained for a priest, d'ye onderstand?"

"Yes, I see the plan."

"Well, widout even so much as sayin' 'by your
l'ave,' they packed me off to the Classical School in
Skibbereen, to learn Latin an' the other dead-an'-gone
languages.  To make a long story short, it
didn't agree wid me, an' I didn't agree wid it.  It
wasn't the languages.  I cud get thim all right.  It
was this business of bein' a priest.  Moind ye, I'm
not sayin' annything ag'in the Church.  I was born
a Catholic, an' I'll die a Catholic.  But bein' a priest
wint ag'in me grain.  To repeat ould dead prayers for
dead people, in dead languages, which nobody prisint
but the blissed Lord Himself cud onderstand, an He
tired of hearin' thim centuries before you were born;
to hear ould wives confessin' their sins which they
shudn't tell to anny man, barrin' another ould wife
loike thimselves; to live on the fat of the land while
the Paddies an' Dinnies an' Mickies were livin' on
pitaties an' salt, wid now an' ag'in a taste of
butthermilk—it didn't seem to me givin' value for the money
received.

"An' thin I was gettin' to be a bit of a gossoon, an'
sometoimes I was afther thinkin' of me farm at
Sleeahtballymackcurraghalicky, which wasn't moine
ayther, for it was willed to the Church.  They often
tould me that whin I was a priest I wud have no use
for the farm.  They said that a half-acre of purgatory
was worth more to a priest than the best two-hundred-acre
farm in County Cork.  But they all had their
well-cultivated garden plots in purgatory, an' bedad
but they wanted me farm as well—d'ye moind.  They
were afther me farm in County Cork as well.

"Not to be wearyin' you wid the details of me
autybiography, the longer I was at it the less I loiked
it, an' the more I had differences of opinion wid the
priests of the college, 'speshully wid the wan they
called the Prefect of Discipline, which is the polite
name for the Wallopin' Masther.  Jist as I was gettin'
tired of the b'atin's, an' was thinkin' of runnin'
away an' joinin' the navy for the sake of a quiet loife,
the English Government came to the assistance of
Providence, an' betune the two they got me out of
bein' a priest—thanks to the government an' the
Hivenly Lord, I got out of bein' a priest."

"How in the world did the government come to
interfere with your course in the college?" inquired
Sinclair.

"The government did not interfere directly, as you
moight say.  It didn't make what you moight call a
frontal attack.  It jist made a kind of divarshun in
the rear.  It appointed me father a Jay Pay."

"A Jay Pay!" exclaimed McLeod.  "What kind
of a pay is that?"

"Why, Misther McLeod, it's a Jay Pay, jist.  A
Justice of the P'ace for the District of West Cork."

"Oh, I understand!"

"Yes, sir!  It appointed me father a Jay Pay for
West Cork.  An', docther, did you ever hear of
annything foolisher in your loife?  To appoint a man a
Jay Pay who was sixty-foive years ould, foive fut
two inches high, weighed only seven stone, and had
never learned how to use the two hands of him or
the proper twisht to give a blackthorn?  Wud you
tell me now, fwhat was the use of makin' a Justice of
the P'ace in West Cork out of a little ould man who
cud nayther use his hands nor twirl a shillelagh?"

"It does appear unreasonable."

"Onreasonable?  Begorra, it was wurrse than that.
There was no sinse to it.  An' anny man that knows
West Cork will tell you the same.  But the ways of
the governmint are loike the ways of Providence, past
foinding out.  Anny way, it meant that me course for
the priesthood was brought to a speedy conclusion.

"How?"

"Well, it was this way.  Me father was appointed
a Jay Pay, wid headquarters at Bantry.  The very
furst case he troied was wan of assault committed by
Micky Murphy on Paddy O'Leary whin he was seein'
Biddy O'Hea home afther mass.  They were pretty
well matched, and wan got as much damage as the
other.  So me father jist bound both of thim over
to kape the p'ace.  Wud you belave me, just to show
th'ir contimpt for the law an' for a little ould man
loike that bein' made a Jay Pay, by common consult
they fought it out forninst the very dure of his court,
while the local consthables held their coats an' Biddy
O'Hea was referee.

"Thin was me chanst.  Before that me father wud
hear nothin' for me but bein' a priest.  Now he
appointed me a speshull consthable.  He wanted me to
go to Dublin an' take some lessons wid me hands an'
wid a shtick from a profissor of the science.  I tould
him that it was quite unnecessary.  Anny likely
gossoon of eighteen or nineteen who had spint three years
contindin' wid the Wallopin' Masther of that school
in Skibbereen had all the science he was likely to need
as a speshull consthable.  An' be the powers, me
father had no reason to repint of his choice.  There was
no more contimpt shown for the law whin he held
court—shure as the saints are in hiven, niver a wan
showed anny more contimpt of court in West Court,
but he was sorry for the day he was born.

"Not to be wearyin' you wid particulars, this wint
along for about three years.  Thin me father got too
feeble to do the wurrk, an' the governmint appointed
an associate Jay Pay.  That was the ind of me service
as a speshull consthable.  The new Jay Pay stood
six fut three, an' weighed two hundred an' fifty
pounds.  I was out of a job.

"But there was no lack of divarshun.  From
Mullaghareirk to Ballingurreen, from Clonakilty to
Ballydehob, from Musheramore to Teampeall-na-bo'ct,
every Rory of the Hills that had iver been in me
father's court, or iver had a relation there, was lyin'
for me wid his shillelagh, an' sometimes an ould rusty
fowlin'-piece.  It wasn't healthy for me in West Cork
anny more.  The priests cud have made it safe
enough.  But I had wanst studied to be a priest, an'
had continded wid the Prefect of Discipline, d'ye see?
An' thin there was the hundred pounds in the bank
in Cork, an' the farm forninst the dure of the church
in Sleeahtballymackcurraghalicky, d'ye moind?  They
wud be surer if I was out of the way.  So, for the
sake of a quiet loife, I tuk the Queen's shillin' an'
went away to the wars—God pardon me if I'm not
speakin' the truth, it was for a quiet loife I left West
Cork, an' was shipped out wid the Munsters to the
wars in Indy."

"Did you ever see your father again?"

"Niver!  He doied a twelvemonth after I left for Indy."

"Have you ever been back to see the old place
where you were born?"

"Wanst.  Tin years afther I enlisted, I got l'ave
an' wint back from Indy."

"And the farm——?"

"It was still there.  They hadn't moved it."

"Who had it?"

"The priests."

"Was the money still in the bank in Cork?"

"Divil a bit!"

"Did you inquire?"

"I did."

"What did they tell you?"

"They tould me that they had expinded the hundred
pounds, an' the value of the farm, an' a little
more in masses an' prayers to get me father
out of purgatory.  They said that I was a bit in
their debt, an' that they would need a trifle yet
for they hadn't got him quite free.  I asked thim if
that was God's truth they were speakin'.  They tould
me that it was.  'Thin,' says I, 'if you know so much
of what's goin' on in purgatory, wud you jist give
me father a message from me?  Jist tell him to ask
the Blissed Lord to open the dure and let him out,
an' I'll stake me sowl's salvation on it that the Lord
will do it at wanst, and niver ask him for a farm or
a hundred pounds in the bank.  For me father was
a man that niver willingly hurted a chicken.'  An'
wid that I left them wid me farm an' the hundred
pounds.  But it's many a cintury me father will be
restin' on the beds of flowers in glory before the fires
of purgatory will have burned that farm an' the
hundred pounds out of the sowls of the black dragoons
who defrauded me of me inheritance.  An' that's
God's truth I'm tellin' you.  An' moind ye, it's
a Catholic I was born and a Catholic I intind to die."

For a time the three white men sat in silence, each
busy with his own thoughts.  The broad river streamed
past them, gleaming in the sun, bearing its fleet of
fishing boats and market boats and here and there
a cargo boat, with big mat sails, dropping down with
the current and tide, laden with tea or sugar or
camphor or coal.  The low green shores were quick with
the life of a dense population.  Beyond these the blue
and purple hills rose and stretched away in wavy lines
of colour till the far-off lofty peaks blended with the
sky.

Dr. Sinclair turned from the natural scenery to look
again at the Irish soldier who was to be his companion
in the new and unaccustomed scenes which lay before
him.  Sergeant Gorman was looking out over river
and plain and mountain.  But his eyes were those
of one who did not see.  There was a far-away look
in them.  Dreams slept in their red-brown depths.  He
interested Sinclair strangely.  He was a rare specimen
in the doctor's field of research, human kind.  He
wanted to know more of him.

"You have put in most of your service in the Far
East, Sergeant Gorman?" he said.

"I have, sir.  All except two years spint at the Cape."

"Mostly in India?"

"Mostly, wid spells at Aden and in Burmah.  Thin
I was sint to Hong-Kong, where I picked up the
pidgin.  I put in my last years of service in the
Straits, where I learned a bit of the lingo spoken here.
At the Straits all the wurrk is done by Chinese from
Amoy, the same people as these in Formosa.  Thin,
as there was nothing for a time-expired soldier to do,
an' the climate was too hot for the wife an' childer,
I came north to Amoy an' tuk service ag'in wid some
more has-beens, to guard the consulate an' do a bit
of police wurrk in the Settlement durin' the trouble
wid the French.  But, begorra, it was out of the
fryin'-pan into the fire."

"How was that?"

"Me mother-in-law came to live wid us."

"That was hard lines," said McLeod sympathetically.

"Faith, an' if you'd known her you'd say that from
the heart."

"How long did you stand it?

"Six weeks."

"And then——?"

"Thin I heard that the French were beloike to kick
up a shindy in Formosa.  So for the sake of a quiet
loife I exchanged to Tamsui.  An' here I am off to
the wars ag'in an' enjoyin' p'ace an' happiness—by the
blissin' of Hiven, enjoyin' p'ace an happiness."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`GLORIOUS WAR`:

.. class:: center large bold

   X


.. class:: center large bold

   GLORIOUS WAR

.. vspace:: 2

The launch had reached the landing-place at
Twatutia.  The little party stepped ashore.
A parting grasp of the hand from McLeod,
and Dr. Sinclair, Sergeant Gorman, A Hoa and the
student guide stepped into chairs, to be borne to the
governor's yamen in the adjoining walled city of
Taipeh.

The governor was not at home.  He had already
left for Keelung to take personal charge of the
defences.  But the deputy he had left in Taipeh seemed
to have imbibed some of the active and progressive
spirit of Liu Ming-chuan.  He read a Chinese copy
of the passports, listened carefully to A Hoa's
courteous and polished explanations, affixed the official
seals, and wrote a brief order to all officials, civil and
military, to extend all courtesy and afford every
assistance to the distinguished foreigners who were
volunteering their services to the Chinese forces.  There
were none of the old-time red-tape evasions and
delays of Chinese officialdom.  He was another of the
pioneers of a new China.

A Hoa returned to Tamsui, having fulfilled his
commission.  The rest pushed on towards the camp at
Loan-Loan.

Before they left the city they met in the streets
many natives who were plainly refugees from Keelung
and the vicinity.  Once outside the walls, they saw
the narrow road as it wound and zigzagged through
the rice-fields, dotted with town and country people,
hurrying as best they could towards the capital for
safety.  The farther they advanced the denser grew
the stream of fugitives.

The rice-fields were left behind with the plain near
Taipeh.  The road began to pass through a more and
more mountainous region.  It grew narrower and
narrower, until it was a mere foot-path, sometimes
threading the bottom of a ravine and sometimes clinging
precariously to the face of a hill which was almost
a precipice; now dropping down to the very margin
of the river or fording a tributary stream, and now
far up on a mountain side.  And all the way, like a
huge, writhing, variegated snake, appearing on the
hillsides and open spaces, disappearing in the ravines,
in the long grass or groves of bamboos, that endless
line of refugees wound its slow length along.

It is about twenty miles from Taipeh to Keelung.
After the first ten miles the throng of fugitives
became so dense that it was very difficult for the chairs
to proceed.  Honest fathers of families laden with all
they could carry of their poor household possessions;
rascally banditti and sneak thieves taking advantage
of the general disorder and distress to loot their
neighbours' deserted houses, and even to snatch from the
hands or shoulders of the defenceless the few valuables
they were trying to save; women hobbling along
on their little feet with infants strapped to their backs,
and older children, whom they were ill-able to help,
clinging to their hands; maidens terror-stricken by the
tales of the imaginary atrocities of the foreign devils,
and scarcely less afraid of the real atrocities of their
own rascally fellow-countrymen, especially of many of
the braves from the mainland.

At long intervals a sedan-chair pressed its way
through the throng, bearing a sick or wounded officer
back to the capital.  Wounded regulars in white or
red or maroon tunics and straw hats limped along,
adding a touch of colour to the writhing serpent.
Irregular levies in the ordinary dark-blue cotton
clothing of the Chinese coolies were hastening home, glad
of the success of the French attack, so that they might
get an opportunity to desert with their arms and all
the loot they could lay their hands upon.

The flight had its comedies and its tragedies.  But
the comedies only played lightly over the surface of
the general tragedy.  A coolie jogged along with two
huge baskets swinging from the ends of the bamboo
carrying-pole.  In one were a small pig and a number
of live ducks and hens.  Balancing these in the other
basket were his two children.

Some farmers, making an effort to save their
livestock, drove a number of pigs and a herd of
water-buffaloes into the midst of the long line of refugees.
But frightened by the yells and execrations, pounded
with staffs and bamboo yokes, and jabbed by the
knives, spears, and bayonets of the soldiers, they
stampeded along the narrow way through the midst of the
procession.  The pigs, running between the feet of the
weary plodders, upset many.  But the buffaloes, with
their huge bulk and enormous horns, flung them right
and left and trampled some to death, till their mad
rush turned off at an angle from the road being
followed.  Over all rose a continual clamour of shrill,
high-pitched voices—talking, scolding, cursing, crying,
screaming hysterically.

One old woman with white hair, hobbling painfully
along with the aid of a staff, stopped again and again,
saying that she could go no farther.  Each time her
son, who was laden with the most precious of his
household goods, reasoned with her, pled with and
adjured her to try again.  He was backed by all the
members of the family.  After much shrill altercation,
she would make another attempt and struggle along
a short distance.  At last she stopped, sat down by
the wayside, and, in spite of all they could do, refused
to budge an inch.  Her poor little bound feet could
carry her no farther.  Seeing that persuasion was in
vain, the son put down his load of valuables.  He
looked hesitatingly from his mother to his poor
possessions, and from them back to his mother again.
Filial piety prevailed, and crouching down he lifted
his mother on his back and trudged on, leaving his
chattels by the way.  He had not gone a hundred
feet when there was not an article left.  But there
were other old and feeble, other women and children,
who had none to carry them.  They were left beside
the road to live or die.

A man dressed in a long gown of mauve silk,
evidently a prosperous merchant, was trudging along,
followed closely by his wife, a couple of young maidens,
evidently daughters, and some younger children.
One of the bandits who had been enrolled as soldiers
and had deserted was hurrying past.  Like a flash he
snatched at a cord he saw around the merchant's neck,
jerked a bag of money from within his clothes and
with a tug which well-nigh strangled him wrenched it
away.  Recovering himself a little the merchant, with
a scream of anger, struck the robber over the head
with his staff.  Instantly the ruffian levelled his gun
and blew out his victim's brains, in the midst of the
shrieking women of his household.  Then, darting
into the long grass and bamboos, he made his escape.
There was none to avenge.  There were none save
the weeping women to care.  Fear and the instinct of
self-preservation made them all brutes.  The throng
pressed blindly on, trampling the still quivering body
of the murdered man under their feet.

There were many more women and children in the
flight than men.  It was not merely because some of
the men had willingly taken service against the enemy,
and others had been impressed.  In many cases it was
because the husbands and fathers had fled first and
left their wives and children to fare as best they could.
Love plays so small a part in Chinese home life that
there was little bond to bind husbands to wives.  A
wife is purchased in much the same way as any other
domestic animal.  When it came to a choice between
his individual safety by unencumbered flight and
incurring some risk by waiting to save his wife, many
a Chinese husband unhesitatingly chose the former.
The women of such families had to seek safety as
best they could.  Great numbers of them were among
the fugitives.

These defenceless women were the special prey of
the irregular levies, deserters, and banditti, who were
everywhere searching for loot and committing deeds
of violence.  Taking advantage of the crowding and
confusion caused by the passing of Sinclair's chair at
a narrow part of the road, one scoundrel snatched
some jewellery from several unprotected women,
twisted bracelets from their arms, and even twitched
earrings from their bleeding ears.  It was right in
front of Sergeant Gorman's chair.  Then the robber
sprang past the chair on the side next the mountain
in his attempt to escape.  He was not quick enough.

"Och, you dirty thavin' blackguard, take that!"

A fist shot out of the little opening in the side of
the covered chair, and a blow like that of trip-hammer
caught the Chinese on the jaw and dashed him against
the steep hillside.  Then, with a spring which knocked
his forward chair-bearer off his feet, Gorman was out
in the open ready for action.

He was none too soon.  Supple as a cat, the Chinese
had rolled over and, lying on the ground, was already
taking aim.  But Gorman was too quick.  The rifle
was dashed aside and discharged harmlessly along
the mountain slope.  In another instant it was
wrenched out of the hands of the Chinese and flung
across the path, down the bank into the river.  Then,
gripping his adversary by the neck-band of his short
blue jacket, the Irishman, with one tremendous heave
of hand and foot together, lifted the Chinese clear
of the ground and pitched him headlong after his
rifle.  The last wild scream of rage and fear ended
in the splash of the falling body.  The swift dark
water swept it out of sight.

"Begorra, an' ye'll not abuse definseless women anny
more!"

At the first sound of Gorman's voice mingling with
the shrill clamour of the Chinese, Sinclair had sprung
from his chair with a big .44 revolver in his hand,
ready for action.  He did not know what had brought
on the scrimmage.  But a glance showed him that,
while Gorman was quite able to cope with the present
situation, there was a possibility of serious danger.
A few long strides brought him to where the sergeant
had just flung his opponent down the bank into the
river.

The screams of terror of the women redoubled at
the sight of the two foreigners.  The size of Sinclair,
the fierce vigour of Gorman, the fair complexions,
the foreign dress and foreign weapons of both, brought
to mind the stories they had heard from infancy of
the great, green-eyed, red-faced, hairy barbarians who
came from over the sea, who knew not the rules of
good conduct, and who, whenever they got the chance,
maltreated the sons and daughters of Han.

Cries of "Ang-mng!  Ang-mng!" (Red-heads),
"Hoan-a-kui!" (Foreign devils) rose above the
inarticulate shrieks of fear.

Sergeant Gorman was equal to the occasion.  Utterly
unmindful of the wild disorder about him, he
busied himself gathering up the articles of jewellery
which the thief had dropped in the struggle.  Then
with his best Chinese and profound bows he returned
these to the women from whom they had been torn.

For a moment the terrified women could not realize
his meaning.  When they did, their shrill cries of
"Ang-mng!" and "Hoan-a-kui!" gave place to that
of "Ho-sim!  Ho-sim!" (Good heart).

At the same time the student guide, getting an
opportunity to make his voice heard, was explaining
that these were not Frenchmen, but Englishmen, that
they were friends of the missionary, Kai Bok-su, and
that they were doctors going to heal the Chinese who
had been wounded in the battle with the French.
Again the cry "Ho-sim!" (Good heart) rose from the
fugitives.  Only some of the rascally looters looked
at them with evil eyes and sullen faces.

Sending their chairs back, Dr. Sinclair, Sergeant
Gorman, and their Chinese companions proceeded on
foot.  Before long they turned off into a path leading
in an easterly direction and soon touched the Chinese
lines.  The order from the governor's deputy gained
them courteous treatment, and they were conducted to
the general's headquarters at the village of Loan-Loan.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE LIFE-HEALER IS COME`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XI


.. class:: center large bold

   THE LIFE-HEALER IS COME

.. vspace:: 2

Dr. MacKay had prepared the Chinese
commander for their coming.  Liu Ming-chuan
lost no time in meaningless formalities.  He
read their passports, thanked them for coming, issued
orders giving Dr. Sinclair a free hand in dealing with
the sick and wounded, and in half an hour saw him
beginning his work.

"I am glad you have come," said MacKay.  "I
was sure you would."  The keen black eyes looked
straight into Sinclair's blue ones.  "I was sure you
would," he repeated.  "You want to do good to
humanity.  I never saw a time when it was more needed.
God sent you here for this very time."

"I hope that may be true," replied Sinclair.  "For
the present we must get busy.  Have many wounded
been brought in?"

"More than a hundred.  But I believe that there
are many more in the various forts or on the open
hillsides, lying where they fell.  There has been no
system about collecting the wounded."

"That will be for you to organize, sergeant—an
ambulance corps."

"Bedad, sir, an' if they'll give me the men I ask
for I'll train them till they can pick up a wounded
man before he falls."

"That's what we want, sergeant.  Meanwhile,
Dr. MacKay, what accommodation can they give us?
Just as we went into the governor's you spoke of a
hospital.  Have you succeeded in improvising one?"

"That's where we are going now.  You can see
for yourself.  Here we are."

He turned into a narrow lane.  As he did so the
pungent odour of disinfectants reached their nostrils.
Another sharp turn and he stopped at the door of a
long, low, but well-built house of durable burned
brick.  They had approached it from the back.  On
the other side two long buildings extended from each
end of the main structure, at right angles to it, with
it forming three sides of a square and enclosing a
large paved courtyard.  The fourth side had been
shut in by a high fence of interwoven bamboos.  But
this had been cleared away.  Now the courtyard
opened directly on a beautiful, swift-flowing stream, a
branch of the Tamsui River.  Mountains clothed with
verdure from base to summit rose from the farther
shore.  A soft breeze blew up the river and, eddying
in the courtyard, modified the intense heat.  A clump
of feathery bamboos nodded gracefully over the
buildings.

On the earthen floor of the houses, on the
cobblestones which paved the courtyard, on the ground
outside, quicklime had been plentifully scattered.  A
strong odour of carbolic told that other precautions
had been taken.

Sinclair passed through the building with long, swift
strides, his eyes seeing everything.  He paused when
he reached the river bank and noted the means
provided for the disposal of sewage.  Then he turned
to MacKay:

"Had any provision been made for this before you
arrived?"

"None."

"Had the Chinese done nothing to care for their
wounded?"

"Nothing."

"Did their doctors help you to get this hospital
in shape?"

"No.  They opposed me all they could."

"MacKay, you're a marvel."

"Do not praise me.  You have not looked at the
wounded yet.  They are suffering.  You must remember
that I am not a qualified medical doctor.  I am
a preacher of the gospel.  I know little of medicine,
and almost nothing of surgery."

"The more wonder that you have accomplished so much!"

"It is my work.  My Master not only healed the
souls of men, but relieved the suffering of their
bodies.  To the best of my ability I try to do the same."

"You're right.  That's what we're here for—to
make life better for as many as we can.  There are
a lot here who need our help.  Let us get busy."

They stepped again into the main building and stood
in the narrow passage between the rows of bare trestle
boards which served as beds.  Wounded men were
lying there as close together as was possible and yet
leave room for a doctor to step in beside them.  There
was a hum of conversation, but very little moaning,
and rarely a cry of pain.  The Chinese, so noisy in
their times of sorrow or of joy, so clamorous in their
excitement, are strangely silent in pain and bear
suffering stoically.

Dr. MacKay lifted his voice so that all could hear,
speaking in Chinese.

"Friends," he said, "the physician of whom I told
you has come.  Listen to him.  Submit to his
treatment.  Do what he tells you.  He will heal you.  He
will give you your lives again."

At the sound of his voice all other voices were
hushed.  Thin brown forms turned painfully on the
bare boards; rows of black heads were raised from the
hard bolsters; black eyes looked out of bronze or
ghastly yellow faces at the fair giant who towered
above the black-bearded missionary; from lip to lip the
word passed down the lines:

"I-seng lâi![#]  I-seng lâi!"  (The doctor is come.
Literally, the life-healer is come.)


[#] Pronounced, Ee-see-ung li.


Without a word Sinclair threw off his coat, rolled
up his sleeves, and went to work.  Sergeant Gorman
and one of MacKay's students went first, preparing
each case for treatment.  Sinclair followed, with
MacKay to assist and interpret and another student to
carry basins of water.

.. _`Sinclair threw off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and went to work`:

.. figure:: images/img-115.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: Sinclair threw off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and went to work

   Sinclair threw off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and went to work

The wounds were nearly all caused by shells or
shrapnel.  There were no clean wounds by rifle
bullets.  The range had been too great and the Chinese
too well protected behind their fortifications.  The
mitrailleuses had accomplished little.  They were
noisy, terrifying, spectacular, but ineffective.  Only
once had a machine gun done much execution.  A part
of the fortifications on the east side of the harbour
had been rendered untenable by the heavy shell-fire.
A body of Chinese regulars were retreating to the new
fort in too close formation.  The marines working
a mitrailleuse in the *Villars'* tops, found their range
perfectly and poured a stream of bullets into their
midst, killing many and threatening the whole
detachment with extermination.  But just at the critical
moment the quick-firer jammed, and all the oaths and
efforts of the squad could not get it into working
order again until the Chinese were under cover.

The sights were all the more ghastly, the suffering
the more intense, the prospects of recovery the
fewer because the death-dealing had been done by
shell and shrapnel.  There was nothing clean-cut
about their work.  A fragment of shell had shorn
away a man's left shoulder, taking with it the joint,
but missing the axillary artery and part of the great
breast muscle, by which the arm still hung.

Sinclair glanced at MacKay.  The latter understood:

"Better not have an amputation first thing.  They
are ignorant and suspicious."

"I thought so.  Anyway, I do not want to take
time to amputate now.  We'll dress it and amputate
later."

A shrapnel shell had exploded close to another's
side.  The hip, part of the pelvis, and much of the
flesh had been shredded away, exposing the working
of the organs of the abdomen.  It was not good to
see.  From that ghastly rent blood-poisoning had
already set in.  There was nothing to be done.  They
made him as easy as possible on the hard boards of
his cot, administered an opiate, and left him to sleep
till the last sleep should fall upon him.

One had been struck just above the ear, and a chip
of his skull three inches in diameter shot away,
leaving his brain uncovered.

"He will die.  We'll make him comfortable in the
meantime."

A fragment had caught another on the cheek, and
his lower jaw was gone.

"Better if he would die, too.  It would be a mercy
to let him out easy.  But, no; if God gives him a
chance, so must I.  We'll patch him up."

More to himself than to any one else, he was speaking
in a low tone.  All the while the doctor's hands
were busy dressing, soothing, trimming, mending,
healing those poor, shattered bodies of ignorant
Asiatic peasants, the weak atoms of humanity which a
great European nation had sent her mighty
engines of death to destroy—the pitiful trophies of
glorious war.  And not one of those brown or
yellow men had the faintest glimmer of an idea what
the war was about, or why his poor body had been
maltreated so.  The foreign devils had come to take
his land and he had been set to defend it.  That was
all he knew.

Stranger still was what these other foreign devils
were doing.  They were trying to heal him.  One
set of foreign devils by their magic had knocked his
fortifications to pieces, mangled his body, and brought
him to the verge of death.  And now another set of
foreign devils, by some other magic, were patching
his broken body together again and bringing it back
to life.  He could not understand.

But some way or another those last foreigners grew
into his confidence.  There was something in the
words of that barbarian with the long black beard,
who spoke their language more perfectly than they
did themselves, which quieted him and gave him hope.
There was something about the great, red-haired
giant,[#] who did not seem to understand their
language at all and yet seemed to understand at once
what his sufferings were and how to heal them, which
inspired him with confidence.  It might be magic
he was using, but it must be good magic.  Before him
men were writhing restlessly on their wooden beds,
sometimes moaning, occasionally uttering an agonized
"ai-yah," ever and anon asking plaintively for water
or tea.  Behind him they lay back peacefully and, with
few exceptions, went to sleep.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[#] The Chinese do not distinguish between the different shades
of fair hair.  All that is not jet black, is called red.

.. vspace:: 2

So all down the rows of improvised cots heads were
raised, yellow or brown faces were turned, and black
eyes, some anxious, some curious, still more wistful,
watched every movement of the foreign doctor.  His
size, the massive head with its crown of wavy, fair
hair, his huge shoulders, his bare arms, powerful and
white beside their skinny brown ones, all were noted.
Why did he wash his hands so often?  It was a part
of his magic.  What was he going to do with that
knife?  Was he going to cut the man's heart out?
No, he used it on one farther down, and now the man
was sitting up drinking tea.  So they watched, and
so confidence grew.  And at every movement the
doctor made from cot to cot, the word "I-seng lâi" (the
life-healer is coming) was passed from one to another
of the patients.

The sun had sunk behind the hills and night was
coming on.  Smoky Chinese lamps and one good
lantern belonging to MacKay were lighted.  Still
Sinclair worked on.

"You had better stop long enough to get something
to eat," said MacKay.

"Thank you, MacKay; but I haven't time just now.
Minutes mean lives to some of these men."

"Well, you must take a cup of tea.  The boy will
bring some to you here."

"Very well."

Standing at the foot of a cot studying a case, he
hastily gulped down several tiny native cups of tea,
without either sugar or milk.  Then he was at work
again.

The night was wearing on—the dark, close, hot
night, with a temperature only a couple of degrees
cooler than in the middle of the day.  Still he worked
swiftly, certainly, almost silently.  What a transformation
from the evening before, at the consul's
dinner party!  The lazy grace of the big, powerful frame,
which had caught the consul's eye, was gone.  Every
line of the body, every play of muscles spoke of
intense, forceful energy, and yet energy which was
under perfect control.  The physical strength which
enabled him to lift a man like a child in his hands, or
draw with apparent ease a dislocated hip-joint back
into its place—the same self-controlled strength made
his touch in another case as light as that of a
delicate woman.  The look of good-humoured interest
with which he had studied the characteristics of his
fellow-guests, or bandied repartee with Miss
MacAllister, or amused the company with his songs, was
gone.  It was still a kindly face, a face which inspired
confidence in even those ignorant Chinese soldiers
over whom he bent.  But no one who looked into
that face would lightly trifle with the man in his
present mood.

Every one present felt it.  MacKay, something of
an autocrat in his own sphere, read the face of the
man beside him and never, except at his command to
interpret for him or to give desired assistance,
offered a suggestion.  A group of Chinese officers came
in, manifesting their usual supercilious air towards
foreigners.  Talking loudly and pushing inquisitively
forward, they got in Sinclair's way.

"Tell these fellows to shut their mouths and keep
out of my road."

MacKay interpreted it, more courteously perhaps,
but forcibly.  It was in silence and at a respectful
distance that the Chinese officers continued to look
on.  Presently some more came in, louder spoken
and more inquisitive than the first.

"Tell that last bunch to get out.  The rest can
stay if they want.  Tell their senior officer to set a
guard.  I'll have no more in here except on business."

It was done.

The night wore on.  Some of the hopeless cases
found relief in death.  From time to time others were
brought in to take their places.  Some of these had
now been nearly forty-eight hours since being
wounded, lying out in the long grass and brushwood
of the hillsides or crawling slowly, painfully towards
safety.  Worse still, some had been through the hands
of native quack doctors.

The brief, grey dawn, followed by the swift sunrise,
took the place of the night.  Still Sinclair worked
on, for still the pleading, wistful eyes of suffering
men were watching his movements and still he heard
them say in words whose meaning he had come to
understand:

"I-seng lâi" (The life-healer comes).

As he straightened himself after bending over a
patient, Sergeant Gorman saluted him:

"Excuse me, sir; but a bad case has just come in.
If I am not mistaken, it is more in need of immediate
treatment than any of the others I have seen."

The jocular manner, the excessive brogue, the
constant tendency to bulls and repetitions had dropped
from Sergeant Gorman like a cloak.  His manner
was serious; his accent hardly noticeable; his bearing
that of a thoroughly capable and efficient officer
on important duty.

"What is the injury, sergeant?"

"A hand shot off at the wrist.  The poor devil tied
a cord around it to stop the blood.  Been that way
for two days without dressing.  It's badly swollen,
gangrened, and fly-blown."

"Very well, sergeant.  I guess we'll have to
amputate at once.  Where is the patient?"

"In the operating tent."

Swiftly, surely the work was done, and the man
carried back to a cot of boards in the improvised
hospital.

Sinclair was turning back to the wards to attend
to other cases when an exclamation from MacKay
arrested him:

"Lee Ban!  Is it possible?"

A sampan had come down with the current and
run its bow ashore at the hospital.  A man was lifted
out and deposited on the bank, up which he crawled
painfully on hands and knees.  His face was drawn
and ghastly with suffering.  His clothing, which had
once been rich, was torn to ribbons.

It was Lee Ban, one of the wealthiest merchants
of Keelung.  He had sent his family away to safety
earlier, but had to stay himself till the day of the
bombardment.  When escaping from the town a shell
had exploded near his chair.  A fragment had passed
through the bottom of it, at the same time shearing
away the entire calf from one of his legs.  He had
paid the chair-bearers generously.  But they fled for
their lives and left him where he lay.  He had the
name of being the most charitable citizen of Keelung,
and he saw many a one that day whom he had helped
with his means.  But they rushed past him, utterly
unheeding.  War had kindled in them the primal
instinct of self-preservation, and had subordinated every
human feeling to brute fear.

He bound his leg as best he could and started to
crawl towards safety.  All day he crept on hands and
knees, and through the night until he lay exhausted
and unconscious.  In the morning he bribed some
soldiers who were searching for wounded to carry him
to the camp.  They took him to a native doctor, who
plastered the great open wound with a mixture of
mud and cow-dung.  Then he heard that Kai Bok-su
was here, and the foreign doctor.  He had himself
brought to them.

While he told his story in Chinese to MacKay,
Sergeant Gorman and his helpers had carried him to a
cot and were unbandaging the leg for the doctor's
inspection.

"For the love of heaven!"

The great, gaping wound, extending from the knee
to the ankle, was alive with maggots.

This also is one of the glories of war.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`MATUTINAL CONFIDENCES`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XII


.. class:: center large bold

   MATUTINAL CONFIDENCES

.. vspace:: 2

Eight o'clock on the morning Dr. Sinclair left
Tamsui for the front found the consul in the
breakfast room.  Clean-shaven, dressed in spotless
white, he looked as cool and fresh, and was as
prompt to the minute, as if he had enjoyed a perfect
night's rest.  A moment or two later Mrs. Beauchamp
entered.

"Good-morning, Harry.  I am afraid that I have
disgraced myself by being late," she said with a little
mock anxiety.

"Not at all, my dear.  My wife is never late.  I
think my watch is a few seconds fast."

"Thank you, Harry.  You always find an excuse
for me."

"Oh, no! it is not that," replied her husband, as if
ashamed that he should allow any partiality to cause
him to swerve from his rigid rule of punctuality.
"Really, I am a little ahead of time.  I'm deuced
hungry this morning.  I could hardly wait for Ah Soon
to get breakfast ready."

"What time did you come to bed last night?  I
believe that I did not hear you at all."

"You certainly did not.  You were sleeping so
soundly that the French might have bombarded Tamsui
and come ashore and carried you off without you
waking."

"Oh, Harry!  I think that's real mean of you.  You
know perfectly that I know your step and movements
so well, that I sleep just as soundly when you are
moving about as when there is absolute silence.  But
any other person's step would waken me at once."

"You're right there.  I do not believe that you
heard me this morning, either."

"No, I did not.  What time did you rise?  I think
it is not a bit fair of you to steal out of bed like
that without awaking me.  And then to wait down
here with your watch in your hand to catch me ten
seconds late!  I do not like that.  I have a mind to
get offended."

"Hold!  This is getting tragic.

   |          'You've ungently, Brutus,
   |  Stole from my bed . . . . . . . .
   |  You stared upon me with ungentle looks.
   |  . . . . . . then you scratch'd your head,
   |  And too impatiently stamped with your foot.'

Let's change the subject.  May I have another cup of
coffee?"

"What an anti-climax!  From high tragedy to hot
coffee!  How shocking!"

"Where is Constance?"

"I fancy that she is sleeping yet."

"Was she not put to bed at her usual time?"

"Yes.  But the amah says that, once the singing
began, she wakened up and insisted on getting out
where she could hear it better.  She was out on the
upper verandah all the time.  So she didn't waken as
early as usual.  But she'll be down soon."

"She should have been made stay in bed."

"Oh, well! we cannot tie her down too hard and
fast.  She dearly loves singing, and she has taken
a most extraordinary fancy to Dr. Sinclair."

"I do not mind how much fancy she may take to
Sinclair.  But there are some of the others who were
here last night whom I do not want her to meet any
more than she must.  By the way, Sinclair is off to
the war."

"Off to the war!  What to do?"

"To give his services as a doctor to the Chinese and
to try to organize a Red Cross corps for them."

"How interesting!  But is it not very dangerous
for a foreigner to venture among the Chinese just
now?  Especially one who is a stranger and does not
know the language?"

"It is a little.  But Dr. MacKay is over there at
present.  I also let Sergeant Gorman go with Sinclair.
Each is an expert in his own line.  They are
all pretty shrewd.  I do not think that they are likely
to get into trouble.  Gardenier is lending me a man
to take Gorman's place."

"When did they leave?"

"By the first launch this morning."

A light was dawning on Mrs. Beauchamp's mind:

"There was no mention of this at dinner last
evening.  When did Dr. Sinclair decide to go?"

"Just after he bade you good-night.  He got a
letter from MacKay, asking him to go, and decided at
once."

"And all the arrangements had to be made, passports
and everything else drawn up between then and
the first launch this morning."

The consul's eyes were dancing and his face was a
study:

"It had to be done."

"You base deceiver!  After all your talk about my
sleeping so soundly, you were never in bed at all."

The consul laid back his head and laughed till even
the grave, slant-eyed Celestial waiter hurried into the
room to see if there was need of assistance.

"You missed me a whole lot, didn't you, Gwen?"

"I do not want to talk to you."

"Oh, yes, you do!  We'll change the subject again."

"You needn't.  I shall not talk."

"Yes, you will.  How ever did Miss MacAllister
get such a spite at Sinclair as she showed last evening?"

"Spite!" (with immense contempt).  "Spite!"
(still more contemptuously).

"Well, I do not know what else you would call it.
She made game of him and bally-ragged him at every
turn.  If he hadn't been so well able to take care of
himself, I should have had to interfere and protect
him, since he was our guest."

"And you think that it was because she had a spite
at him?  It's a lot a man, even a married man, knows
about the ways of a woman."

"I'll acknowledge it, Gwen.  'There be three things
which are too wonderful for me, yea, four which I
know not,' and the most wonderful of the four are
the ways of a maid with a man."  He took the chance
that she would not notice the inversion; and she did
not.  "Solomon was much more married than I am,
and he did not understand the ways of a woman,
Gwen.  It's not fair to expect it of me."

She did not know whether to laugh or not.  It was
hard to resist the serio-comic, mock-penitent
expression on his face.  She felt like punishing him by
breaking off the conversation.  But the subject was
too interesting to drop.  That was what he had
counted on, and he judged wisely.

"I should have thought that a man who had been
married nearly a dozen years, and who had such a
wide ante-nuptial experience, ought to be able to
recognize the symptoms when a woman is falling in
love."

"Do you mean to say that the way Miss MacAllister
treated Sinclair last evening is a symptom that she
is falling in love with him?"

"I do."

"It looks more to me like cruelty to animals."

"She'll make up for the cruelty afterwards."

"Or falling in love with the other fellow."

"Well, it isn't."

"But you didn't act like that with me."

"You silly."

"Serious!  I mean it."

"You caught me before I was old enough to know
any better.  I was hopelessly gone before I knew
what was the matter with me."

"Are you sorry?"

"No, Harry; you know that I'm not."

Their hands touched for a moment across the corner
of the little breakfast table.  Their eyes looked at each
other as they had looked in the days when he, the
young student interpreter, who had just got his first
step in the service and was home on his first furlough,
with all the romance about him of having lived in the
Far East amidst far, strange peoples, won the love of
the young girl, fresh out of a boarding-school.  A flush
suffused her delicate face, making it look very
youthful and beautiful.

It was in a gentle tone that the husband continued:

"You really think that this is what is the matter
with Miss MacAllister, that she is in danger of losing
her heart to the big Canadian doctor?"

"Yes, I do.  She told me that they had a bit of
a tiff coming over on the *Hailoong*, and that she
sauced him shamefully.  But he got back at her before
they left the boat, and now she wants to get even.
She knows that there is something wrong with her,
and has a suspicion what it is.  That is what
makes her so hard on him.  She doesn't want to
give in."

"A case of playing with fire?"

"Yes, I fancy it is."

"Well, it may be only a passing flirtation, quite
harmless to all concerned.  But if it is anything more,
and she has a notion of turning this Asiatic trip of
hers into a matrimonial venture, by Jove!  I believe
that big doctor, with all his notions about being a
missionary, is the best investment she could make in
these parts."

"Her mother doesn't think so."

"What has she in view?"

"A title."

"What!  Carteret?"

"Yes."

"The thundering old fool!"

"Oh, Harry!"

"I mean it.  If you weren't here, Gwen, I'd swear.
It's always the way with those tradespeople who have
started as peasants or domestics and made money.
They would sell themselves or their daughters to the
devil for a title.  If Beelzebub, the prince of the devils,
came along they would marry a daughter to him, so
as to be able to speak of her as Her Royal Highness
the Princess of the Devils."

"Oh, Harry, stop!  You mustn't say that.  Surely
Mr. Carteret is not so bad as that."

"He's not far short of it."

"You never told me that."

"There are a lot of things I don't tell you.  They
wouldn't be pleasant for you to hear, nor for me to
tell.  And, anyway, in this little hole-in-the-corner of
the world you have to associate with all those fellows
more or less.  It's easier for you if you do not know
too much about them."

"But the men here are not all bad, are they?"

"Oh, no!  No!  I wouldn't have you think that.
Some of them, I think most of them, are as good as
you could get at home.  But there are others.  And
Carteret is one of the others."

"Mrs. MacAllister does not know that."

"Perhaps not.  But she has seen enough of the
world to know the difference between a man like
Sinclair and one like Carteret."

"I am afraid that it is the title.  She told me that
his father, the present lord, is an old man and
cannot live long; and that his older brother, the present
heir, is dying of consumption—as she expressed it,
'has only one lung.'  So she thinks that Carteret is
sure to succeed to the title soon."

"Yes; and in the meantime the two brothers love
each other so that the heir will not hear of this
prospective supplanter being nearer to him than China
is to England.  Esau and Jacob!  And Mrs. MacAllister
would give her daughter to that scavenger,
and the MacAllister money to fix up the Carteret estates,
just to have a title in the family!  Gwen, I want
to swear."

"Oh, Harry, you are shocking!"

"Can't help it, Gwen.  I must swear."

"Well, Harry, if it will save you from injury——"

"It's damnable! ... Thanks, awfully, Gwen.  I
feel some better now."

"I hope that you'll not have another attack for
some time."

"Then we'll have to talk about something else."

"What a marvellously versatile entertainer Dr. Sinclair
is!  I think that he is quite a wonder."

"What is better, he has both brains and gumption.
He was as keen on getting to the front as a hound on
a scent.  But, unlike most hounds, he didn't give
tongue.  He said nothing.  Just went, and that at
once."

"I was afraid that it would come to a passage at
arms between him and Carteret?  Did you ever hear
so much insult put into the tone of voice as Carteret
did last evening?"

"It will be a bad day for Carteret when he pushes
Sinclair too far.  Most men from Sinclair's country
don't take much stock in titles.  They would pull a
peer's nose just as soon as a peasant's.  That's the
kind of Sinclair....  Hallo, Puss, what time is this
to be getting down to breakfast?"

"Good-morning, daddy.  This is a lovely time to be
getting down, much nicer than eight o'clock.
Good-morning, mother.  Have you been up long?"

"Long enough to have my breakfast eaten.  I hear
you were a bad girl last evening, Constance—that
you didn't stay in bed or go to sleep till all
hours."

But Constance—a tall, straight child of nine, with
step as light and graceful as that of a fawn, and a
wealth of dark-brown curls framing her clear-cut
features and frank eyes—did not seem to be very
penitent:

"Oh, mother, it was just lovely to hear the singing.
I could have listened to you, and daddy, and Miss
MacAllister, and Dr. Sinclair all night."

"Wise child!" remarked her father, somewhat
grimly.  "She knows the proper selection to make
and whom to put first."

"There were others singing, Constance, besides the
ones you mentioned," said her mother.

"Oh, yes; I know.  I did not recognize some
of the voices.  But I knew Mr. Carteret's and
Mr. De Vaux's."

"Mr. Carteret is a fine singer."

"Yes, I suppose.  But I didn't like the way he sang.
He put such a funny tone in his voice.  He kind
of——  Oh, I don't know how to describe it.  It
sounded like the way Carlo used to howl after daddy
sent Fan over to Amoy."

"Good heavens!"

"And Mr. De Vaux's voice was just like my singing
doll after I burst the bellows in her.  She could
give only one squeak, and then had to wait till I put
some more wind into her before she could give another."

"That'll do, Constance; we've had enough of your
opinions on singing.  Get busy with your breakfast
or you'll get none."

"All right, daddy."

"Boy!  You tell coolie boys to roll the lawn.  Tennis
this afternoon.  Can savey?"

"All lite!  All lite!  My can savey.  Loll lawn.
A-paw phah-kiû" (Afternoon strike-ball).

"Oh, goody!  Dr. Sinclair will be here."

"No, Constance; Dr. Sinclair will not be here."

"Why, mother?"

"He has gone away over to Keelung to care for
the sick and wounded after the battle."

"Oh, mother!"  The finely-curved lips trembled
A big tear stole out of each eye.

"Mother, do you think that he might get killed?"

"No, Connie.  I do not think that he is in any
danger."

The big tears rolled down the cheeks and dropped.

"Mother, will he come back?"

"Yes, I think that he may come back in a little
while."

"I'm so glad!"

"By Jove!  I'll have to watch that Sinclair.  He
makes conquests of both old and young."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`MORE CONFIDENCES`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XIII


.. class:: center large bold

   MORE CONFIDENCES

.. vspace:: 2

In the building at the foot of the hill, near the
shore, occupied by MacAllister, Munro Co. partly
as a warehouse and partly as a residence for the
company's European employees, another matrimonial
*tête-à-tête* was taking place.  De Vaux and his two
or three assistants, the representatives of the big
London firm in North Formosa, had found temporary
quarters in the buildings of the customs' compound
or with the staffs of other firms.  Mr. and Mrs. MacAllister
and their daughter, with the native servants,
had the living-rooms of the big hong to themselves.

It was little more than seven o'clock, an extraordinary
hour for rising the morning after a late dinner.
But, with characteristic regularity of habits,
Mr. MacAllister was already up and shaving.  As was
fitting at such an hour, he was clothed only in
pyjamas and slippers.  But even those shapeless
garments were worn with an attention to neatness quite
lacking in most men whom a score and a half of years
of married life have made entirely indifferent to
personal appearance in the intimacy of the bed-chamber.
He had even taken the trouble to brush his hair, at
least what was left of it—another extraordinary
proceeding on the part of a man who was likely to be
seen by no person but his wife.

The shaving process was nearly done.  He was
carefully feeling the hard spots on each side of his
chin to see if any offending hairs had escaped the
relentless sweep of the razor and still projected within
its range.

"Hector, you are a most extraordinary man."

The voice came from within the canopy of the
mosquito curtains draped around the high-posted iron
bed which occupied the centre of the room.

"Good-morning, my dear!  Is it only now that you
have found that out?"

"You are a most extraordinary man."

"What new marvel have you found in me, my
dear?"

"To think that there is only about one hour of
the twenty-four in this disgusting climate in which
one can sleep comfortably and you would not allow
me to have that, but must get up and disturb me by
shaving."

"I am exceedingly sorry if I have disturbed you,
my dear.  But every time I wakened during the night
you were sleeping very peacefully, and——"

"Not a bit of it!  I have not slept at all."

"And when I got up you were not only sleeping,
but snoring gently, and——"

"That's all nonsense!  I've been wide-awake all
night."

"And, although I have been about for nearly an
hour, you continued to snore very gently until a
moment before you spoke, and——"

"Hector, I'm astonished at you!  You know
perfectly well that I never sleep in hot weather.  I do
not understand why you ever chose to come to such
a country as this in the summer."

"And now you are looking thoroughly refreshed
and fit for anything, and——"

"I'm more tired than when I went to bed."

"And when you have your bath, and comb your
hair, and are dressed, you will be as fresh and
beautiful as you were when I brought you to London from
the Highlands thirty years ago."

"Hector, it iss flattering me you would be."

She was sitting up now under the canopy of mosquito
curtains.  If an outsider could have looked in,
he would probably have agreed that her husband was
flattering shamefully.  Unlike him, neatness in
private was not one of her virtues.  Her hair, black and
luxuriant as in her girlhood, was tossed and tousled.
The flesh, which had grown upon her with years,
ungirt and unrestrained, flowed shapelessly with every
movement.

But her face was still fresh in colour and comely
in form.  A little care about her appearance in the
privacies of life would have made her perennially
attractive to him, as attractive as when he had taken her
as a bride.  Perhaps at the moment she felt this.  At
any rate, the words of compliment and admiration
were as sweet to the ears of the middle-aged woman
as they had been to the young girl of thirty years
before.  Her little irritation about the disturbed
slumbers and his chaffing manner passed like a summer
cloud.  Unconsciously she fell back into the accent
of her girlhood when she said:

"Hector, it iss flattering me you would be."

He dressed with as much care of his personal
appearance as if he were in London.  Then he went out
for a walk along the shore, pausing under the shade
of some great banian trees to enjoy the magnificent
scenery.  Presently he returned to the room where
his wife was now almost ready for breakfast.

"Our friends on board the *Hailoong* and the
*Locust* are all up and active.  But there is no stir
anywhere else except among the Chinese.  Neither De
Vaux nor any of his staff have put in an appearance."

"They have fallen into the ways of this climate,"
replied his wife, "and sleep when it is possible to
enjoy sleep."

"I am afraid De Vaux will not be in condition to
do much to-day.  He drank heavily last evening.  He
has been in our employ a long time, and as a rule
has done very well.  But I wish that he drank less."

"You must remember, Hector, the class to which
Mr. De Vaux belongs.  He is of noble family."

"All the more reason why he should keep control
of himself.  I was ashamed of him last night."

"But, Hector, people of rank all drink.  You must
not forget that Mr. De Vaux is a man of birth."

"Probably he was born some time, my dear.  But
from all accounts there does not seem to be much
reason to be proud of the manner of it."

"Now, Hector, you ought to make allowance for
the nobility.  They have privileges which common
people have not."

"They certainly seem to take them."

"That's not fair to people of rank, Hector.  They
have always been accustomed to do these things.  Now
with Dr. Sinclair, for example, it is quite different.
He belongs to the common people and never had the
chance to be anything else but respectable.  But
Mr. De Vaux and Mr. Carteret are men of quality.  You
couldn't expect them to be teetotallers and—and——"

"Decent," supplied her husband.

"Oh, I didn't mean just that."

"But that's about the fact," persisted Mr. MacAllister.

"No; I never heard anything against them.  Mr. De
Vaux has lived out here a long time.  He may have
fallen into the ways of the East.  But I think that
Mr. Carteret is a perfect gentleman."

Her husband looked at her keenly.

"He seemed to be willing to pay a good deal of
attention to Jessie last evening."

"Yes," she replied, without returning his gaze.
"He appears to be very much attracted by her."

"Was she attracted to him in return?"

"Why shouldn't she be?  He is a handsome and
most accomplished young man, and has the best
prospects of succeeding to the title and estates."

"He is a younger son."

"Yes; but the heir has only one lung."

Her husband gave a short laugh.

"I have known one-lungers to live a long time,"
he said.  "You mentioned Dr. Sinclair a moment
ago.  Whatever offence did Jessie take at him which
led her to treat him so disagreeably?"

Mrs. MacAllister had just finished dressing and
arranging her hair, and was taking a last look at
herself in the mirror.  She closed her lips tightly, threw
back her head, and gave a little sniff:

"So you think she was offended at him," she said.

"What else could make her act the way she did
last evening?"

"I wish that I could believe that you are right.
But I am afraid that you are not."

"What do you mean?"

"I do not believe that she was a bit offended."

"Well, if she wasn't, I cannot see what possessed
her to act so badly.  She did everything she could
to make him uncomfortable.  I feel as if I ought to
make some explanation of her conduct or offer some
apology."

There was another sniff as she answered tartly:

"It would be wiser not to."

"But her behaviour was inexcusable and must have
seemed so to Dr. Sinclair."

"All the better if it should remain so."

"Why?"

She made no answer.

"It seems to me," he continued, "that both you
and she are inexplicable sometimes."

"That is because you have the usual stupidity of
a man about everything in which women are concerned."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE APPEAL OF THE HEROIC`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XIV


.. class:: center large bold

   THE APPEAL OF THE HEROIC

.. vspace:: 2

"Is Jessie ready for breakfast?"

"Yes, she was ready before we were.  She
is on the verandah."

"I think we had better sit down.  There is no use
waiting any longer for De Vaux.  I am afraid that
he is not in a condition to appear.  You had better
call Jessie."

At that moment the tall, graceful figure of their
daughter appeared in the bright light of the
verandah, was framed for an instant in the doorway, and
then came in, seeming to bring a wealth of light and
brightness into the somewhat gloomy apartment
where they were to breakfast.  What a picture she
made!  The rich rose of her cheeks, the masses of
her brown hair, the deep violet eyes were brought
into sharp contrast with the white of her tropic
attire.

Her father's eyes rested on her proudly, but fondly.
Her mother too was proud of her rare young beauty,
as it seemed to irradiate the room and drive away
the shadows.  But her pride in her daughter was
different from the father's.  Mr. MacAllister thought
of her only as their daughter—beautiful, winsome,
teasing sometimes, but so true in her love and
dutifulness that she had never really caused an anxious
thought.  He loved her for her own sake, and hers
alone.  He felt a twinge of pain every time the thought
entered his mind that the day would come when she
would be separated from them.  Mrs. MacAllister
thought of her as possessed not only of grace and
beauty, but of that culture and social training which
she herself so sadly lacked.  She thought of her as
qualified to be a queen in the world of society; dreamed
of the day when she should bear a great, old family
name, perhaps that of a noble house, and should shed
a reflected glory on the MacAllisters, who had
acquired wealth and luxury, but could not contrive a
history.  Hers was a love of ambition.

Was the attitude of the daughter towards her
father and mother an instinctive though perhaps
unconscious response to the differing attitudes of her
parents to her?

"Good-morning, father!  Good-morning, mother!"

The conventional phrases were identical in form.
But there was a world of difference in the accent.  She
kissed her mother somewhat perfunctorily.  But she
threw her arms around her father's neck, kissed him
tenderly, and laid her proud head with its wealth of
hair for a moment on his shoulder.  Then she lifted
it and asked very demurely:

"Is not Mr. De Vaux to breakfast with us this
morning?"

"He promised to do so.  But it is already nearly
half an hour past the time we appointed."

"Perhaps he is still being 'Rocked in the Cradle
of the Deep.'"

"Whist, Jessie, lass!  You mustn't make fun of
people's weakness."

"Father, why do men, when they find themselves
getting drunk, take another glass of whiskey and soda,
'just to straighten up'?  It seems to me that every
glass of it they take makes them sillier and more
stupid than they were before."

"Why do you ask me, Jessie?  You know that I
am almost a teetotaller.  You should answer that
question yourself.  You were championing the cause of
drinking last evening against Dr. Sinclair."

"Now, father, that's not fair."  A slight flush
appeared on her neck and flowed upwards, deepening
the rich colour of her face.  "You know that I didn't
mean that, especially when there were men around
me drinking themselves into imbecility."

"Then, why did you say it?"

Her father's eyes, kindly but keen, were searching
her face.  She felt a fresh wave of hot blood
mounting upwards:

"Oh, I don't know!  You ought to have learned
by this time that a woman cannot always give
reasons even to herself why she does things."

"Well, whatever you did it for, you succeeded in
making Dr. Sinclair very uncomfortable for a while."

"He deserves to be made uncomfortable," she
flashed back.  "He makes other people feel very
uncomfortable sometimes."

She glanced at her mother.  Mrs. MacAllister's lips
were tightly closed.  Her nose was elevated a bit.
She was about to sniff at something.  She had not
time.  A high-pitched voice was heard outside:

"Get out of my way, boy.  Bless my soul!  Chop-chop!
You are most exasperating."

A heavy footstep sounded on the stairway leading
to the second story, where the living-rooms were.
There were short gasps of laboured breathing, and
De Vaux burst into the room, peering blindly in the
semi-darkness after the brilliant sunshine without.

"Good-morning, Mr. De Vaux.  You are just in
time to join us at breakfast.  We thought something
had occurred to detain you.  But we have just this
moment sat down.  Pardon us for not waiting on you.
We are delighted that you are able to be with us."

Mrs. MacAllister was kind, almost effusive, in her
welcome.  But De Vaux could find no words to
excuse his delinquency:

"Mrs. MacAllister! ... I have disgraced
myself....  'Pon my soul! ... Mr. MacAllister! ... This
never happened to me before....  'Pon my
honour, as a gentleman! ... I'm ashamed of
myself....  Miss MacAllister! ... To think that I
was to have the honour of having breakfast with
you—and—I was late! ... Bless my soul! ... I do
not know what to think of myself."

The head of the firm was gravely considerate and
courteous towards the firm's agent, whose weakness
he had noted the evening before.

"Accidents will happen sometimes, Mr. De Vaux.
Allow me to assure you that you have caused us no
inconvenience this morning.  Will you not be seated
and have breakfast with us?"

With some difficulty the stream of De Vaux's apologies
and the succession of his bows were interrupted,
and he was induced to be seated.  But his face was
purple and his eyes were bulging and bloodshot.  Miss
MacAllister could not resist the temptation.

"Mr. De Vaux," she said, "I am afraid that you
have hurried too much in the heat.  The blood has
rushed to your head.  I am really concerned lest you
should have an attack of apoplexy.  I have always
been so afraid of apoplexy since our old butler died
of an attack after celebrating patriotically but
unwisely the bombardment of Alexandria.  Will you
not allow me to order a cold soda for you?  Boy,
one piecee soda, ice cold!"

"All lite!  All lite!  One piecee ise col' soda!"

What more she might have said remains unknown,
for a warning look and a shake of the head from her
farther prevented her pursuing her victim any farther.
As it was, De Vaux was in a state of gurgling,
stuttering impotence:

"Bless my soul! ... Miss MacAllister! ... Who
else would have thought of it? ... Lord! ... Miss
MacAllister! ... You have the kindness of an
angel....  'Pon my soul, you have! ... I assure
you that I am quite well....  Nothing the matter
with me....  Except that I sat up a little late with
Carteret....  Talked over the delightful evening
we had....  Nothing else, I assure you....  'Pon
my honour!"

"And how is Mr. Carteret this morning?" inquired
Mrs. MacAllister solicitously.  "I hope that he is
very well."

"My dear Mrs. MacAllister, make your mind easy
about that.  He is sleeping quite naturally and
soundly....  'Pon my word of honour, he is! ... The
commissioner tried to waken him to go to the
office....  But he couldn't....  Not even with a
bucket of water....  'Pon my soul, that's the
truth!  I never saw a man sleep so soundly....
But he will be all right by this afternoon.  He will
waken up for tennis....   He's our best tennis
player....  Bless my soul!  There's no danger of
his missing the tennis."

Miss MacAllister had tried to control herself
through this exposé.  But by the time De Vaux had
finished the merry peal of laughter rang out without
restraint.  Her mother looked annoyed and mortified.
Her father, scarcely able to conceal a smile, was
diplomatically trying to lead De Vaux to some other
subject.

"Did you chance to hear any more news of how
the day went at Keelung, Mr. De Vaux?" he asked.
"Have any reports come in from the Chinese side?"

"Bless my soul! ... How did I forget to tell
you? ... I met Captain Whiteley as I came
down....  Mrs. MacAllister, that is one of the
reasons why I was late....  'Pon my word!  I was
so upset and ashamed of myself that I could not
present my apologies....  I beg your pardon,
Mr. MacAllister....  Captain Whiteley told me that
Dr. Sinclair was off to the front this morning before
daybreak....  By——! ... 'Pon my soul, I mean,
I was never so surprised in my life."

"Dr. Sinclair!  Off to the front!"  Mr. and
Mrs. MacAllister spoke together.

"Yes," replied De Vaux.  "He has gone to serve
as a doctor with the Chinese army....  Never heard
of a man taking such risk....  It's sheer
suicide....  By——! ... 'Pon my soul, it is!"

Mrs. MacAllister glanced at her daughter, and her
husband's eyes followed.  Miss MacAllister was
sitting up very erect and looking straight at De Vaux.
Her lips were parted.  Her face had paled a little.
But her eyes were dark and glowing.

"Did any one go with him?" she asked abruptly.

"I believe that Sergeant Gorman, the constable at
the consulate——"

"I mean did any of the gentlemen go?  Any of the
gentlemen we met at the consulate last evening?"

"Why!  Bless my soul!  No! ... Not that I
know of!" stuttered De Vaux.

"I wish that I were a man," she flashed back.  "I
would not see one man go out to a dangerous duty
alone."

"But—but, my dear Miss MacAllister," blurted out
De Vaux.  "We did not know that he was going....
'Pon my honour as a gentleman, we did not! ... He
left before we were awake."

"That's one advantage of being a teetotaller," was
the quick reply.

Mrs. MacAllister elevated her nose and gave her
characteristic sniff:

"I think that Dr. Sinclair is simply foolhardy.  It
is perfectly absurd for a man to risk his life for the
sake of those dirty Chinese.  I do not know how any
one can bear to live among them, let alone having
to touch them."  (De Vaux got very red.)  "And as
for going into a whole army of them to heal their
wounds, it's simply Quixotic" (she pronounced it
Kwy-so-tic), "that's all it is; Quixotic."

De Vaux winced at the pronunciation—perhaps
also at the sentiment.  He began to gurgle unintelligibly.
As usual, Mr. MacAllister came to the rescue.

"It was with the hope of getting an opportunity
to do medical work among these people that Dr. Sinclair
came to this country.  I should think that the
present situation offers him an admirable opening.  A
physician or surgeon who is really in love with his
work does not stop to consider whether his patients
are attractive or not.  His one thought is to heal them."

"It is all very good to talk about sacrificing oneself
to do good," replied his wife tartly.  "And when I
am at home I just love to hear missionary sermons, and
sometimes to attend women's missionary meetings.
But to come out here and live among those natives
and think you can make them any better and get them
to know anything about the religion which educated,
intelligent white people believe in, is sheer foolishness.
I am very much disappointed in Dr. Sinclair.  It is
nothing but foolishness."

"I think that it is just splendid to do something
like that," said her daughter.  "Just think of it, to
be over there where hundreds of men are being brought
in wounded and to be the only one who can do anything
for them!  And to have those poor creatures
wonder at the cures!  Why wasn't I a man?"

"Yes, and have one of the dear, grateful creatures
stick a knife into you when your back is turned," said
her mother sarcastically.

But her daughter paid no attention to the interruption:

"Mr. De Vaux, do you know the country over
there, around Keelung, where the fighting is going
on?  Of course you do.  Won't you tell us all about it?"

So through the remainder of the breakfast she plied
De Vaux with questions, and brought out the fact
that he had really a remarkable store of knowledge
about the island and its inhabitants.  And all the
while the father looked on, and occasionally thought of
her conduct the evening before, and wondered.  But
her mother looked unutterable things, ever and anon
interjected an acid remark, which served as pickles to
the bill of fare, and frequently sniffed.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE LURE OF THE EAST`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XV


.. class:: center large bold

   THE LURE OF THE EAST

.. vspace:: 2

Mountain and river, land and sea slept that
afternoon in the wealth of sunshine which
flooded the earth.  A scarcely perceptible
sea-breeze ever and anon caused the lighter foliage
to tremble.  The great fronds of the palm trees hung
absolutely motionless, the air quivered in the heat.
Millions of cicadas shrilled in the trees and
shrubbery.  In some way or another their ceaseless
quavering, shrilling notes seemed to fit in with the quivering
wavelets of atmosphere, until one came to look upon
them as cause and effect and inseparably associated.
That tremulous atmosphere would not be complete
without those quavering notes.  The notes would not
be complete without the atmosphere.

The native birds were all silent.  Only the
English sparrows seemed utterly indifferent to the heat.
They fluttered and chirped and fought just as
cheerfully as they would have done in the soft climate of
their native England or amid the Arctic frosts of a
Western Canadian January.

Human life was almost as quiescent as that of the
birds.  Down by the water-front of the town a
number of junks were hastily loading in order to put to
sea with the late afternoon tide.  Around the *Hailoong*
a little fleet of cargo boats clustered, busily discharging
their lading into her hold.  McLeod had evidently
been successful in his trip up-river.  On the downs
back of the consulate and the mission buildings Chinese
soldiers were mounting cannon of many ages and
designs on their earthworks.

These were the only signs of activity.  The
soldiers and cannon were the only indications of war.
A great quiet rested over the beautiful landscape, a
peace as cloudless as that summer sky.

Clang-clang!  Clang-clang!  Clang-clang!  Clang-clang!
Eight bells!  Four o'clock!  The brazen notes
rang out from the *Hailoong*.  Like an echo they were
answered, only in silver tones as soft and sweet as
those of a cathedral chime.  Involuntarily one looked
around for the church-spire and waited to hear the
hymn tune come floating on the air.  But there was
no church, and there was no holy hymn.  It was the
bell of the trim little gunboat, *Locust*, resting out
there on the bosom of the river striking the hour of
four.

A group of white-clad figures appeared on the
bright green of the consulate lawn.  Other figures clad
in white, men and women, were moving in ones and
twos along the narrow road on the top of the hill or
through the shrubbery of the consul's garden to join
them.  It might be a tropic land and a day of tropic
sunshine.  The natives of that land, all save those
who were compelled to work, might be seeking shelter
from the sun and waiting for the cool of the evening
before again exposing themselves to its rays.  But,
like the sparrows from his home land, the Englishman
could not rest.  The sun had no terrors for him.  If
he had no work to do, he would have sport.  The
whole English-speaking population who could get
away from their duties, whether residents or
transients, were assembling for the afternoon game of
tennis.

Yet they were not foolhardy in their exposure to
the sun.  They took precautions.  Indeed, the
striking thing about their sport was the trouble they had
taken to make it comfortable and enjoyable.

The lawn, if it could not boast the carpet of green
velvet which characterizes an English lawn, was well
covered with close-set grass.  In spite of the efforts
of the great slugs to burrow it into holes and throw
up pyramids of earth, daily rolling had kept it firm
and smooth.  A green wall of hedge, reënforced by
wire netting, surrounded it.  The big bulk of the old
Dutch fort sheltered half of it from the rays of the
declining sun.  An oblong of sail-cloth, stretched
between two tall masts, shaded the other half.  The
players had rarely ever occasion to be exposed to
the sun.  Chinese coolies, in the dark blue and red
uniforms of the consul's service, two behind the
players and two at the net, picked up the balls and handed
them to the players.  Long, comfortable settees and
chairs, and a table laden with cool drinks, nestled
against the hedge in the shadiest corner.

"Really, Mr. Beauchamp, this is the luxury of tennis.
A canopy to shelter us!  Coolies in livery to pick
up the balls!  I'm surprised that you do not have
proxies to run for us, as they do in cricket when the
veterans play.  You really ought to have native boys
to do the running."

"We're working on it, Miss MacAllister; we're
working on it.  Soon we'll be able to give it to the
world.  Brand new game!  Tropical tennis!  Latest
thing in sport!  Four players to a side!  Two in the
inner courts and two in the outer!  Only two rackets
to a side!  Native boys in liveries of smiles and
sunshine to carry rackets from back to forward players
and vice versa, as occasion to meet the ball requires.
Great discovery!  Carteret and I are working on it."

"Magnificent, Mr. Beauchamp!  Magnificent!"
exclaimed Miss MacAllister amidst a burst of laughter.
"You and Mr. Carteret will be catalogued with
Columbus and Sir Isaac Newton among the great
benefactors of the race.  When will you be able to
bestow it upon mankind?  I do hope that it may be
while I am here."

"It would have been before this, were it not that
Carteret and I differ on a small point, a mere detail."

"And what is that?"

"I think it sufficient to provide the players with
easy-chairs in which to rest between strokes.  But
Carteret wants them to be permanently suspended in
hammocks, and that the balls must be so served as to
enable the players to return them without arising from
a reclining position."

There was a peal of laughter at the consul's little
absurdity.  Carteret joined in with the rest.  But his
pallid face flushed at the palpable thrust at his
well-known indolence.

Commander Gardenier was unable to come.  But
his second in command, Lieutenant Lanyon, a young
Irishman, was delighted to escape the routine of duty
on board ship for a day ashore and the company of
some attractive ladies.  With the headlong courage
of his race, whether in love or in war, he immediately
asked Miss MacAllister to be his partner in the first
set, without waiting to see if that were agreeable to
his host, who was arranging the players.  His frank,
boyish, open-eyed admiration of his choice was so
good to see that the consul, usually a bit of an
autocrat in all such matters, laughingly accepted the
situation.

"Carteret, will you take my wife as partner and
defend the honour of the island?  These two reckless
young visitors have evidently taken it upon themselves
to challenge the residents."

"Certainly, Mr. Beauchamp.  I shall be delighted
to have so skilful a partner as Mrs. Beauchamp.  We
shall endeavour to give a good account of ourselves.
From their manner I should judge that our opponents
are perfectly confident of winning."

He looked to where the young naval officer and Miss
MacAllister were standing.  They were already deep
in conversation and apparently entirely oblivious to
the rest of the company.  He heard Lanyon say:

"By Jove! luck has come my way to-day.  Little
did I think when we were ordered to Tamsui that
there would be such fortune before me as to meet
any one like you.  It does my heart good just to look
at you."

Miss MacAllister laughed merrily.

"Do you always express yourself so frankly on
so short acquaintance, Mr. Lanyon?" she asked.
"I'm afraid that I cannot believe much of that.  I
think that you are Irish.  You probably said the same
thing to the last partner you had."

"By my soul, I did not.  How could I?  She was
forty if she was a day, and ugly as sin."

His partner's laugh pealed out again.  There was
no resisting such an implication.

"Very nicely put, Mr. Lanyon.  Now I know that
you are Irish."

Just then Mrs. Beauchamp called to them:

"Come, come, Mr. Lanyon.  I cannot allow this.
You are monopolizing Miss MacAllister and
delaying the play."

"By my faith," was the quick reply, "it's myself
that would be mortial glad to monopolize her."

"Oh, Mr. Lanyon, this is shocking.  On less than
half an hour's acquaintance, too!  If you say anything
more like that I'll not be your partner."

"Then, if there's any danger of your leaving me,
I'll take it all back with my mouth; but I'll think it
in my heart just the same."

Carteret's pale face, a little paler to-day than usual,
had the same expression of studied contempt as when
he met Sinclair the evening before.  His lips parted
to utter some sarcastic remark when Mrs. Beauchamp
interposed:

"It's your service, Miss MacAllister.  Will you
not begin?"

In a moment the lawn was animate with the quick-moving
white figures of the players, and the blue and
red of the attendant coolies.  The contestants were
all experts at the sport, and the set might have been
prolonged indefinitely had it not been that Lanyon
would not serve a fast ball to Mrs. Beauchamp.  Again
and again she assured him that she was quite
capable of receiving a fast service and that he must
not throw the game away.  But the young lieutenant's
Irish gallantry would not allow him to volley such
balls at her as he drove at Carteret.  On the other
hand, the latter had no such scruples, but played to
win.  Consequently he and his partner did win rather
handily.

When the set was over and others had taken their
places, Carteret found an opportunity to engage Miss
MacAllister in conversation as they were seated in
the shade of the old fort.

"I was disappointed not to have the pleasure of
being your partner," he said.  "I had been looking
forward to it all day."

Instantly there flashed into her mind the picture
of him De Vaux had painted that morning at breakfast,
and she could scarcely repress a laugh.  She
wondered to herself how much of the day he had
been in a condition to think of her.  But she answered
readily:

"I should be very pleased to be your partner for
a set, Mr. Carteret.  There will probably be an
opportunity later.  You are an expert at tennis."

"We all ought to be experts in this place," he
replied.  "We get plenty of practice.  Outside of office
hours there are only two pastimes open to us—cards
on wet days and tennis when the weather is fine."

"Why," she exclaimed, "I should not have thought
that!  From what I have seen of Tamsui, I think that
it is quite lively.  With dinners and tennis, with
warships coming and going, with always the possibility of
seeing a row among the Chinese or between them
and somebody else, I think it must be really exciting
living here.  I should think that it would be great
sport."

"You may think so, Miss MacAllister, from what
you have seen of it.  But the condition you have seen
is quite abnormal.  We do not have London merchants
nor ladies from London drawing-rooms visiting us
every week.  Neither do we have the company of naval
officers on ordinary occasions.  Perhaps, if we had
more ladies, we might have the attention and
protection of our gallant seamen more frequently."

His voice had the sneering tone of the evening
before.  Miss MacAllister's eyes flashed ominously.
He saw the danger signal and quickly changed the tone
and the topic:

"Really, Miss MacAllister, as a general rule this
place is beastly dull.  There are so few to associate
with.  No matter how enjoyable their company may
be at first, it simply becomes unbearable when you
have no one else, don't you know?"

"Do you think that is a universal rule, Mr. Carteret?"

He saw that he had made a tactical blunder, beat
a hasty retreat, and executed a flank attack:

"I assure you, Miss MacAllister, that I had
reference only to those with whom one is forced to
associate in the casual relations of life.  We are not
associated by choice, but by the caprice of fortune
or by compulsion.  And the realization of the
compulsion makes the association the more unbearable.
We get to hate the very sight of one another."

"I can quite understand that," she replied.  "I
learned that when I had to spend a year in a very
select boarding-school, with a principal and teachers
whom I hated, and not one girl of whom I could make
a real friend.  I was more alone than if I had been
like Robinson Crusoe on his island."

He was quick to pursue the advantage:

"That is it exactly.  I should be far less lonely
if I were entirely alone or if I had only one
companion, so long as that companion were congenial."

She looked sympathetically at him, but did not
speak.

"That is the tragedy of life in the Far East," he
continued.  "That is why so many men take to
drink."

She thought of the evening before and of what De
Vaux had let out at breakfast.  She said nothing;
so he went on:

"That is why so many men become inveterate gamblers;
why so many who came out with high hopes of
accomplishing something end by committing suicide."

As he talked on in this strain, quietly, yet evidently
with deep feeling, Miss MacAllister began to ask
herself if she had not, in her own mind, judged this
young aristocrat too harshly.  Perhaps he was not so
bad as she had thought him the evening before, when
she had refused any longer to play his accompaniments.
Perhaps there was some excuse for his being
in the condition which De Vaux had blundered out to
them that morning.

At any rate, he seemed to be revealing to her
another side of his character.  She had met him first as
the graceful, polished man of the world, a little cynical
perhaps, and yet so courteous in his manners towards
her as to hide the unpleasant characteristics.  She had
noted his contemptuous attitude towards Sinclair, his
look and tone of studied insult.  She had caught a
glimpse of the greedy, lustful expression in his eyes
as he bent over her at the piano, and, before the
evening was done, the leer of intoxication.

But here was another aspect which she had not
looked for.  Without appearing to seek sympathy, he
was appealing to her feelings, and in spite of herself
she responded:

"I had not thought of the life out here in that
way," she said.  "It had appeared quite fascinating
to me."

"So it appears to nearly everybody at first.  But
after a while it palls upon them.  At last it becomes
unbearable."

"Then why do they not go home, or to Australia
or America or somewhere else where they would be
among their own people?"

"We are forgotten at home.  We should be
strangers there.  And as for Australia or America,
life out here unfits a man to succeed in lands where
everybody must be his own servant and where there
is no road to success but by hard work."

A little ray of comprehension shot into Miss
MacAllister's mind.  It was with a touch of impatience
that she answered:

"But, Mr. Carteret, you do not mean to say that
you have been long enough here to unfit you for work
anywhere else.  If you do not like the life, why do
you stay here?"

"*Pro bono familiæ*," he replied with a bitter laugh.
"Because of the affection of my beloved elder
brother."

"The consul tells me that he enjoys himself here,"
she said, avoiding any discussion of his family
affairs.  "He says that there is very good shooting
and some of the best sea-bathing he has ever
experienced."

"He is welcome to the shooting, tramping over the
hills and through the rice fields in a climate like this.
As for the bathing, any pleasure in it is spoiled by
the walk home in the heat afterwards."

At that instant the consul, who was playing, returned
a ball with such a screw on it that after falling
in his opponent's court it bounded back over the net.
His opponent, in a mad effort to return it, plunged
headlong into the net and fell.  In celebration of which
achievement the consul threw his racket high in the
air, turned a handspring, and ended up by reversing
himself and walking across the court on his hands,
with his feet in the air.

"Splendid, Mr. Beauchamp!" cried Miss MacAllister.
"Brilliantly done!  Especially the gymnastic
performance!"

"Right-oh, Miss MacAllister!" exclaimed a deep
voice behind her.  "The consul is acrobat enough to
make a shining success as a sailor man."

It was Captain Whiteley, come up to drink a cup of
tea and say good-bye before casting off for Hong-Kong.

"Oh, Captain Whiteley, I'm so glad to see you
before you go!  But what is this I hear?  You have
let your doctor go off to Keelung to carve Chinese,
and perhaps be carved himself.  I am surprised at you."

"Not my fault, I assure you, Miss MacAllister.  He
was bound to go.  He is of age.  I could not restrain
him."

"I think it is just splendid of him to go.  That
is the sort of thing I admire in a man.  If I were a
man, that is what I should like to do."

"I am awfully glad, Miss MacAllister, that Sinclair
has at last done something which pleases you.
I was beginning to be afraid that you were offended
with him past the possibility of reconciliation."

She looked at him sharply.  His face was lamblike
in its innocence, but his eyes were twinkling.

"That will do, Captain Whiteley.  You have said
quite enough."

The telltale colour deepened in her face, and her
mother, who was talking to Carteret nearby, heard
and saw, closed her lips tightly, and sniffed.

The little party of white-clad players were still on
the lawn when the *Hailoong* moved down the river,
zigzagged her way through the field of mines, and
once well beyond the bar steamed straight out over
the motionless sea in the path of red-gold light from
the setting sun.  It seemed the breaking of the one
link between them and the outside world.  In the soft
stillness of that evening in the Orient, London with
its mud and smoke, its roar of traffic, its drab colours
and familiar, unromantic life, seemed so far away
that it might have belonged to another world.

Strange to say, it was not of London that Miss
MacAllister was thinking.  Again and again she
surprised herself thinking of the big, fair-haired
Canadian doctor.  She tried to picture to herself his
surroundings amid the sick and suffering, the men
torn with shot and shell.  She could not help
contrasting them with the peaceful environment of the
consul's tennis party, where men had been enjoying
themselves in the company of the ladies, and
incidentally emptying long glasses of whiskey and soda
or sipping tea.

She recalled the looks of the man himself, his
clean-cut features, straightforward gaze, his good-humour
even when she was badgering him, and the hearty,
boyish laugh when he and McLeod were plotting some
mischief together.  Involuntarily she contrasted him
with the cynical discontent, the weary air and self-pity
of the man with whom she had talked that afternoon.
If Sinclair could have known her conclusions,
he would have been well content.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`SERGEANT WHATISNAME`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XVI


.. class:: center large bold

   SERGEANT WHATISNAME

.. vspace:: 2

But Sinclair did not know.  Perhaps at that
moment he was not thinking much about her.  He
was just entering on his long night's work
among the wounded.  Every power of mind was
concentrated on the problem of those pain-racked human
beings and how to relieve their sufferings.

And yet ever and anon, when he had finished an
operation and his mind relaxed as his hands almost
mechanically followed the familiar process of
bandaging, a picture floated before his eyes.  It was only
a transparency, through which he could see every line
of the brown limb or body he was binding up with
care But it was as clear to him as though it had
been done on canvas by the brush of a painter.  It
was the picture of a proudly-carried head, with a
crown of brown hair, a beautiful oval face with rich
colour, dark violet eyes dancing with fun, and full red
lips parted in a teasing laugh, which made the hot
blood tingle in his face at the very memory of it.

As the days passed by he had more time to think
of that face.  The first strenuous days over, the
pressure on his time and strength relaxed somewhat.  A
number of the greatest sufferers died.  But in the
majority of cases the singular toughness and marvellous
recuperative power of the Chinese seconded his skilful
surgery.  Many a man who, if he had belonged to
any Western nation, would have been invalided home,
never to be able to rejoin the colours, in ten days or
two weeks' time left the hospital and returned to his
regiment.  There were but few wounded being
brought in.  The French were unable to advance
beyond the shore line.  The Chinese were unable to
dislodge the French from the foothold they had obtained.
Consequently, for nearly a month after the bombardment
there was little fighting.

The weather, though exceedingly hot, was not
unhealthy.  In any case, those who might be sick
preferred to go to their own doctors for medical
treatment.  While they acknowledged the superiority of
the foreigner in surgery, they unhesitatingly
maintained that their own physicians were unequalled in
their knowledge of medicine.

The most common disease was the ever-present malarial
fever.  It was caused by two devils—the negative
devil who industriously fanned the victim to give
him chills and the positive devil who worked a
furnace overtime to give him his spells of fever.  As
the foreign surgeon was a stranger to the country and
supposed to have little acquaintance with those diligent
devils, the preference was given to the incantations
of native priests or the indescribable decoctions
of native doctors.

As a result, Sinclair's duties had grown lighter
every day.  The service, which at first had taxed to the
utmost even his splendid strength and vigour, had
become less and less arduous, until, except for the
necessity of living on native food, he had come to look
upon it as a sort of picnic.  Most of the dressings and
all the preliminary examinations of new cases he was
able to leave to his assistants.  Dr. MacKay had gone
to visit his converts at various places where bands
of freebooters, taking advantage of the disturbed state
of the country, had thrown themselves upon the
defenceless Christians, robbing, maltreating, torturing,
and sometimes putting to death.  But he left behind
his student companions, whose knowledge of dressing
wounds and giving simple treatments and acting the
part of nurses, relieved the surgeon of much of his
burden.

But it was principally on Sergeant Gorman that he
had learned to rely.  Every day revealed some new
capability in that versatile Irishman.  It was,
however, in drilling and instructing an ambulance brigade
that his capability was most evident.  He was a
master of the art of teaching men any form of military
drill.  But he was more than that.  He was a born
leader of men.  Sinclair marvelled at the rapidity
with which these uncouth, chattering Chinese
peasants, who never by any accident had kept step for a
dozen paces, and who never ceased their jabbering at
any command given by their own officers, were reduced
to silence and mastered squad and stretcher drill.
They were raw material to begin with.  Some of them
were worse.  The Chinese officers had drafted into
this service some of the roughest characters in their
regiments, to be rid of them.  Yet these, who were
accustomed to threaten to shoot their own officers
when an unwelcome command was given, gave
absolute and prompt obedience to this red-headed foreign
devil, whom they had never seen till a few days
before, who spoke their language imperfectly, and
carried no weapon save a bit of a withe he had cut for
a swagger-stick.

As Sinclair looked on he could not help but
wonder at the shortsightedness and snobbery in the
British army, which made officers of callow youths who
knew nothing of war or leadership, and many of
whom never would, and refused a commission to a
man like this, whose mastery of men amounted to
genius.

The middle of the month had passed.  It was drawing
towards sunset of a hot August day.  The two men
who had already grown into a fast friendship were out
where the courtyard of their improvised hospital
opened on the bank of the river.  One of the wings
and a clump of bamboos sheltered them from the still
ardent rays of the sun.  The evening breeze was just
beginning to breathe along the river.

Dr. Sinclair was stretched on a long, bamboo
reclining chair, which had been sent him from the
headquarters of General Liu Ming-chuan.  His hands were
clasped behind his head.  He was looking up at the
sky, where an occasional fleck of cloud was changing
from white to gold and crimson in the light of the
sunset.  In his white trousers, white canvas shoes,
white negligée shirt, open at the neck, and with the
shadow of a smile playing about his eyes and mouth,
he looked the very personification of whole-hearted
content.  Sergeant Gorman was sitting opposite to
him on a camp-chair of his own construction, smoking
a short dudeen.

That afternoon General Liu Ming-chuan, accompanied
by his staff, had paid a visit of inspection
to their hospital.  With a frankness and candour
which could not be misunderstood, he had commended
the work they had done, and on his own behalf and
that of China had thanked them for their services.
While his visit and appreciation were pleasant to them
personally, it meant more than that.  Henceforth
there was to be no more of the open opposition they
had experienced from the native doctors and priests,
and even from some of the officers.  It was no
wonder that Sinclair was feeling well content.

"Do you know, Gorman, this job suits me fine.  If
I could get a permanent sit at something like this,
with enough salary to live decently, I think I could
be happy."

"An' if you do," replied Gorman, dropping back
into the brogue as he always did when he was in
good-humour, whether fighting or chatting with a
friend—"an' if you do, wud you jist kape me in
moind as your furst assistant?"

"That I would," replied Sinclair.  "I do not know
how I should get along without you."

"Begorra, an' it's glad I am to hear you say so;
for it's more p'ace of moind I have here than iver I've
had since the furst toime me mother-in-law came to
bliss me home wid her prisince—since she furst beamed
upon us like the sun thr'u' a gatherin' storm."

"The only thing which catches me here is the grub.
I do not like this Chinese chow."

"Faith thin, it seems to like you."

"How's that?"

"You're gettin' fat on it."

"Do you really think so?"

"Bedad and I don't think so.  I'm sure of it."

Sinclair solicited tested the tightness of his belt;
lazily raised himself and examined it to find out at
what hole it was buckled.

"Afraid you're wrong this time, Gorman.  Not
getting it round the waist anyway.  Buckled in the
same hole and not a bit tighter than before.

"Thin you're gettin' it round the jaws of you.
Checks and double chin loike a howly father starvin'
in Lent."

"Surely it's not so bad as that!  I'll have to get
more exercise.  Nothing like training to keep down
flesh.  Run four or five miles of a morning.  That's
what will do it."

"Bedad thin, if that's thrue, that American gineral
the Chinese have must have run all the way from
Ameriky.  Did iver you clap your two eyes on such
a split-the-wind?"

"He sure is thin," replied Sinclair in the idiom of
his native land.  "As we used to say in Canada, he'd
be handy to send on an errand down a pump."

"Faith," replied the Irishman, determined not to
be beaten in exaggeration, "the pump would need to
have a good valve or he'd leak out."

"You have it," laughed Sinclair.  "I'll quit."

"Now, what do you make of him, anyway?"

"New England Yankee by his twang.  Vermont by
his build.  Been in the South by his pronunciation
of some words.  But when he swears Montana is
written all over him."

Now, if that isn't divilish cliver of you to spot
him loike that!  Now, isn't it?  But did ever you hear
such a name?  Silas Z. Leatherbottom!  Be the powers,
if I had a name loike that, I'd change it or die
in the attempt.  Silas Z. Leatherbottom!"

"It would have been a mighty handy name to have
had when you were under the Wallopin' Master,"
retorted Sinclair.

"Whisht now, docther dear.  It's unfeelin' of you
to call up painful memories.  May the saints forgive
me, but I cannot sit comfortable an' think of him."

Sinclair's boyish, care-free laugh rang out as
Gorman left his camp-stool and began to pace restlessly
up and down, making grimaces and gestures, half
vengeful, half humorous.

"Be the powers of Knocktopher, but it wud be
a pleasure jist to be twishtin' this bit of a shtick about
the big body of him.  The yells of him wud be the
sw'atest music in me ears, barrin' always the lament
at me mother-in-law's wake."

"Egskews me, gentlemen" (with a marked emphasis
on the "me").  "Egskews me for intrewding
on yewr private deliberations.  But I had a leetle
proposition to make to one of yew gentlemen, an' I
reckoned thet yew wouldn't object to me droppin' in
on yew t' talk it over."

"Certainly not, General Leatherbottom," replied
Sinclair, rising to receive him.  "We are delighted
to have you call.  Have a seat."

Sergeant Gorman had clapped his swagger-stick
under his left arm, clicked his heels together, stood at
attention, and saluted as if by instinct.

"Naow, by the Jumpin' Jemina, thet's what I call
neatly done.  Thet's whar yew Britishers get away
on us.  When it comes to fightin' we kin fight.  Don't
take no second place to ennybody I ever met, an' I've
met some few in my time.  But when it comes to
takin' Indians or niggers or Chinks in hand lickin'
them into shape, an' teachin' them haow to fight
civilized thet's whar you've got us beat to a stand-still."

He was a tall man, a very tall man, two or three
inches over six feet.  But he was narrow-shouldered
slab-sided, and marvellously thin.  His small head
seemed lost in a great cavern of a sun-helmet.  A long,
faded, yellow moustache drooped over the hollow
cheeks and angular jaws.  He sat down on the
proffered camp-chair, hitching a holster containing a huge
.44 Colt round a little more to one side, to allow him
to sit back with comfort.  His legs were so long that
his knees stuck up at an acute angle.  When he threw
one over the other, they were so thin that they seemed
to twine around each other in serpentine fashion.

He accepted a pipe, lighted it, leaned forward with
one sharp elbow on a sharp knee, the hand helping
to hold the pipe in his mouth as he talked.  The other
arm was across his knee and the long, bony hand
hanging down.

"Ef yew gentlemen will egskews me, I'll make my
proposition, an' we'll perceed to bizness.  But fust
I'd like t' give yew a leetle of my auttybiography, so's
yew'll understand the sityewation."

With many quaint oaths and ingenious expletives,
he told how he had served as a private in a Vermont
infantry regiment in the Civil War, had been wounded
and taken prisoner.  After the war he had drifted
into the cavalry and been engaged in Indian wars in
the Dakotas and Montana.  He was with Benteen's
companies when Custer and his three hundred were
massacred by the Sioux under Sitting Bull and Crazy
Horse.  Then he had turned miner, and after much
experience in the Black Hills, as well as in Montana
and Idaho, had drifted to Formosa and had been engaged
in developing gold workings but a little distance
from where they sat when the war broke out.

"An' naow, gentlemen, I'm a general of brigade in
the service of His Imperial Majesty of China, gettin'
's much dust in a month 's I could in a year of minin'.
An' thet's why I am fur the time bein' a dewtiful
subject of His Imperial Bigness.

"Mebbe yew'll b'lieve me, I hev seen sum fightin'.
An' I ain't partiklar ef I see sum more.  An' I hev
idears whar t' plant an army, an' haow t' plan a
defence or lay a trap.  But this bizness of drillin' Chinks
so's they'll walk t'gether, an' shoot t'gether, and dew
what they're told without all talkin' at once like the
sisters at a meetin'-house sewin'-bee, an' all gettin'
tied up into a gol-durned tarnation tangle, thet's what
knocks the spots off yewrs trewly.

"Naow, gentlemen, my proposition is thet the
sergeant here jest step over with me to General Liew,
an' take service with him till the end of the war.  The
general was mighty pleased with thet ar ambulance
corpse of yourn.  He'd make you a kurnel, second in
command of a brigade.  An' the spondoolix!  Lots of
it!  Got it to burn!  More'n a candidate for congress
at election time!  Money don't count with him no
haow.  Ef yew lick these ar Chinks into fightin'
shape, I'll plan the campaign an' we'll whale those
*parley-voos* into the sea in no time.  Then we'll get a
concession an' the gold mine.  Naow, what dew yew
think of thet?"

"That sounds pretty good, sergeant," said Sinclair.
"It looks like a chance for you.

"Thet's what I call a putty payin' proposition.  Will
yew take it?"

"Thank you, sir; I think not."

Leatherbottom opened his small, light-blue eyes as
wide as the cavernous depths of their sockets would
allow, removed the pipe from his mouth, and spat far
out into the river:

"Naow will yew tell me haow it is thet yew will
not take on a payin' proposition like thet?  Dew yew
forget the spondoolix?"

"I do not, sir."

"Then, will yew tell me why?"

"I have fought for twenty-four years under one
flag.  There is only one other that I would fight
under."

"I presyewme thet is the stars and stripes, the flag
of the Yew.S.A.?"

"It is not, sir."

"Then, will yew tell me what flag it is?" asked the
general in evident surprise.

"The green flag with the golden harp, the flag of
a self-governing Ireland!"

"But there ain't no army 'lowed to carry sech a
flag."

"Then, till there is, I'll still fight under the old
flag and the old queen I have served more than half
my life."

"An' yew air an' Irishman?"

"Yes, sir."

"An' a Roman Catholic?"

"I am, sir."

"Wall—I'll—be—gol—durned!"

Sergeant Gorman's moustache and eyebrows fairly
bristled.  The little, shrewd blue eyes of the Indian
fighter were quick to notice it:

"Egskews me, sergeant; I ain't meant no offence.
'Twas only thet I had been informed thet the Irish
will hev a Fourth-of-July celebration the day the
Yewnion Jack gits out of thet ar island fur good."

"Then you were misinformed, sir."

"Wall, I reckon it's a case of live an' l'arn.  When
I was t' hum I thought the Yew.S.A. were putty near
the hull thing.  When I came out here I putty soon
found out they warn't.  When I was in our country,
a-listenin' to the politicians, I thought every Irishman
was jest thirstin' fur the blood of the English.  I came
out here an' naow yew tell me they ain't.  Will you
egskews me?  I hev sum things t' l'arn yet."

"Certainly, sir.  We all make mistakes."

"Thank yew.  But why yew'd refewse t' change
yewr flag when yew knew thet the spondoolix was
sure, thet beats me.  Oh, wall, I reckon every man
has his own way of lookin' at things.  Say, doctor,
whar's the elder?"

"Do you mean Dr. MacKay?';

"Sartin."

"Oh, he left several days ago to visit some of his
converts.  I guess the heathen have been roughing
things a bit and making it hot for the Christians.  He
went to see if he could help them out."

"Do he carry weepons?"

"I believe not."

"Wall, thet beats all.  I've seen some putty nervy
things.  I've seen whar Custer an' his three hundred
rode slap-bang into Sittin' Bull an' his red devils on
the Little Big Horn, an' got skulped, every man of
them.  But they hed guns an' hed a chance.  But t' go
out among these ar yellow heathen, when they're
rampagin' fur the blood of furriners, without so much 's
even a .32 t' put the fear of God into them thet's
what I call temptin' Providence.  It's givin' Providence
a chance t' let them dew their durndest and save
itself the trubble of interferin'."

The sun had gone down and the moon had taken
its place riding in silver radiance across the
cloudless sky.  General Leatherbottom rose to go.
Sinclair and Gorman accompanied him through the
hospital to the street door.  A squad of the sergeant's
ambulance corps, who were on guard, presented arms
with the precision and unity of European veterans.

With democratic freedom the general thrust his
long, bony hand first into Sinclair's, then into
Gorman's:

"Never seen the beat of thet ambulance corpse of
yourn, fur the time yew've had 'em.  But, by the
Jumpin' Jemina, I'd like to hev seen yew lickin' the
regiments of my brigade into shape."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`WOLVES AND THEIR PREY`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XVII


.. class:: center large bold

   WOLVES AND THEIR PREY

.. vspace:: 2

The end of August found the French and
Chinese in the same state of impasse.  As a
consequence there was little bloodshed, and few
wounded were being brought into the hospital.  If it
had not been for the shocking carelessness of the
Chinese in handling firearms and explosives, there
would have been almost none.  Time began to hang
somewhat heavy on the hands of Dr. Sinclair and his
assistant.

"Getting mighty slow here," he remarked to
Gorman one day.

"Slower than promotion for merit in the service,"
was the reply.

"You haven't it so bad.  You can always amuse
yourself drilling 'that ambulance corpse of yourn,' as
General Leatherbottom calls it."

"Divil a bit:  There's nothin' more for me to t'ache
thim.  Tuk till it loike ducks to wather.  Can
imitate me till if they were wanst in service outfit I'd
swear it was the multiplication table of meself
a'marchin' down the road."

Sinclair laughed.

"That's just what I've been noticing," he said.
"When you took hold of them every man jack toed
in.  Now they all turn their toes out at a little more
than an angle of forty-five degrees, just as you do.
And right down to that little spindly chap, twenty-five
inches around the hips, they all strut as if they were
as broad in the beam as yourself."

"Bedad thin, I'm not the only wan!  It's the same
wid your bhoys inside.  They're jist reduced copies
of yourself.  They bate Banagher for imitation."

"Suppose we leave those fellows to look after things
for a couple of days and run over to Tamsui while
business is slack.  If things were to brighten up a
bit here, we might not get another chance."

"Faith, an' I'm wid you.  But, begorra, we had better
see to it that each of us has a bit of a shtick an'
a gun handy.  I hear that there are disturbances
iverywhere, an' it's little manners the haythen are
showin' to Europeans since the Frinch shtarted to mix
it up wid thim."

"The last time he passed, Dr. MacKay told me
that there was a good deal of rioting and some
murdering.  But he seemed to go about his work as if
it were perfectly safe.  And, so far as I could find
out, he never carries any weapons."

"May the saints preserve him, that is a man!  I
was born a Roman Catholic, an' I intind to die a
Roman Catholic.  But, if it was advice about me sowl's
salvation I was wantin'—and betune you an' me I'm
needin' it badly enough—it's to him I'd go rather than
to a church full of the priests that are feedin' fat on
me paternal estate."

Their arrangements were soon made, and they were
off.  Even on the much-travelled way between the camp
before Keelung and the capital there were evidences
of disorder and lawlessness.  Bands of marauders
were out.  Many of them were well armed, as they
included numbers of irregular levies who had deserted
with the arms and ammunition with which they had
been supplied when they enlisted.  Wayfarers had
been robbed, and some who resisted had been
murdered.  Lonely farmhouses were looted and burned.
In some cases the men were killed and the women
foully abused.  Some considerable towns had been
attacked and terrorized into paying tribute.

But it was on the native Christians that the heaviest
blow fell.  Nearly everywhere they were hounded
down, their little churches were destroyed, their
houses were ransacked, their goods pillaged, and
themselves cruelly beaten and tortured.  Even when
they succeeded in reaching hiding-places, they were
often betrayed by their own relatives and given over
to the inhuman cruelties of the heathen.

So serious was the danger that the consul issued
a warning to his nationals and those of other nations
for whom he acted not to venture beyond the limits
of the port, where they could be under the protection
of the gunboat, as well as of the Chinese garrison.  At
that moment Dr. MacKay, Sinclair, and Gorman were
the only white men who were outside of the protection
of large forces of disciplined soldiers.

Several times on their way Sinclair and his
companion were faced by armed men.  But they moved
resolutely forward.  As the marauders opened up to
let them pass Sinclair caught the word "I-seng" (the
life-healer), while Gorman laughed to hear himself
described as "Añg-mñg-kui (the red-haired devil).
Their reputations had preceded them and stood them
in good stead.

Elsewhere tragedies were being enacted.  Five or
six miles south of the road which they were travelling,
nestling in among the foothills of the great
mountain-chain which occupied all the centre of the
island, was the prosperous town of Sin-tiam.  There
the missionary had gathered together a congregation
of worshippers and built a church of unplastered
stone.

With the eye for beauty in nature which characterized
him, he had chosen a site at one end of the
town, where a little dell smiled between some
verdured hills and the river.  In front of the church
door lay a beach of shingle, round which curved the
swift, clear green waters of the Sin-tiam River.  Its
farther bank rose steeply from the water's edge, a
hillside luxuriant with trees and vines, ferns and grasses,
their vivid green all starred with roses and
morning-glories, or the massed beauties of myrtle-trees and
honeysuckle.  Behind the first abrupt hill rose higher
hills, and beyond these mountains, in whose
impenetrable jungles and savage retreats the wild
headhunters had their home.  Behind these again giant
peaks towered into the heavens.

Into this paradise of beauty, bloodthirsty, heathen
men burst and their rage turned it into a perdition.
Early one fair summer morning the black flags of a
party of marauders were seen approaching the town.
The respectable citizens, whether heathen or Christian,
hurriedly closed and barricaded their shops and
houses.  The worst element of the population rushed
out to join the freebooters.

Like a pack of hungry wolves they entered the
town on the run, yelling, screaming, beating drums,
blowing horns, firing their guns.  It was evident that
they had a concerted plan, for they did not halt, but
with yelp and yell and animal snarl they swept
through to the far end, where the Christian church
was situated.  They poured into the native preacher's
house, which adjoined the church.  It was deserted.
At the first alarm some of the Christians had rushed
to the church, and hurried their pastor and his
family by a circuitous route to a safe hiding-place.  They
knew that he would be the first victim.  They hoped
that their own obscurity would be their protection.

After a vain search for the preacher, the black-flags
returned to loot his house and destroy everything they
could not carry away.  Then they began to search
for other victims.  Unfortunately in their haste the
pastor and his friends had forgotten the roll of church
members, which was in the drawer of the desk on the
church platform.  It was the death warrant of some
of the flock.

With yells of savage delight the persecutors tore
it open and began to read out the names:

He was a tolerably well-to-do merchant.  At the
mention of his name the mob scented plunder, and
the most active fairly fought with one another in
the rush to be foremost for the spoil.  Lee Soon
had sent his wife and daughter to a hiding-place in
a forsaken mine in the neighbourhood.  With his
young son he remained to take care of his property.
On the first assault of the mob he tried to parley with
them and offered them gifts if they would leave him
unmolested.

"Do you think that we would take part when we
intend to get all?" was the jeering reply.

"We'll have no parley with friends of the foreign
devils," yelled others.

All the while a rain of bricks and stones fell on
the barricades he had hastily put up.  Others climbed
on the roof and tore off the tiles.  In a short time
a breach was made and they rushed in.  Lee Soon was
seized by the hair and dragged out over the piles of
bricks and rubbish.  Every one who could get a kick
at him, a blow with a bamboo pole or the butt of a
gun, gave it with insensate fury.  At last he lay
bleeding and unconscious in the midst of the street.  But
the mob still trampled upon him.

"Now will you go into the barbarian's religion?"
cried one.

"Where is your God now?" shrieked another.

Meanwhile others were stripping the house and shop
of its contents.  Others still were searching high and
low for the women of the household.  Enraged at
not finding them, they dragged out his son, Lee Ien,
a mere youth, kicking and beating him as they had
done his father.

"He has given his sisters to the foreign devils."

"Might as well give them to the beasts, for the
foreign devils are the offspring of beasts."

"We'll teach him to give the women of our
country to foreign devils."

Dragging the unfortunate youth to a tree, they
threw the end of his long braid of hair over a branch
and pulled until he was lifted off the ground.  Then
they spit on him, jeered him, and prodded him with
their poles, making his body swing to and fro.

"Now will you forsake this Jesus faith and go back
to the gods of your ancestors?"

Around his neck and from various parts of the torn
scalp blood was oozing and trickling down.  The
body writhed in agony.  The youth, really only a
boy in years, was alone, ringed round by foes.  From
the drawn, quivering lips came the prayer:

"Lord Jesus Christ, help me!  Jehovah God, give
me strength!"

A wild yell arose from another part of the town.
More victims had been found.  There was more loot.
Those who had been torturing Lee Ien were anxious
to get a share.  They released their hold on his hair
and rushed off with the others.  He fell in a limp
heap on the ground.

With the physical toughness of his race, he soon
recovered and hurried to where he had last seen his
father.  He found that a heathen neighbour, more
pitiful than the rest, had carried him into a place of
safety and had brought him back to consciousness.

Tan Siong had escaped, but came back to help some
of his fellow-believers.  He accomplished this and
effected their escape.  But it was by sacrificing
himself.  He was caught, and being a man of some
prominence special tortures were devised.  Sharp-edged
splits of bamboo were placed between the fingers of
both hands.  Cords were wound tightly around the
fingers, pressing the angles of the bamboo into the
flesh.

"Will you forsake the black-bearded foreign devil?"

"Pastor MacKay has never done me anything but
good.  He healed me when I was sick.  He saved my
son's life when he had the fever.  Why should I
forsake him?"

The cords were drawn more tightly.  The blood
oozed out around his nails and along the edges of the
bamboo.

"Will you give up the barbarian's religion and go
back to the gods our ancestors worshipped from of old?"

"The gods our ancestors worshipped are only idols.
They cannot see or hear or understand our prayers.
I cannot go back to them.  I believe in Jehovah God,
maker of heaven and earth——"

A rifle butt fell with a sickening thud on his head
and, with the blood still oozing from his finger-tips,
Tan Siong lay senseless on the earth.  His tormentors
rushed off to find other victims to rob and maltreat.

So the morning wore away.  There were about
forty families of Christians.  Probably the majority
of the individuals in them escaped with their lives,
and by keeping in hiding did not suffer torture.  But
all lost their possessions.  Many were put to the test
of indescribable physical agony.  Yet they did not
deny their faith.

There were two, a man and his wife, so humble
that they thought they might be overlooked.  They
could not flee.  They were both between sixty and
seventy years of age.  The wife's feet, crushed and
broken by being bound for a lifetime, would not bear
her in flight.  Her husband, with a devotion rare
in a Chinese and the more beautiful because of its
rarity, determined to stay with her and meet his fate
whatever it might be.  They hoped that their
insignificance might save them.

But Lim Tsu had for many years been a maker of
idols.  Then he had lost faith in those gilded bits of
wood or plaster he had so long offered to others to
worship.  He had heard strange words from some
native Christians.  Then he had heard them from the
lips of the foreign pastor.  After long hesitation he
gave up the beliefs of his fathers, gave up the
practices of a lifetime, what was harder still, gave up the
means of a livelihood, and accepted the Christian
faith.  From that hour Lim Tsu was a marked man.
He was the worst of renegades.

His name and that of his wife, Oo-a, were nearly
the last upon the communion roll, for they had been
but recently received.  When they were read out a
howl like that of a pack of wild beasts went up from
the mob, and with one consent they flocked pell-mell
towards the humble cottage of the former image-maker.
He heard them coming, and with his aged
wife met them outside the door.  Was it something
in the calm demeanour of the old couple, standing
quietly there with the summer sun shining on their
whitening heads, which awed them?  The ones in front
paused, irresolute.  Those behind pressed them forward.

"Friends, whom do you seek?"

"Lim Tsu, the idol-maker."

"Lim Tsu, the idol-maker, is not here.  But Lim
Tsu, the worshipper of the living God, is here.
Friends, I am Lim Tsu."

The leaders of the mob quailed before the quiet
dignity of the old man.  But the crowd behind
pressed them on.  They held a hurried consultation
while the old Christian and his wife stood quietly
waiting.

They were seized by the arms and led towards the
river.  The spot chosen was the beach of clean shingle
in front of the church.  Unlike the other prisoners
who had been taken that day, they were not beaten.
But the feeble old woman hobbled painfully over the
stones.  Her husband encouraged her:

"If they drown us, it will not take long.  Just a
moment and it will all be over.  Then we'll not be
old any more.  Your feet will not pain you any longer.
I'll not have the fever.  We'll not have to worry about
getting rice to eat.  Just a moment and all these
things will be forgotten.  In heaven there is no
suffering."

As their feet touched the edge of the water they
were halted.  One of the leaders said to them:

"Lim Tsu, you used to make images of the gods.
You used to worship the spirits of your ancestors.
You used to perform the rites as our fathers have
done since ages eternal.  But now in your old age
you have been bewitched by the foreign devils and
joined the Jesus belief.  If you leave the barbarian's
religion and go back to the faith of your fathers,
it will be well.  You will be safe and men will honour
you.  If you do not, we will drown you both."

"Friends," came the quiet, firm reply, "I do not
believe in idols.  I made them for many years.  I
know that they are only wood or stone or earth or
plaster.  I know that I can knock them down and
break them, or throw them into the fire and burn
them.  How could they help me?  Now I worship
the true God, who made the earth and the sea and
the sky, who made us all, for we are His children.
And I worship Jesus Christ, His Son, whom He sent
into the world to save me.  You may drown us if you
will.  But we will not give up the Jesus belief."

Yells of rage burst from their persecutors.  They
were pushed forward into the water up to their knees.
Again the offer was made, and again refused.

Execrations, foul language, inarticulate screams of
rage rose from the throng on the bank.  The old
couple were pushed farther into the stream.  The water
had risen to the old man's arm-pits.  It was up to
the woman's throat.  Again they were halted.

"Lim Tsu and Oo-a, his wife, will you give up the
Jesus belief?  If not, we will drown you."

The old woman's thin treble rose in answer:

"I cannot give up the Jesus belief.  Jesus is my
Saviour."

"You may drown us if you will," answered her
husband.  "That will not hurt us much.  It will soon
be over.  But we can never deny the Lord Jesus."

For a few moments the mob-leaders paused.  They
were plainly nonplussed by such constancy.  Even the
rabble on the bank hushed their howling.

Oo-a's grey head swam on the surface of the clear
green stream.  She turned her face upward.  Before
her were the steep green hills, thick with trees and
ferns and grasses, and all starred with flowers, on
which she had looked since her childhood.  A bird
sang in the thicket.  The cicadas shrilled ceaselessly
in the hot sunshine.  All the world was at peace.  Why
was man so cruel?  She lifted her eyes to the blue
sky which bent over her.  Her thin tremulous voice
was heard in prayer:

"Pe Siong-te."[#]—"Father God, help a weak old
woman.  Make her strong to confess her Lord.  For
Jesus' sake."

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[#] Pronounced, Pay Seeong-tay.

.. vspace:: 2

Then the old man lifted up his voice, and she joined
him in that immortal prayer which ever circles the
world around and runs through all time:

"Goan ê Pe ti thî nih."[#]—"Our Father, who art
in heaven, hallowed be Thy name, Thy Kingdom
come, Thy will be done——"

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[#] Pronounced, Go-an ā Pay tee thee neeh.

.. vspace:: 2

Their voices were silenced by the waters.  Their
captors had plunged them under and held them there.
The fair flowers still bloomed on the high bank.  The
birds sang on.  The cicadas shrilled their monotonous
melody.  The sun poured down its wealth and bounty
on the evil and on the good.  Only a few bubbles
rising to the surface told where the souls of the two
martyrs had been set free to go home to God.

Just plain, ignorant old Chinese peasants!  Alone
amidst their enemies, all unknown and unknowing,
unsupported by and unthinking of the world's applause!
Yet without a murmur they died for their faith.
Even an Apostle Paul could do no more.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`TO THE RESCUE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XVIII


.. class:: center large bold

   TO THE RESCUE

.. vspace:: 2

Two days later Dr. Sinclair and Sergeant
Gorman were nearing the capital on their way
from Keelung to Tamsui.  Sometimes they
talked and laughed.  Sometimes they walked in
silence one following the other along the narrow trail,
each busy with his own thoughts.  Sinclair was
thinking of a perplexing, teasing young woman of queenly
stature and bearing, with eyes and mouth which
haunted him in spite of his determination to persuade
himself that he was unconcerned.  He knew that she
was still in Tamsui.  McLeod had sent him a note
the last time the *Hailoong* was in port.  Mr. MacAllister
had made trips to various ports on the mainland,
and to South Formosa.  But his wife and daughter
remained at Tamsui in the congenial company
and care of Mr. and Mrs. Beauchamp.

Sinclair wondered to himself in what humour he
would find this wayward maiden who had so suddenly
been projected into his life, and now occupied so
large a place in his thoughts.  Why was she so
capricious with him?  She was not like that with others.
With Captain Whiteley or McLeod or Mr. Beauchamp
she was amiability itself.  Apparently she treated
Carteret quite differently from him.  Even with
himself there had been moments when she had been
cordial and kind.  In those brief spells of friendliness
she was irresistibly fascinating.

But most of the time she seemed to bend all her
energies to making him feel uncomfortable.  Why did
she do it?  Was it possible that McLeod was right?
Or was it that his approaches were disagreeable to
her and she was trying to make him keep his distance?
That was much more likely.  But he would find out.
He was not going to make a fool of himself by
pushing himself in where he was not wanted.  He closed
his teeth firmly.  His lower jaw was set and stern.
He would find out this time.  He would either make
or mend it.

But he did not.

He had hardly made the aforementioned resolution
when it and even the object of his thoughts were
driven out of his mind altogether.  From a high bank
beside the road, covered with a thicket of bamboo,
a native boy of fourteen or fifteen years dropped into
the middle of the pathway at Sinclair's feet.  His face
was drawn with fear.  His eyes had a strained,
hunted look.  Without any of the customary salutations,
he poured forth a stream of nervous, fluent
Chinese, in which Sinclair could catch nothing but his
own title of "I-seng" and "Kai Bok-su" (Pastor MacKay).

"Here, Gorman, can you make anything out of
what he says?  There is evidently trouble somewhere,
and Dr. MacKay is in it."

"Hould on, boy!  Go aisy!  Fwhat the divil wud
you expect a Christian man to make out of such a
jabber as that?"

Then in Chinese:

"You talk too fast.  Speak slowly.  Don't be
afraid.  If there is any trouble, we'll help you out."

Getting a grip of himself, the excited boy told them
that he was the son of one of the Christians of
Sintiam.  He related the events of two days before.  He
said that Dr. MacKay had heard of what had taken
place and, in spite of the pleadings of his converts,
had insisted on going to the help of those who were
still in danger.  He was already there, and if the
black-flags caught him they would assuredly kill him.
He, the boy, had been sent out to look for some
Chinese troops, but had found them instead.  Would
they come to Pastor MacKay's rescue?

"Begorra, an' that we will!" exclaimed Gorman,
as he gave his heavy stick a couple of fancy twirls
around his head, felt for his revolver to assure
himself that it was there, and plunged into the carrier
coolie's basket to get more cartridges.

"Tell the coolie to go on to Taipeh and wait for
us there.  Tell this boy to guide us to Sin-tiam by
the shortest route.  He needn't try to hide us.  We
don't care if those devils do see us."

Sinclair spoke in sharp, incisive tones.  Instinctively
the sergeant came to attention and saluted.  It
was the accent of command.

In another moment they had left the main road,
which they had been following, plunged through the
bamboos, and headed directly south.  Soon their guide
picked up a blind pathway which zigzagged through
a labyrinth of rice-fields, dropped into shady ravines,
or climbed a projecting spur of rock.  The afternoon
sun blazed down upon them.  But with relentless
energy they pressed on.  Peasants working in their
fields uttered loud cries of wonder, not unmixed
with alarm, as the two foreigners strode silently,
determinedly past.  The native boy never ceased
from his steady run.  The long, powerful strides
of the two whites pressed continually on his heels.

The day was wearing on as they drew near their
destination.  The by-path they were following did
not join the main road entering the town, but led
over some wooded hills nearly at right angles to the
principal highway.  While still unable to see the town,
they heard wild yells and occasional shots.  Their
rapid walk quickened into a run.

.. _`186`:

As they came over the last bluff, through an
opening in the shrubbery they could see the end of the
town where the main road entered it.  Just emerging
from between the houses was a man dressed in white
and wearing a sun-helmet.  It was MacKay.  He was
walking steadily, resolutely out along the road which
led towards the capital.  Behind him, in close but
irregular order, was a band of natives—men, women,
and children.  Among them were a few sedan chairs,
evidently carrying aged and wounded.  Pressing upon
their rear, crowding upon them on either side,
threatening to block the road in front, was a screaming,
jeering, cursing mob.  Black flags were waving over
their heads; guns were discharged; mud and filth were
thrown; howls like those of beasts of prey burst from
them in chorus.

The situation was obvious.  MacKay had appealed
to the Chinese authorities at the capital to protect
the Christians.  They had replied that they could not
protect them in outlying districts like Sin-tiam, but
would protect them if they came to the capital, where
there was a garrison.  He was endeavouring to bring
the survivors to where their lives would be safe.  They
had lost their homes, their property, their church.
They had only their lives left.  He was trying to save
these.

But the mob were determined that they should not
escape.  They crowded closer and closer on the native
Christians, but still opened up before the missionary.
His cool, resolute demeanour, the instinctive
recognition of unruffled courage and conscious superiority
made them give way.  As the little band passed out
of the town they began to fear that their prey was
going to give them the slip.  Bricks and stones were
flung.  Jostling passed into interchange of blows.
Shouts of "Kill the barbarian.  He is not very big.
Tear the foreign devil in pieces" mingled with
inarticulate yells of rage.

Suddenly with a surge from behind the mob flung
themselves like wolves on their prey.  The Christian
maidens, always the first victims, were being dragged
away, their terror-stricken shrieks mingling with the
fiendish yells of their captors.  Sedan chairs were
overturned.  Men and women were beaten down.  The
hopelessly outnumbered Christians were fighting
desperately for their lives.

At the first sound of the onslaught, MacKay turned
back.  He would save his people or share their fate.
The muzzle of a rifle was jabbed against his chest.
Like a flash he thrust it up with his left hand and
it was discharged harmlessly past his ear.

It was the last time that Chinese freebooter ever
pulled a trigger.  Simultaneously with the explosion
of the rifle Sinclair's stick came down on his head
and cracked his skull like an eggshell.

The same instant, with a wild "Hurroosh!"
Gorman was into the melee.  MacKay's Highland blood
was up, too.  Alongside of his bigger and heavier
companions he was proving that his slight, sinewy frame
had not for nothing gone through more than a dozen
years of strenuous training in that tropic clime.

For a few minutes it was rough-and-tumble fighting,
with foot and fist and shillelagh.  Friends and
foes were so mixed together that Sinclair and
Gorman were afraid to use their revolvers.  But the
terror those big, fiercely-fighting foreigners inspire
in the hearts of a Chinese mob fell on the rioters.
They loosed their holds on their prey and fled in wild
disorder, hurried by the barking of the two revolvers
and the fall of some in whom the bullets had found
their mark.

"Thank you, Dr. Sinclair; Sergeant Gorman.  You
have done me, and you have done my poor people, a
great service."

"It seems that we did happen to come at the right
time," replied Sinclair.

"You didn't happen.  God sent you."

"Perhaps that is the right way to put it, Dr. MacKay.
At any rate, we are glad to have been here.
Now we must look at those people.  I am afraid that
some of them are pretty badly hurt."

All three turned their attention to caring for the
sufferers and to making them as comfortable as
possible.  When they reached the capital Sinclair
found it necessary to remain there several days to
care for some who were most seriously injured.

Before he felt free to leave them to make his
intended trip to Tamsui word came that there had been
some sharp skirmishes around Keelung and a
considerable number had been wounded.  So he and
Gorman turned back to duty.

This was the reason why he did not at that time
succeed in making or mending his relations with Miss
MacAllister.  Perhaps it was better for him that it
was so.  His exploit in coming to the rescue of
MacKay was likely to stand him in better stead than a
premature demand for explanations.

But Sinclair did not know that.  He was not versed
in the ways of women.  Like most men in love, if
he had been allowed his own way, he would have made
a mess of it.  When Providence came to his rescue
and sent him back to Keelung without seeing Miss
MacAllister, he was inclined to fall out with Providence.

But his sense of duty and his habitual good-humour
prevailed.  And when he saw again the strained, eager
looks of the wounded men, saw hope come into their
faces as the word passed from lip to lip, "I-seng lâi"
(the life-healer has come), he was glad that he had
done his duty.  He was at his chosen work.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`ALLISTER`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XIX


.. class:: center large bold

   ALLISTER

.. vspace:: 2

On the morning of the 24th of September,
Sinclair, looking down from a mountain height
on the town and harbour of Keelung, saw one
of the warships get up steam and put out to sea.
Watching it with his glasses, he saw it heading north,
and then west, till even the trailing smoke disappeared
beyond the far blue coast line which curved away
towards the northernmost point of the island.

"I'd give something to know where that Frenchman
is heading for and what mischief he has in mind."

"Bedad, an' if he doesn't do more than he's been
doin' here these last six weeks, he'd better give up
the job."

"That's just the reason why I think that he may
be intending to try his hand somewhere else.  He
can't do any more damage here without a land force.
But there are other places where he could—Tamsui,
for example."

"Begorra, an' if I thought there was goin' to be a
shindy there, it's not one minute longer I'd spind
kickin' me heels around this ould dead-an'-alive camp.
I'd be makin' for Tamsui as fast as the two legs
of me cud carry me."

"So would I.  But there doesn't seem to be any
movement among the rest of the fleet.  We'll just
keep a sharp lookout and perhaps we'll get some word
from Tamsui.  If there's anything doing there, I'm
blamed if I am going to be stewed up here and miss
the fun."

Two days later Sinclair was again at his lookout.
From the departure of that first French warship which
had steamed away to the west, either he or Gorman
had kept a constant watch on the movements of the
French fleet.  Perhaps it was all because of his
anxiety to be where he was most needed.  Perhaps there
were other reasons which he did not mention to
Sergeant Gorman.

He had found a shady seat for himself beneath the
wide-spreading fronds of a tree-fern, and through
his glasses was carefully scanning the squadron of
men-of-war in the harbour below.  A footstep sounded
on a rock near him.  It was Gorman:

"A letter for you from Dr. MacKay.  A boy has
jist arrived wid it.  I thought that you moight want
to see it at wanst."

"Thank you, Gorman," he replied, tearing it open.
"Just as we thought.  He says that the *Château
Renaud* arrived off Tamsui on Wednesday....
That's the day we saw her leave here....
Over-hauled the *Welle* yesterday, and the *Hailoong*, too....
Then Mac's at Tamsui.  Boys, but I'd like to see
him! ... Says that the consul has got a hint
somewhere that the French are going to bombard
Tamsui....  What did I tell you, Gorman? ... Thinks
we had better come back there at once and take his
boys with us....  So do I....  Says your ambulance
corps can take care of any wounded there are
likely to be here....  Of course they can.  Whether
they can or not, I'm going."

"Another moving!" exclaimed Gorman, who had
been using the glasses.

"What!  By Jove, you're right!"

Sinclair was manifesting unwonted excitement.

"We'd better start at once if we want to get through
this evening.  Pretty nearly thirty miles of a walk
if we should happen to miss the launch.  I'd like to
get there before the *Hailoong* sails.  I want to see
McLeod."

Gorman's left eye, which was invisible to Sinclair,
winked and that side of his face assumed a most
comical expression.  The other eye looked straight
out at the landscape, and the other side of his face
was judicial in its seriousness.  He was a man of
some perception.

"An' you think that the hospital here will get along
widout us?" he asked.

"Of course it will!  I'm going to Tamsui."

"Faith and you're a man afther me own heart.
Let the hospital go to Ballyhack.  I'm wid you....
There she goes headin' for the west.  The *parley-voos*
are plottin' somethin' an' we want to be there whin
it happens."

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center white-space-pre-line

   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1



Late that afternoon practically the whole foreign
population of North Formosa and the officers of the
*Locust* were gathered on the deck of the *Hailoong*.
Captain Whiteley and McLeod were giving what they
called their "Farewell At Home!"  After their
experience of the day before they were doubtful
whether they would be allowed to enter the port again
so long as the Frenchmen stayed.

It was perhaps the largest party of foreigners which
had ever gathered in North Formosa.  Consular,
mission and custom staffs, merchants, the doctor, naval
officers, visitors, and hosts, they numbered thirty or
more.  The measure of uncertainty, the spice of a
possible peril, added zest to their intercourse.  Just
out of sight over the projecting ridge of the hill to
the north of the harbour, the *Château Renaud* was
lying at anchor.  That very day the long, low, sinister-looking
*Vipère* had slipped into the very mouth of the
harbour.  She could be plainly seen from where they
sat chatting and sipping their tea on the deck of
the *Hailoong*.  Every one felt that these engines
of war were big with potentialities of danger and
death.

As usual, since her arrival in Formosa, Miss
MacAllister was the centre of attraction.  Bald-headed
seniors like De Vaux and Boville vied with young
men like Carteret and mere youths like Lanyon for her
company and her smiles.  But for reasons best known
to herself she chose to give those privileges in much
the largest measure to McLeod.  As one of the hosts
he had not in any way tried to monopolize her.  But
she showed so marked a partiality for his companionship
that it did appear as if he had the monopoly.

"It seems as if no person but a seaman has any
show with the ladies to-day," said Carteret with that
indefinable bitterness of tone which he so often used.
It called attention to the fact that each of the ladies
present was deep in conversation with an officer of
one or other of the ships.

"By my faith, it can't be the sea which is the
attraction," retorted Lieutenant Lanyon, "for none of
them will look at me.  In Miss MacAllister's case it
is the clannishness of the Scotch," he continued, loud
enough for her to hear.  "If McLeod weren't a Mac,
he'd have no more show than I have, and that's no
show at all, at all."

He thought that he would draw her by his very
boldness, as he had done on more than one occasion
before.  All the satisfaction he got was:

"Now, Mr. Lanyon, please do not let everybody
on board know that you cannot get a lady to talk to
you.  There's mother.  She has just finished her
conversation with Captain Whiteley.  I know that she
will take pity on you."

Lanyon joined as heartily as the rest in the laugh
at his own expense, and, accepting her suggestion, was
soon amusing himself and Mrs. MacAllister with his
boyish tales of adventures and scrapes in the navy.

Meanwhile Miss MacAllister was saying to McLeod:

"Really, Mr. McLeod, I do not know what some
of these men are made of.  To think that they could
sit here doing the little routine work of their offices,
with battles going on within twenty miles of them,
and never so much as go to see what a battle is like!
I wanted to go myself.  But father and the consul
wouldn't let me."

"You must remember, Miss MacAllister, that the
majority of things which are called men are not men.
They are only dressed up to look like men.  When
they get in danger or any other place which needs
men, all the man in them disappears and there is
nothing left but the clothes."

"But Dr. MacKay says that Dr. Sinclair and Sergeant
Gorman have not been in any real danger since
they went over there.  He says that the Chinese
respect them too much to molest them."

"Yes; but that is where the difference comes in.
Sinclair is a man.  So is Gorman.  So is MacKay.
The Chinese know it, and they are safe.  But some
of the others—not all, only some—are not men.  They
wouldn't be safe."

"I wish that I were a man."

"If you were, I venture to say that you would be
a soldier."

"I had a brother once.  He was a soldier."

"I did not know that you ever had a brother.  You
never told me that."

By this time they had left the company on the
forward deck and, walking away aft, were leaning on
the rail.  She was in a more subdued and meditative
mood than McLeod had ever seen her before.

"No," she said, "I never told you.  I rarely tell
anybody.  I do not know why I am telling you now."

McLeod listened in sympathetic silence.  He knew
that behind this fact of the brother of whom she
seldom spoke there must be a tragedy.  If she wished
to tell him, he would listen.  But if she did not, he
would respect her reserve and not seek to pry into
its privacy.

"My brother was an officer in a crack English
cavalry regiment.  He fought in Egypt and was
mentioned in despatches after Tel-el-Kebir.  But he was
the only Scottish officer in the regiment, and the only
son of a tradesman.  The rest were Englishmen and
sons of do-nothing aristocracy.  They never ceased
twitting Allister about being a Highland kern, and
that his father was a shopkeeper, and had started life
as an errand boy.  The fact that he was mentioned
in dispatches made them worse.  They were jealous."

She paused for a moment.  McLeod did not speak.
She glanced at him.  His face was set.  One hand was
clenched.  The other gripped hard on the rail.  She
understood and went on:

"Two of them were especially insulting.  At mess
one evening they went beyond endurance.  Allister
was not quick with his tongue.  He was slow of speech
and could not answer them.  But there was another
way open, and he took it.  He was big and strong,
as big and strong as Dr. Sinclair.  But not fair like
Dr. Sinclair.  He was dark like mother.  He called
the two of them out from mess, and with his bare
hands gave the biggest of them a terrible thrashing.
The other ran to his tent for his sword and revolver.
When Allister went after him, for his Highland blood
was up and nothing could stop him, the coward hid
behind the excuse that they must fight as gentlemen.
But when it came to fighting with revolvers, the
Englishman who had been thrashed claimed that it was
his right to fight the duel, as it was he who had
been beaten.  And the coward was glad to let him."

She paused again.  Her face was pale, but her eyes
showed the fire which burned within.  McLeod was
breathing hard, as if in a physical struggle.

It was quickly arranged and quickly over.  Out
there on the sand in the moonlight they faced each
other and fired only once.  Allister was not hit.  The
Englishman was shot through the lung.  The regimental
doctor said that he could live only an hour.
He could not check the flow of blood.

"A few minutes afterwards Allister rode out of
camp towards Alexandria.  His orderly, who was
Highland like himself, brought us word that he could
not stand the thought of what it would mean to father
and mother and me, that he should be tried and
convicted of murder.  That was two years ago to-day.
Since that we have never heard a word."

For the first time in her recital McLeod spoke:
"Did the Englishman die?"

"No, he did not.  He is now strong and well.
What is better, he bitterly repented the wrong he did
my brother.  He came to father and mother seeking
our forgiveness, and was forgiven.  Now he is
helping to search the world for Allister.  What became
of the coward we never heard, except that he was
dismissed from the service for cowardice.  We never
knew his name."

"That is the real reason why your father is spending
so much time in those out-of-the-way places of
the Far East.  He hopes to get word of your
brother."

"Yes.  Mother is convinced that Allister is dead.
But father and I cannot believe it.  We believe that
he is living, and that we shall find him.  And
father believes that it will not be very long.  He told
me only this morning that he was convinced that it
would be soon."

"The Highland second sight."

"Yes.  God grant that it may be so."

"Amen!" said McLeod solemnly.

For some minutes they leaned on the rail in silence.
Her eyes were fixed on the water, which was flowing
upstream with the rising tide.  McLeod was looking
away up the river to where he could distinguish the
little passenger launch emerging from a fleet of cargo
boats and bat-winged junks.  It was steaming straight
down the river at full speed.  Presently he said:

"I wonder what's up.  The launch is heading for
us instead of going to her jetty."

"There are some Europeans on her," Miss MacAllister
replied.  "I can see two men wearing
helmets under the awning.  They evidently are coming
on board."

Then she uttered a faint cry.  One of the men had
stepped from under the awning and stood at his full
height on the bow of the launch.  The next instant he
took off his helmet and waved it at McLeod.  The
sunlight gleamed on a mass of fair hair.

"Oh!" she said.  "It is Dr. Sinclair.  As he stood
up I thought it was Allister.  Their figures are
exactly alike.  But it was foolish of me."

McLeod seemed hardly to heed what she was
saying.  He had climbed on the rail, was frantically
waving his white cap, and yelling like a schoolboy.

"What cronies you two are!" she said with mock
severity, but laughing all the while.  "Talk about the
Scotch being clannish!  You Canadians beat anything
I ever met for clannishness."

"Just some Canadians," answered McLeod.  "Will
you excuse me?" he called back as he went below.

"Those two must be desperately in love," she said
to herself as she smilingly responded to Sinclair's
courteous salutation from the bow of the launch.

The next instant McLeod had hold of both
Sinclair and Gorman and was ushering them up the
companion-way.  The sergeant would have declined.  But
McLeod would take no refusal.  The company present
were his and Captain Whiteley's guests.  And
whoever they chose to invite would have to be received
as such.  And not only Sinclair, but the consul and
others who had known him noticed that Gorman's
brogue and exaggerated Irishisms were dropped as
easily as if they had all been assumed, and the Irish
noncom was as much at ease and as correct in his
behaviour as any of those who boasted gentle birth.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE INFALLIBLE EXPERTS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XX


.. class:: center large bold

   THE INFALLIBLE EXPERTS

.. vspace:: 2

The next evening (it was a Saturday) Dr. Sinclair
dined with the MacAllisters.  To his surprise,
and much to his delight, he was the only
guest.  For the first time he saw something of their
home life.  He saw, too, Miss MacAllister in a role
different from anything he had seen before.  Up to
this time he had always met her as a passenger or
a guest, with no responsibilities save those of
amusing and being amused.  She had been the centre of
an admiring circle, free to be as whimsical or
wayward as the fancy of the moment suggested.  That
evening she shared with her mother the duties of
hostess and devoted herself to making the evening
pleasant for their guest.  And Sinclair thought that never
before had a single evening brought him so much
enjoyment.

He wondered at the change.  Was it another side
of her character?  Or was it that she had changed
her attitude towards himself?  The previous
afternoon he had noticed that she received him with a
frank cordiality which had surprised and delighted
him.  But she had been just as ready with gay banter
and raillery as ever, especially when talking to Lanyon
or any others of the guests who pressed their
attentions upon her.  This evening there was none of that.
Bright and entertaining she certainly was.  But there
was not a trace of the whimsical, teasing spirit she
had formerly manifested, nor a word which could
make him feel uncomfortable.  As the evening sped
away he felt himself becoming more and more
fascinated.  He had met many beautiful and attractive
women, but never one who cast such a spell over him.

Mrs. MacAllister was not extremely cordial.  She
did not wax enthusiastic over him as she had done
over De Vaux and Carteret.  But she was a Highland
hostess in her own home.  And though it might
be only a temporary home in a foreign land, and
though she had not been anxious to have Dr. Sinclair
for dinner, she had too much of the hospitality of
her native hills to do otherwise than endeavour to
make him feel that he was welcome there.

Mr. MacAllister was cordiality itself.  In Sinclair
he found a kindred spirit.  His interest in men, to
whatever race they might belong, his keen insight
and trained powers of observation, were refreshing
to the shrewd business man after the many men he
met who went about the world with eyes which did
not see.  From the moment they sat down to dinner
until they rose from it he plied Sinclair with
questions and compared the doctor's observations with
his own.

"You have had a great opportunity of studying
the Chinese during the last couple of months," he
said.  "I envy you.  Since you went over to Keelung
I have visited Foochow, spent another short spell
in Amoy, and travelled over a considerable part of
south Formosa.  But I have felt all the time that
I really did not get into touch with the natives.  I
couldn't speak their languages.  I was staying always
in the homes of foreigners.  I came into contact with
the Chinese only, as it were, at second hand.  But
for one who has just arrived among them, you have
had a remarkable experience and an exceptional
opportunity.  I envy you."

"It has been an opportunity, though of course too
short to form anything like final conclusions.
Nevertheless, I saw enough to convince me that the
greater part of the information about China which
is being served up to the Western world by so-called
authorities is absolutely unreliable.  The ten-day
tourists and meteoric newspaper correspondents get only
surface impressions, and even these are generally
wrong."

"We had one of them here while you were at
Keelung and father was in the South," said Miss
MacAllister.

"Is that so?  I had not heard.  Who was it?"

"Mr. F. L. Y. Urquhart, the famous traveller and
authority on China."

"Indeed!  How long did he stay?"

"Arrived from Foochow on the gunboat *Falcon* in
the forenoon.  Called on the consul, the commissioner
of customs, and ourselves.  Lunched on the *Locust*.
Went up river in the afternoon.  Stayed one hour,
and returned by the same launch.  Had tennis and
tea at the consulate.  At 6.30 put off to join the
*Falcon* again and sailed immediately for Amoy."

"And I suppose had the fate of Formosa settled."

"Oh, yes!  Quite!"

"What is it?"

"The French will have the island in their possession
in a month or six weeks at the outside.  Their
transports with large land forces and escorted by naval
reinforcements have already passed the Suez.  Before
them the Chinese army will run like sheep, and
the inhabitants will submit without a blow.  Once the
French flag is hoisted it will never be taken down.
Formosa is lost to Britain through the stupidity of old
Lord Littlengland, the Foreign Secretary.  He refused
to accept it when China actually offered to cede
it to Britain to keep it out of the hands of the French,
as he had absolute assurance from Li Hung-chang
himself."

"Excellently done!" exclaimed Sinclair, laughing
at her mimicry of the assurance of the expert.  "Did
he not call on Dr. MacKay?"

"No.  I suggested that he should.  He replied that
he put no reliance on the opinions of missionaries.
They were all narrow-minded fanatics, who couldn't
take a broad, large-minded view of the situation."

"So he missed the one man who knows more of
the probabilities of this war than all the rest of us
taken together?"

"Yes, he missed him entirely.  Said that he didn't
care to meet him."

"That is it exactly.  It is just such self-conceited
experts, who know all about China when they have
been ashore at half a dozen seaports during the hours
of call of a passenger liner and who refuse to learn
from those who do know, who have given our
Western nations such an exaggerated idea of their own
superiority and of China's inferiority."

"Then you think that the Chinese have been
underestimated as soldiers," said Mr. MacAllister.

"I certainly do.  For one thing, I have never seen
nor heard of among any other people anything like
the ability of the Chinese to bear pain.  I was
compelled to perform without anæsthetics operations so
painful that most Europeans or Americans would
rather have died than have endured them.  Yet the
Chinese bore them with little more than an
occasional groan or a suppressed 'ai-yah.'"

"Why, then, is it that they have made such a poor
showing when opposed to European troops?  I have
always been informed that it was the lack of physical
courage."

"It is not because of the lack of courage.  It is
the lack of training and the lack of leadership.
Going into battle vain, self-confident, and contemptuous
towards the foreigners, they have suddenly found
themselves exposed by incompetent commanders,
mowed down by the foreign weapons, disconcerted by
well-ordered movements of trained men, and helpless
to meet foreign strategy.  The inevitable panic
followed, and they ran."

"But we have been told again and again by the
experts that it is impossible to drill the Chinese; that
they will never be anything else than a mob."

"Then I wish those experts could have seen
Sergeant Gorman and his ambulance corps.  He was
given some of the toughest material in Liu
Ming-chuan's army.  In a month's time they moved like
clock-work.  As the American general they have over
there said, I'd just like to see Gorman 'lickin' a
regiment into fightin' shape.'  General Gordon proved
what could be done with a Chinese army during the
Tai-ping rebellion.  If China only had a few native
General Gordons, the world would soon receive
notice that China was to be left alone."

"Is that not just where the difficulty lies, the lack
of able, patriotic leadership?  The authorities tell us
that there is no patriotism in China.  They say that
every man is for himself, or at most for his own city
or province, but he cares nothing for the country as
a whole."

"That may have been true in the past, and doubtless
still is true of the mass of the people.  But it
is no longer true of many of the younger and better
educated men.  There are young officers in the army
who are just as patriotically Chinese, whether they
come from the North or Centre or South, as we are
British, whether we be from Britain or Canada or
Australia.  They are learning more from defeats than
they would from victories.  Some day before very
long China will produce a man whom his countrymen
will follow.  Then it will say 'Hands off!' to the
world."

"What do you think is the country's greatest need
at the present moment?  The missionaries say,
Christianity.  Hart, the Inspector General of Customs,
who has lived half a lifetime in China, and the
American Minister at Pekin endorse the missionaries'
opinions.  The special correspondents and the experts
say political reform.  What do you think?"

"Christianity, most emphatically.  The political
reforms will follow.  When the new China appears in
the world its leaders will be Christians."

Mrs. MacAllister, who had been listening with
ill-concealed impatience, threw back her head and
sniffed.

"Dr. Sinclair," she said, "do you really think that
it makes any difference with these Chinese whether
they call themselves Christians or heathens?"

"I am quite sure of it, Mrs. MacAllister."

"Well, I don't believe that a Christian Chinese is
one bit different from a heathen Chinese.  They are
both just dirty Chinese."

"If you could see the difference between Dr. MacKay's
students, who were with me as nurses and
hospital assistants, and their heathen neighbours,"
replied Sinclair, "you would not say that.  I have never
seen nurses or medical students in a hospital at home
more cleanly, faithful or efficient, or more apt to
learn.  Their people were just common, ignorant
Chinese peasants.  I know of no explanation of the
difference between these boys and others of their class,
except that these were Christians and the others were
not."

"I see that you quite agree with my husband in
this.  But I do not.  When we were at home it seemed
romantic to hear about foreign missions.  But when
I came out here, and saw those ignorant natives, and
heard some of them called Christians, it quite
disgusted me.  And Dr. MacKay actually asked us to
go to the native church and sit at the Lord's Table
with them.  I was so surprised at him that I did not
know what answer to make.  I do not believe that
they are real Christians at all.  What was it Mr. Carteret
called them?  Oh, yes!  Rice Christians!  He
said that they were 'rice Christians.'  That means
that they were in it for what they could get out of
it.  Mr. Carteret said that he had never known a real
Christian among them."

Sinclair had intended to allow the subject to drop
when he saw that for some reason his hostess held
very pronounced views on it, different from his own.
But her quoting Carteret as an authority on the
sincerity or reality of religious beliefs touched him to
the quick.  He answered very quietly but firmly:

"All over the south of Scotland, from the Atlantic
to the North Sea, in churchyard or hillside or lonely
moor, are to be found flat slabs or tall monuments,
marking the spots where the Covenanters of two
hundred years ago were slain or where their bodies
were laid to rest.  Some of them were gentlemen of
birth.  Some were cultured ministers.  But the great
majority were plain people, sometimes ignorant
people; just ordinary hard-working, unlearned Scottish
peasants.  Yet the places where they died are sacred
to-day.  Monuments are erected to them.  Books are
written about them.  They are held up before us
as the martyrs and heroes of our Church.  Why?
Because they died rather than deny their faith.

"Less than a month ago and less than twenty miles
from here, some plain people—merchants, farmers,
artisans—were asked to deny their faith.  They
refused.  They were beaten.  They were tortured.  They
were hanged by the hair of the head.  Two of them
were drowned.  Their religion was the same as that
of the Scottish Covenanters.  They died for it just
as willingly as the Covenanters did.  They were
Chinese.  If we say that the Scottish sufferers were
martyrs and heroes, I do not know how we can refuse
to say the same of the Chinese."

He had spoken quietly, in a low tone of voice.  But
the very quietness of his manner had deepened the
impression of tense feeling, of emotion kept under
firm control.  His words had grown eloquent in spite
of himself.

When he ceased there was perfect silence for some
minutes.  Miss MacAllister was looking wonderingly
at him.  He had always seemed so good-humoured,
so easy-going that she had sometimes asked herself
if he was really capable of deep, passionate feeling.
At an unexpected moment she had got her answer.
There was no mistaking the passion of admiration
for a heroic deed which possessed him, the indignant
protest against an injustice.  It was all the more
impressive because it was so restrained.  For reasons
which perhaps she could not explain to herself she
felt a thrill of pleasure at recognizing this note of
passion in his voice.

Mrs. MacAllister also sat silent for a time.  Then
she said in a very different tone from that which she
had used before:

"Perhaps you are right, Dr. Sinclair.  I had not
looked at it in that light."

"It is not easy for any one of us to be entirely just
to peoples so unlike us as are the Chinese," said her
husband.  "Yet, when we get down to the mainsprings
of their conduct, we find that they are pretty
much the same as our own."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE LANGUAGE OF SONG`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XXI


.. class:: center large bold

   THE LANGUAGE OF SONG

.. vspace:: 2

When dinner was over, Sinclair asked Miss
MacAllister if she would play and sing for
them.  "I have not heard a song," he said,
"nor the sound of a civilized instrument since the
evening at the consulate, just after we landed."

For a moment her eyes danced mischievously.  A
question about that Indian song of his trembled upon
her lips.  But she thought better of it, deciding not
to say anything which might mar the evening by any
misunderstanding.  So she replied:

"I am afraid that you will hardly call this piano
a civilized instrument after you have heard it.  It has
almost ceased to be an instrument at all.  Its age, the
climate, and the lack of a tuner have combined to make
it a mere caricature of a piano.  But, if you'll try to
imagine that the weird sounds it produces are music,
I shall do my best."

"Your voice will more than compensate for any
deficiencies in the instrument," he said as he conducted
her to the piano.

"Dr. Sinclair, I am surprised at you.  I didn't think
that you would flatter."

"I am not flattering.  I mean it."

She bent over the music; but he could see the warm
colour flow up the side of her neck and face.  He
wondered if he had been too bold.  Had he displeased
her?  She kept her head bent down and slowly turned
the leaves of a song folio which rested on the keys.
He could see little of her face.  Had he by his
rashness annoyed her and brought discord into that
delightful evening?

Presently she seemed to have made a choice.  She
gave him one quick, shy glance, and he saw her face.
The blush still lingered there, but there was no trace
of displeasure.

"Would you like me to sing this?"

She laid the folio open on the piano.  Sinclair's
heart gave a leap.  She had chosen a love song.  It
was not indeed a maiden's tale of love, but the love
of a man for a maid.  Nevertheless, it was a woman's
song, and a woman's tenderness breathed through both
words and melody of immortal "Annie Laurie."

"You could not have chosen anything I should have
liked better.  'Annie Laurie' will never grow old."

She sang the first verse alone.  Then she said:

"I thought that you were going to sing with me.
Will you not put in a bass?"  And a little
mischievously: "It will at least help to drown the
discords of this old instrument."

"I was enjoying your voice so much," he replied,
"that I did not wish to spoil the pleasure by adding
mine.  But, if you wish it, I'll join you."

Other songs, mostly old Scotch favourites, followed.
Sinclair noted that she did not choose war-songs as
when she sang at the consulate.  Her mood was
different, and she chose those into which the singers
of her race had poured all their pathos and their
tenderness.

As they talked in the intervals, and sometimes
prolonged the selection of a song, the hesitation and
mutual reserve wore off and soon they found themselves
conversing with the quiet confidence of those who had
long been friends.  There seemed to be no room for
misunderstandings.

Again and again Sinclair caught himself wondering
if this were the same girl who had badgered him so
unmercifully a few weeks before.  Or was this
present situation only a bright dream, from which he
would awaken to find himself still the object of her
badinage and laughter?  "Well," he thought to
himself, "dream or no dream, I'll enjoy it while it lasts
and hope that I may be long in waking up."

But there were a few things which reminded him
that it was not a dream.  Mrs. MacAllister did not
enter quite so heartily into sympathy with her
daughter's mood as did Dr. Sinclair.  Perhaps it was not
to be expected.  More than once she endeavoured to
interject her disapproval of their choice of songs.

"What are you going to sing next, Jessie?" she
asked when three love songs had followed one
another without a break.

"'Robin Adair.'"

Mrs. MacAllister sniffed audibly.

"I do not think much of your choice," she said
tartly.

"You like it, father, do you not?"

"Oh, yes, Jessie!  It suits me very well.  Sing it."

When it was sung Mrs. MacAllister returned to
the attack:

"Why do you not sing something lively instead of
those lonesome pieces?  It gives me a creepy feeling.
Dr. Sinclair is just back from the war.  Can you not
sing him some fighting song, such as 'Bonnie
Dundee' or 'Scots Wha Ha'e wi' Wallace Bled'?"

"Mother, I do not feel like singing fighting songs
this evening.  We are likely to have fighting enough
soon.  But if Dr. Sinclair has become so bloodthirsty
as a result of his service at the front, I'll try to
satisfy him.  Must you give vent to your feelings in a
war-song, Dr. Sinclair?"  A gleam of fun shot
through the mock anxiety of her face.

"Not at all, Miss MacAllister.  I saw enough of
glorious war to do me for a little while.  The glory
of it is mostly in the songs.  There is little glory
in the actuality.  Anyway, I am enjoying myself too
much as it is to take the chance of spoiling it by a
change."

Miss MacAllister answered by a warning shake of
the head, the severity of which was disarmed by the
accompanying smile.  But her mother set her lips
close together, elevated her nose, and sniffed very
audibly.

All unheeding, the young people chose another
Scottish song, "Bonnie Charlie's Noo Awa."  As the
plaintive words and the wailing notes rang out,

   |  "Mony a heart will break in twa
   |  Should you ne'er come back again,"

Mr. MacAllister slipped out of the room into the
verandah which looked over the river to the tall dark
peak beyond.

Then the lament of the chorus rose into a cry and
died away in a sob:

   |  "Will ye no come back again?
   |  Will ye no come back again?
   |  Better lo'ed ye canna be.
   |  Will ye no come back again?

Mrs. MacAllister rose and hurriedly followed her
husband.

A late moon was rising over the great bulk of the
Taitoon range, shedding its pale light on the
brimming river, save where the houses of the town and
the clustered junks cast long, dark shadows.  Out in
mid-stream the *Locust* swam on the mirror-like
surface.  The call of a night bird rang plaintively across
the water.  Within, the voices of the singers rose again
in the last stanza:

   |  "Sweet's the lav'rock's note and lang;
   |    Liltin' wildly up the glen;
   |  But aye to me he sings ae sang,
   |    Will ye no come back again?"
   |

In the dark shadow of the deep verandah a man and
woman, both middle-aged, pressed close to each other.
His arm was around her waist.  Her head was on
his shoulder.  As he caressed and soothed her his
tears fell on her face and mingled with her own.  It
was not of a long-dead prince they were thinking.
It was of a lost son of whom they did not know
whether he was living or dead.

The silver tones of the gunboat's bell rang out on
the sweet night air, striking six times.  Sinclair
pulled out his watch with a look of incredulity:

"Eleven o'clock!  Miss MacAllister, I am ashamed
of myself.  I had no idea it was so late.  I have been
enjoying myself so much that this evening has passed
like a dream."

"I am glad that you have enjoyed it.  The time
has passed very quickly to me, too."

"You do not know what pleasure it gives me to
hear you say so.  It has been to me the pleasantest
evening of my life."

She blushed at the implication, gave him the reward
of a smile, and rose hurriedly from the piano:

"Where are father and mother?  I must find them
to bid you good-bye."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`HALCYON DAYS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XXII


.. class:: center large bold

   HALCYON DAYS

.. vspace:: 2

The next three days were to Dr. Sinclair a
continuation of that evening's dream.  They were
full of incident.  But what made them still
more pleasant and memorable was the fact that he
often met Miss MacAllister, and that she was
uniformly kind and seemed to enjoy his company.  It
is true that after Saturday evening they did not again
meet alone.  But no matter how gay the company
might be, nor how much chaffing and repartee was
passing among them, she never reverted to the attitude she
had adopted during the first week of their acquaintance.
She did not try to make him feel uncomfortable,
nor did she cause a laugh at his expense.

On Sunday morning at nine o'clock there was a
service in the little native church, a few rods from
the hong of MacAllister, Munro Co.  In addition to
the local Christians there were many refugees present
who had fled from their homes in the inland villages,
having lost everything but their lives.

The Communion of the Lord's Supper was
observed, Dr. MacKay presiding, assisted by his
missionary colleague and some of the oldest native
preachers.  Mr. MacAllister and his daughter, Dr. Sinclair,
an engineer and a petty officer from the *Locust*, and
one member of the customs staff sat with the wives of
the missionaries and the native converts.  The
service was conducted in Chinese.  Consequently the words
were unintelligible to most of the foreigners present.
Yet they were conscious of the tense feeling, the close
and reverent attention, the spirit of prayer of the
native worshippers.

Once only did the officiating missionary use the
English language.  He was administering the wine,
and spoke the words of a formula in Chinese.  The
audience had been silent and reverent before.  Now
the silence could be felt.  He repeated it in English:

"'This cup is the new covenant in my blood, which
is shed for many for the remission of sins: Drink ye
all of it.  It may be that many of you will drink no
more of the fruit of the vine until that day when you
drink it new in the Kingdom of God.'"

When the service was over Sinclair walked slowly
along the narrow street with Miss MacAllister and her
father.  For a time they were silent, as if each were
letting the impression of it sink into the mind.  Miss
MacAllister was the first to speak.

"I have never thought myself religious," she said.
"I am afraid that I have been like so many others,
a member of a church because it is customary and
respectable.  But if the spirit and atmosphere which were
in that little Chinese church this morning prevailed in
our big churches at home, I think I could be religious."

"I am afraid that you are underestimating your
own interest in religion," replied her father.  "And
perhaps you are mixing, just a little, reverent feelings
and actually living as a Christian.  They are very
different things.  But it is true that the spirit of worship
I have found in many of those native churches has
made the services of a considerable proportion of our
home churches appear mere barren, lifeless formalism
in comparison.  The West may have again to learn
from the East the devotion and self-forgetfulness of
Christianity."

They had reached a point in the narrow, crooked
street which commanded a view of the harbour and
of the sea beyond.  An exclamation from Sinclair
directed their attention seaward.

A small merchant steamer was seen coming towards
the harbour.  As she drew near a puff of smoke
streamed out from the *Vipère*, and after an interval
the heavy boom of a cannon floated along the water.
The little merchantman promptly reversed.  A boat
from the Frenchman ran alongside.  After half an
hour's delay the boat pulled away again, and the
*Fokien* steamed slowly in, picking up a pilot as she
came.  Her captain had satisfied the search party that
she had no contraband of war on board.

In the afternoon Sinclair and Miss MacAllister met
at a service conducted in English in the little mission
college for the benefit of the foreign community.  The
missionaries, the consul and his wife and daughter,
the officers and a detachment of men from the *Locust*,
and the MacAllisters attended.  Very few of the other
foreign residents took advantage of it.  Most of them
had shed their church-going habits and their interest
in religion of any kind as soon as they came to the
Far East.

Even Carteret's desire to stand well with the
MacAllisters could not overcome his rooted aversion to
attending a Christian service of any kind.  Mrs. MacAllister
was much surprised at his absence in view of
the readiness with which he had expressed his
opinions on the sincerity of the Chinese converts and his
apparent interest in matters spiritual.  She thought
that he must be weary from his duties during the
week and must feel the need of resting on the
Sabbath.  Otherwise she was sure that he would have
been present, as he was so much interested in
religion.

It might have been a revelation to her to have known
how the pious young man was at that moment
engaged.  In company with Clark, the tea-buyer, and
two other kindred spirits, he was enjoying a game
of baccarat, while sundry bottles of various brands
decorated the table.  Before that Sabbath day reached
the midnight hour, Clark and his two companions were
to subside in more or less restful positions on the
floor, there to lie in stertorous, swinish slumber till
well on in the morrow.  But Carteret, who was
banker in the game, though his pale face was flushed
and his eyes were glassy, was able to reach his room
with comparatively steady step; was able to feel with
satisfaction that in his pockets rested securely the
spare cash of his three comrades, together with
various I.O.U.'s.  He was a pious young man, much
interested in religion, and greatly distressed by the
insincerity of the native converts.

Meanwhile, most of those who had been at the service
had accepted the consul's invitation to ascend to
the top of the old Dutch fort, and from that lofty
point of vantage survey the scenery and watch any
movements on board the French warships.

"What is that away to the northwest, just north
of where the sun will set?" said Sinclair.  "Is that
an evening cloud or is it a trail of smoke from a
steamer?"

Commander Gardenier's glass was on it in an instant:

"It is the smoke of a steamer, and she is coming
directly this way.  Looks as if she were from Foochow."

They watched her while she came over the rim of
the horizon and drew rapidly nearer.  Now the
Frenchmen could see her, and there was a movement
on board.  But she evidently did not see them against
the background of the coast.

"Up goes her flag.  She sees the Frenchman and
is letting them know who she is.  She is British.
What do you make of her, Boville?" handing him
the glass.  "You know most of the boats along the
Coast."

"She's a long way off; but she looks like the
*Waverly*, a tramp.  If it is, she is almost sure to
have contraband on board.  By Jove! she's putting
about!"

A long jet of smoke spirted out from the *Vipère*.
The report went volleying off among the hills.

"A blank!" exclaimed Gardenier.  "I believe that
fool captain is going to run for it.  He's stoking for
all he's worth and heading straight across the
channel.  He must be crazy.  He hasn't a chance in the
world."

"No, I fancy he has no chance on that smooth sea,"
replied Boville.  "But if there was a gale blowing
or better still, a typhoon, Archie Scott would drive
that old tub of his through at full speed where
Monsieur of the *Vipère* would have to heave to."

But there was no prospect of a storm that calm
evening and the warship was tearing through the
water.  Another jet of flame and smoke streamed out
from her.  A little plume of spray rose close to the
bow of the fleeing steamer.

"It's all up with Archie this time," laughed
Gardenier.  "The Frenchman is too fast for him.  That
shot brought him to his senses."

The daring little merchantman was boarded, and
just as the sun set she was seen steaming back
towards Foochow, while the *Vipère* returned to her
place of guard.

"This is quite exciting," said Miss MacAllister.
"I had little idea when we sailed from Amoy that
I was going to get so near to actual war."

"I only hope that you may not get any nearer,"
replied the consul, a little grimly.

"Why, Mr. Beauchamp?  Do you think that there
is much prospect of there being fighting right here?"

"I really can't say.  I don't know what is in the
minds of those Frenchmen.  But I do not like the
way they are acting.  It is pretty much the way they
manoeuvred before they bombarded Keelung."

"Wouldn't that be great?  To be in the midst of a
bombardment!"

"It's not so romantic as it is to read about it in
the papers," said the consul.  "What do you think,
Sinclair?  Hallo!  What's this?  Look here, doctor,
I'll have you arrested for alienating the affections of
my daughter."

The remark caused all eyes to be turned towards
Sinclair.  He was seated on one of the battlements.
On his knee was perched Constance Beauchamp.  One
arm was thrown around his neck.  With the other
hand she was caressing and arranging the heavy
waves of his fair hair.  A flush appeared under the
tan of his face.  Before he had time to reply Constance
broke in:

"Oh, daddy, I was just asking Dr. Sinclair why
he did not let his hair grow long and fall in big curls
on his shoulders.  Then he would be so handsome.
He would be just like the picture of Harold
Fair-Hair, King of Norway, in the last story-book Aunt
Jo sent me from England.  Dr. Sinclair, won't you
let your hair grow?  Do!  For me!"

Sinclair's face had crimsoned at the sudden
attention drawn to him and the frank admiration of the
little maid.  But he was too gallant to refuse:

"I couldn't resist that appeal.  I'll promise.  I'll
not get my hair cut again until you give me leave."

"Oh, goody!  I knew you would do it for me.
You're lovely."

"I admire your courage, doctor, more than your
good sense," laughed her father.  "But it is always
the way.  A big man can be twisted around the fingers
of the littlest maid."

But the one whose presence at this little scene had
made the blood tingle in Sinclair's face more sharply
than all the others thought to herself:

"It is a child's instinctive attraction to a true man."

That scene on the ramparts of the old Dutch fort
became one of the most cherished treasures in the
picture-gallery of her memory.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`IMPENDING STORMS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XXIII


.. class:: center large bold

   IMPENDING STORMS

.. vspace:: 2

"Well, Mr. De Vaux, I see that the French
fleet has arrived.  Has the commander
given any intimations of his intentions yet?"

"Bless my soul, Mr. MacAllister! ... Is it
possible that you have not heard? ... These boys are
most exasperating.  They'll be the death of me
yet....  'Pon my honour, they will! ... I was
with the consul when Admiral Lespès' messenger
arrived, and the consul gave me the notice to read....
Extraordinarily decent of the consul! ... I sent the
boy to you that very minute with a chit.  Did he not
deliver it?"

"Not yet."

"I'll have him flogged, Mr. MacAllister....  'Pon
my soul, I will....  It is the only way to deal with
them, Mr. MacAllister....  Now, where can he
be? ... Stopped somewhere along the road, playing
fantan and gambling away his month's
wages! ... By——! ... 'Pon my word, I mean it's most
exasperating....  Flogging is the only thing to cure
them when they start gambling.  Isn't that your
experience, Carteret?"

"I think that they all ought to be flogged," replied
Carteret languidly.  "Never yet met a Chinese who
was good for anything."

"Opinions may differ on that point, Mr. Carteret,"
said Mr. MacAllister sharply.  "But, De Vaux, you
have not yet told me what notice the French admiral
sent."

"By——! ... Bless my soul, I mean how stupid
of me!  I beg a thousand pardons, Mr. MacAllister....
How did I forget that? ... Those boys
annoy me so.  I really cannot think of what I am
doing.  'Pon my soul, I cannot! ... But Admiral
Lespès' notice!  Would you believe it, he says that
he will bombard the town to-morrow morning at seven
o'clock....  Did ever you hear of such an atrocity?"

"How do you do, Mr. De Vaux?  Did I hear you
say just now that Tamsui was to be bombarded?  Or
was I mistaken?"

"Miss MacAllister, you are perfectly correct....
I am sure that you are never mistaken....  'Pon
my soul, I am! ... You are quite right.  I am
sorry to say that Tamsui is to be bombarded in the
morning."

"Oh I'm so glad!  That is, I'm not glad that it is
to be bombarded.  But I am glad that since it is going
to happen it should take place while we are here.  I
should have been so disappointed to have missed it.
How do you do, Mr. Carteret?"

"Since the ladies have arrived, we had better
proceed to luncheon at once," said Mr. MacAllister.
"We do not know what developments there may be
this afternoon."

As soon as they were seated at the table Mrs. MacAllister
turned to Carteret and said:

"Do you really think, Mr. Carteret, that the lives
of the foreign residents will be endangered by the
bombardment?"

"There will be very little danger, I assure you,
Mrs. MacAllister.  The French will direct their fire at
the earthworks and the camps on the downs.  As soon
as they plump a few shells among them the whole
Chinese army will run like sheep, and the
bombardment will be over."

"I am so glad to hear you say so, Mr. Carteret.
It was what I felt myself.  But it is a relief to know
that one who has lived here and knows the natives
is of the same opinion.  You think that the French
will take possession of the town early in the day?"

"Assuredly!  Before to-morrow night there'll not
be a Chinese soldier nearer than Taipeh."

"I do not believe that the French are going to
have it so easy as that," broke in De Vaux.  "'Pon my
soul, I do not! ... The Chinese will give them more
than they reckon upon.  Mark my words....
Dr. MacKay thinks the same, and he knows more about
the Chinese than any of us."

"But, Mr. De Vaux," replied Mrs. MacAllister,
"you must remember that Dr. MacKay is married
to a Chinese woman.  Really, I never got such a shock
as when I heard that.  My opinion of missionaries
went down to zero.  To take a Chinese woman as his
wife!  How could he?"

De Vaux's face became very red.  Carteret
maintained his attitude of cynical composure.

"I suppose it was one of the sacrifices he felt
himself called upon to make in order to do the Lord's
work," he replied sneeringly.  "These fanatics will
justify any insanity by claiming that the Lord
commanded them to do it."

Miss MacAllister's colour deepened.  Her eyes
flashed ominously.  Her father's face was grave, to
the verge of sternness.  Before either of them could
speak De Vaux interposed.

"Dr. MacKay is not the only one who thinks that
the Chinese will put up a resistance," he said.  "When
I was coming along, Dr. Sinclair and Dr. Black of the
*Locust* were busy at the Mission Hospital, getting
it ready to take care of a lot of wounded.  'Pon
my honour as a gentleman, they're right.  There'll
be fighting here to-morrow.  By——!  I mean, 'pon
my soul, there will!"

Mrs. MacAllister sniffed.

"I do not depend much on Dr. Sinclair's judgment,"
she said, "since he went over to Keelung to
be a surgeon among the Chinese.  I was very much
surprised at him.  I cannot understand how he can
endure being among those dirty natives.  It would
make me sick.  And to handle their bodies and treat
their wounds! ... It's loathsome, perfectly
loathsome.  I am astonished at Dr. Sinclair."

"Dr. Sinclair evidently has not your feelings about
it, Mrs. MacAllister," said Carteret in his most
contemptuous tone.  "He is a Canadian, and on his
paternal farm was probably not accustomed to any
more savoury surroundings than he finds among the
Chinese.  Doubtless, he feels very much at home."

The next moment he bitterly repented having
spoken.  Miss MacAllister sat up very straight.  Her
eyes gleamed at him like two dagger-points.  Her face
flushed crimson, and then paled with anger:

"Mr. Carteret, that remark of yours was entirely
uncalled for.  Dr. Sinclair is a gentleman.  You are
not a gentleman or you would not have made such
a statement."

"Oh, Jessie!" cried her mother in horrified accents.
"What are you saying?  You did not mean that."

"I did mean it, and I do mean it."

Mr. MacAllister, who usually with ready tact
softened such acerbities, maintained a grim silence.  De
Vaux threw himself into the breach and made an
excited, stuttering attempt at mediation, compelling
Miss MacAllister to laugh against her will.

In spite of this, and in spite of Carteret's abject
apology and retraction, a tense feeling pervaded the
atmosphere throughout the remainder of the luncheon,
and all were glad when it was over.

To Miss MacAllister the remainder of the day was
no less trying.  She realized that her sudden flame
of indignation had surprised her into betraying to
prying and unfriendly eyes feelings toward Dr. Sinclair
which she had not before dared to confess to
herself.  She knew that her mother had been bitterly
chagrined by her open espousal of the big Canadian's
cause and by the merciless snub she had given that
ambitious woman's pet aristocrat.  But she knew her
mother too well to imagine for one instant that this
scene, painful though it was, would make her desist
from the purpose to which she had set her mind.
She had not long to wait for the proof of the truth
of her conclusions.

That afternoon the ladies were left pretty much
to their own devices.  Some of the men were busy
preparing for the morrow.  Others who had little
to do were on the old fort or other vantage points,
watching the warships which lay just outside the
harbour, and were speculating in an inexpert fashion on
the probabilities and prospects of the following day.
All of which speculations and prophecies the following
day proved to be false.  But in the meantime the
idle ones grew eloquent over their own imaginings,
and, like most armchair experts, persuaded themselves
that they did know something about war and the
respective fighting qualities of French marines and
Chinese soldiers.

Taking advantage of her husband's absence, Mrs. MacAllister
called her daughter into her room.  After
some preliminary fencing, she plunged into the
subject she had in mind:

"There is no need of my concealing from you,
Jessie, how deeply I was grieved and disappointed by
your conduct towards Mr. Carteret to-day."

"I am very sorry to have hurt your feelings,
mother.  But I am not sorry for telling Mr. Carteret
the truth and giving him what he deserved."

"I do not understand what you mean by saying
that you gave Mr. Carteret what he deserved."

"Mother, Mr. Carteret took advantage of his
privileges as our guest and of the friendship we have
showed him to make an unwarranted and ungentlemanly
attack on another friend of ours, who has also
been our guest."

"Tut, tut, Jessie!  Mr. Carteret did not say
anything about Dr. Sinclair which should make any
sensible person angry."

"He made statements about Dr. Sinclair which
were not true; and he made them in the most
insulting way possible."

"That is merely a matter of opinion, my dear.
Dr. Sinclair himself acknowledged that he was born and
reared on a Canadian farm.  And though I will
acknowledge that he has done remarkably well, considering
that, to a gentleman of Mr. Carteret's birth
and training he is just a peasant, nothing more than
a common peasant."

"Then, mother, to Mr. Carteret we are just
peasants, nothing more than common peasants.  Your
father was a shepherd, and father's was a peasant
farmer."

Mrs. MacAllister coloured at the thrust, but tried
to evade it.

"Jessie," she said, "what is the use of always
humiliating your father and mother by continually
reminding them that they were born poor?  We have
risen above that now and associate with the best in
the land.  People should be judged by what they are,
and not by what they were born to."

"That is exactly what I think, mother.  By that
standard Dr. Sinclair, who was born on a Canadian
farm, is a gentleman.  And Mr. Carteret, who was
born in an English castle, is not a gentleman."

"For shame, Jessie, to talk like that!  You have
no right to say that of Mr. Carteret.  You humiliated
him at our own table to-day, and he bore it
like a gentleman."

"Like a coward, you mean!"

"And by getting indignant on behalf of Dr. Sinclair,"
continued the mother, without paying any heed
to the daughter's interjection, "you practically said
to everybody that you were in love with him."

"I said no such thing."

"Both Mr. De Vaux and Mr. Carteret understood
it that way."

"I don't care a fig what they understood."

"And when Dr. Sinclair hears of it he will
understand it the same way."

"He will do no such thing.  He is too much of a man."

Miss MacAllister spoke bravely.  But the thrust
had gone home.  If there was one thing she dreaded,
it was the thought that she should make herself cheap,
that she should appear to offer her love instead of
having her love sought and won.  The thought stung.
But she would not acknowledge it.

"Jessie, has Dr. Sinclair spoken to you of marriage?"

"Mother, I cannot understand what makes you
imagine such things.  Dr. Sinclair has never spoken
of the subject of marriage, even in the remotest and
most impersonal way."

"Has he ever told you that he loves you?"

"Mother, I refuse to discuss this subject any
further.  It is absurd."

"You may say that it is absurd if you wish, Jessie.
But, after the way you acted to-day, I thought
that there must surely be some ground for your
championship of him."

Again the implication stung.  Had she been
making herself cheap?  Was her secret which she had
refused to acknowledge to herself laid bare before
everybody?  She winced at the thought.  But she
said nothing.

Her mother pursued her advantage:

"Now, Mr. Carteret has followed the only course
open to a gentleman of birth and breeding.  He has
honourably come to your father and mother and has
asked our permission to be considered a suitor for
your hand."

"Was that permission given?"

"Jessie, what do you take us for?  Do you think
that we have no care about your future?  The heir
presumptive to the title and estates of Lewesthorpe
would be considered one of the catches of a London
season."

"Mother, tell me, did father accept Mr. Carteret
as a prospective lover and husband for me?"

"Yes, certainly....  That is——  You know
your father's way....  He did not put it in so many
words, but he gave what was equivalent to his
consent."

"That is to say that father told Mr. Carteret I
could choose for myself.  Now, mother, is that not
what father said?"

"Well, perhaps it was something like that.  But,
at any rate, it was the same thing as giving his
consent.  He made no objections to Mr. Carteret's trying
to win you."

"That is just what I thought.  Of course you gave
your hearty consent and approval."

"Certainly, my daughter.  What kind of a mother
would I be if a handsome and accomplished young
gentleman, a gentleman of birth and prospects, should
offer you his heart and hand,—what kind of a mother
would I be not to encourage his suit?"

"Then, mother, he can keep his heart and hand.
I will have none of them."

"Jessie, do not make rash statements, which you
may regret.  I am not asking you to promise to marry
Mr. Carteret.  I only asked you to give him a chance
to win your love."

"Mother, it is no use.  I'll never love Mr. Carteret."

"But, Jessie, think of his prospects.  His father
is a feeble old man.  His death is expected any day.
The present heir has only one lung."

"I don't care if he had only quarter of one lung.
It would make no difference to me."

"But, Jessie, stop and think of it.  Mr. Carteret will
then be Lord Lewesthorpe, and you would be the
Countess of Lewesthorpe."

"Mother, there is no use in your talking like that.
I do not care if he were the Prince of Wales.  I
would not pledge myself to try to love a man whom I
do not respect."

"Jessie, I am bitterly disappointed in you.  You
are all I have.  If Allister were living it would be
different."  Tears, real tears, of grief and mortification
sprang into the older woman's eyes and began
to roll down her cheeks.  "If I had Allister, it would
be different.  He would build up the family.  But I
have only you, and you will not do anything I wish.
I am grievously disappointed."

"Mother, you are not fair to me.  I have tried
to do what you wanted.  But you are asking of me
what I cannot do.  I cannot give myself body and
soul to a man I despise, a man I can never love."

"But think of the title, Jessie, and the estates, and
the old mansion built in the time of Queen Elizabeth.
And think of the place you would have in society.
You would learn to love him if you would only let
yourself."

"Mother is it possible that you think that I could
love a man for these things?  I must love him for
himself, or not at all."

"Then I suppose that you will tell that low-born,
penniless Canadian doctor that you love him," said
her mother bitterly.  "Next thing you'll be wanting
to marry him and settle down here as a missionary
among those dirty Chinese."

The taunt stung again as it had stung before.  The
quick blood flamed into her face and passionately she
flashed back:

"I have not the slightest intention of marrying
Dr. Sinclair."

It was the defiant answer of maidenly pride, fired
by the insinuation that she had allowed her feelings
to cause her to transgress the limits of maidenly
reserve.  In her sudden anger she was fighting against
the dictates of her own heart.

But her mother, in the determination to satisfy her
pitiful ambition, did not hesitate to seize the unfair
advantage and wrest her daughter's words, giving
them a meaning which had not been intended:

"I am very glad to hear you say, Jessie, that you
will not marry Dr. Sinclair.  Your attitude towards
him the last few days gave to me as well as to others,
and I am quite sure to Dr. Sinclair himself, the
impression that you were in love with him.  I am glad
to have it from your own lips that it was nothing more
than a passing fancy, a harmless flirtation."

Miss MacAllister waited to hear no more.  She
could not contradict her mother's artful twisting of
her words without confessing her love.  She could
not do that, for Dr. Sinclair had not confessed his,
nor had he asked for hers.  She was trapped.  Her
mother had trapped her and she could find no escape.

She fled from her mother's room, ran to her own,
and in a passion of tears of anger and shame threw
herself on a couch.  Was what her mother had said
true?  Had she exposed her heart to the vulgar gaze?
Did they all think that she was offering her love
to Sinclair without its being sought?  She would teach
them.  They would not say that again.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE BALL BEGINS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XXIV


.. class:: center large bold

   THE BALL BEGINS

.. vspace:: 2

Boom!  Boom!

Two jets of smoke spirted out from the new
earth battery on the spur of the hill running
down to the pilot village by the beach.  The light
sea-breeze met them, lifted them in balloon-shaped clouds,
and carried them slowly backwards over the battery
and against the hills.  The earth trembled with the
heavy explosions of the Krupps.  One shell splashed
a little to the left of the *Triomphante*, and a trifle
short.  The other plume of spray rose directly
beyond the warship and so close that it showed how near
the Chinese gunner had come to his target.

"By Jove! the Chinese have opened the ball.  They
did not wait for the Frenchman to start.  It's only
twenty to seven."

The consul clicked his watch shut as he spoke, and
turned his binoculars on the French fleet.  Sinclair
and Sergeant Gorman, who stood with him on the top
of the old fort, had their glasses turned in the same
direction.  They had not long to wait.  On board the
*Triomphante* men could be seen running to their
stations.  In less than two minutes a puff of smoke
streaming out from her told that the duel was on.
Before the boom of the big naval gun had travelled
across the intervening two miles or more of space
other jets of smoke poured out from the *Triomphante*,
the *Galissonnière*, and the *Duguay Trouin* as they lay
strung across the mouth of the harbour.  To the
north and east of the first of these a little cloud, rising
and floating on the breeze, told where the *Vipère* lay
close in shore, hidden from sight by the hills.

The second of October had come, and with it the
bombardment.  In spite of its imminence, most of
the foreign residents were calmly enjoying their
morning nap when the tempest broke upon them.  Of
course there were exceptions.  The officers and men
of the *Locust* were at their places, ready for any
duty.  Dr. MacKay's working day had begun hours
before.  The commissioner of customs had been down
to the offices to take a last inventory before the storm
of iron and fire in which they were likely to be
destroyed should begin.  He had been joined by
Mr. MacAllister and his daughter, who were looking for a
point of vantage from which to see the opening of
the battle.  These and the group at the consulate were
the only ones astir.  The rest were peacefully
slumbering, prolonging the morning doze to the last
moment, though they knew that the bombardment
was announced to commence at seven o'clock sharp.

Their drowse was rudely broken in upon.  Within
fifteen minutes from when the first gun was fired
the four ships and the Chinese batteries were putting
up a tremendous concert.  The earth rocked with the
bellowings of the great guns and the bursting of shells.
The *Triomphante* and the *Galissonnière* ever and anon
alternated a broadside with the independent firing of
single guns.  Even Carteret was awakened when the
windows of his room were shattered and a great slab
of plaster fell from the ceiling, bringing his mosquito
curtain down on top of him in a tangled ruin.

"You will be going down to the hospital shortly,
doctor?" said the consul.

"Yes, if the French keep it up like this, I guess we'll
have something to do there."

"Will you drop into Thomson's and tell them that
my wife and Constance will call for them in a
few minutes and accompany them to the rendezvous?"

"I'll tell them."

"And Dr. MacKay and his family—do you think
that there is any use of our trying again to get him
to go to some safer place?"

"No, there is no use.  He has his students there,
and a lot of his preachers and converts with their
wives and families.  To send them to any of the
interior towns would mean Sin-tiam over again.  They
are in less danger here from the French shells than
they would be from the heathen mobs.  He will not
leave them.  If they are going to be in danger, he
will be in danger with them."

"I fancied that it would be that way with him.
Well, I think all the more of him for it.  Now I
must go and get my family down to the rendezvous
and see that the rest of the British residents are
under the best cover possible.  Hallo!  Who's that on
the beach road below the custom house?"

"The commissioner, Mr. MacAllister, and Miss
MacAllister," said Sinclair, who had his glasses on
them.

"What the deuce are they doing there?

"Looking for a good place from which to see the
fun," laughed Sinclair, though his face showed more
anxiety than mirth.

"Boville ought to have more sense," snapped the
consul.  "Last evening he was in a great fluster about
seeing that everybody was safe at the rendezvous
before the ball began.  But I suppose that Miss
MacAllister has coaxed him, and he couldn't resist."

"Quite likely," replied the doctor, while an odd
little smile played around his eyes and the corners
of his mouth.  "They are turning back now.
Mr. MacAllister has taken charge.  He has the young lady
by the arm and they are heading for home."

"By Jove! she needs some one whom she can't
twist round her fingers."

The two men laughed; Sinclair a little doubtfully,
as if he was not too sure that such a thing was
possible; the consul with the air of conscious superiority
which needs not fear.  They little knew what the
day had in store for them.

"We must be off.  It's getting pretty hot over
there, and it may swing around this way any minute.
Sergeant, would you stay here a little while and
watch Monsieur *Lespès*?  If he seems inclined to pay
his compliments to the town as well as to the
batteries, run up the red signal.  But don't stay here
after this is in the line of fire.  I don't want you
to get your head knocked off."

"Very good, sir!  I shall thry not to come down
to you wid me head in me hand."

Sinclair and the consul ran down the dark
stairway within the old fort and hurried away, the
latter to his house close by, the former to MacKay's
to get his instruments and then to Thomson's to give
them the consul's message.  Gorman stood alone on
his watch-tower, looking out upon the scene.

The solid old memorial of Dutch and Chinese
workmanship stood on the most prominent angle of the
hill which thrust itself forward towards the sea.  For
two and a half centuries it had braved siege and storm
and the wasting forces of tropical typhoons, of rain
and sun and clinging, insidious tropical vegetation.
In a line with it, along the brow of the hill facing
the harbour, were the consul's house, Dr. MacKay's
bungalow and that of his colleague, and the residences
of the customs officers.  Just behind MacKay's house
were the two mission schools.  In a parallel line
below the hill and mostly close to the shore were the
customs house, then after a considerable interval
MacAllister, Munro Co.'s, Reid & Co.'s, Dr. Bergmann's
house, and the Mission Hospital, right in the native
town.  Away at the far end of the town, a mile
beyond the other foreign residences on a little eminence
facing the river, were the house and godowns of Scott
& Co., known as Peeatow.  Over each foreign building
flew the British flag, save where Dr. Bergmann
had hoisted the flag of his fatherland.  Out in
mid-stream, right in front of MacAllister, Munro Co.'s,
the trim, workmanlike *Locust* floated on the rising
tide.

The residence and godowns of Mr. MacAllister's
firm had been chosen as the rendezvous.  They were
in a sheltered position in what was almost a little
cove between the hill and the river.  There
Commander Gardenier had sent a force of ten
bluejackets under a petty officer.  As Gorman moved his
glass from point to point to fix all in his memory a
boat pulled away from the *Locust* carrying another
guard of eight men to Peeatow, where a number of
foreigners had elected to remain, because of its
distance from the ships of war.

The sergeant turned again to the artillery duel.
All over the open downs to the north shells were
furrowing the hard, dry soil, ricochetting from knoll to
knoll, and exploding harmlessly on the grass.  The
points where the fewest shells fell were the hollows
in which the Chinese camps were sheltered.  In spite
of the hurtling showers of projectiles which at
times filled the air, these seemed to be practically
immune.

"Howly Moses!" said Gorman to himself, "if
that's the kind of shootin' the Frinchies do, the only
safe spot in tin square miles is the man they're aimin'
at."

Then a great, clumsy blue-grey water buffalo, the
draught beast of the island, disturbed in its
accustomed pasture grounds by thundering guns and
cracking shells, went lumbering across the common a short
distance away.  Its ugly snout was thrown forward,
its great curved horns laid back against its shoulders.
A shell plumped into the ground under its belly and,
exploding instantly, blew the buffalo into ten
thousand fragments.

"Furst casuality!" exclaimed Gorman.  "Private
Wather Buffalo of the Furst Battalion, Tamsui Blues,
General Soon's heavy brigade.  Turned into mince
meat.  Chewed and partly digested.  Dead and mostly
missin'."

The next instant it was:

"May the divil fly away wid that gunner!  Fwhat
the blazes does he mane by shootin' there?  Does the
omadhaun think that he has killed all the haythen
Chinese in the island, that now he's thryin' to kill the
Christian white people?"

A shell from the *Galissonnière* had passed in a great
arc over his head.  Its sound was that of a
long-drawn whine mingled with the rush of a sudden
gust of wind.  It exploded between the Girls' School
and Dr. MacKay's house.

"If it's the Chinese he's tryin' to hit, I wud call
that a mortial bad shot.  I'll wait to see if that wan
was only an accident, or if they're goin' to presint us
wid anny more."

He did not wait long.  Another rush and whine
and a shell passed a little to his left, almost on a level
with the spot where he stood and, exploding on the
common just back of Thomson's bungalow, threw a
cloud of earth high in the air.

That was enough.  The red flag fluttered up to the
top of the tall signal staff, from which it did not
come down for more than twelve hours.

A moment later the consul came out of his house,
accompanied by his wife and little daughter and a
couple of native servants, to make their perilous way
to the rendezvous.  He glanced up at the danger
signal:

"Are they at it already, sergeant?

"They are, sir; the worse luck to thim.  Make the
best time you can, sir, an' march in open order."

"Thank you, sergeant.  But don't you stay up
there to be hit.  You can't be of any more service
now.  Get to cover somewhere.  You might be needed
at the hospital."

"Very good, sir."

The consul's little group strung out along the
narrow road following the brow of the hill past the two
mission houses.  As they came to Dr. MacKay's they
saw the missionary pacing to and fro on his verandah.
The consul called to him:

"Not very safe there, Dr. MacKay.  I think you


had better do as the rest are doing, bring your family
down into the shelter below the hill."

The missionary stopped his rapid, nervous pacing
backward and forward, lifted his hat in salute, and
replied:

"Thank you, Mr. Beauchamp.  I have all the protection
I need: 'Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror
by night, nor for the arrow that flieth by day.'"

As they spoke a projectile drove deep into the
ground of the garden between them, but did not
explode.  Undisturbed, the missionary resumed his
walking up and down, while the consul hurried after his
family.  At their gate Mr. and Mrs. Thomson,
accompanied by Dr. Sinclair, joined them.

"Run for it!  Run!" Beauchamp shouted as the
now familiar rush and moan of a shell was heard.
The nimblest of them had hardly quickened their
pace when it hit the very edge of the almost perpendicular
cliff a few yards behind them, ricochetted at
an angle to its original course, and plunged into the
harbour.  Without more ceremony they did run,
stringing out until separated by wide intervals, turned
sharply down the face of the hill by a narrow path
and stone steps which led under some spreading
banians, and in a few minutes were at the door of
the rendezvous.  The shells screamed through the air
overhead, skipped along on the hard earth of the
hills, or splashed into the river below.

"Wasn't that fun, daddy?  You should have been
able just to see you and mother run.  It was better
than a show."

The consul's little daughter was dancing and
clapping her hands with delight.

"Not much fun that I could see, Constance,"
replied her father grimly.  "I prefer some other kind
of a show."

"Oh, I like this best, father.  And it would have
been ever so much more fun if Mr. De Vaux had been
with us.  Wouldn't it have been great to see him run,
hear him puff, and say, 'Bless my soul'?"

"That will do, Constance.  It wouldn't have been
very great if one of us had got blown up by a shell."

"But, daddy, we had Dr. Sinclair with us.  He
would have fixed us up."

"Sublime faith!  By Jove! doctor, you have an
admirer here who will not go back on you."

Sinclair laughed, slipped his arm around the little
maid as she pressed to his side, ran his fingers through
the heavy, dark-brown curls, smiled into those frank
child eyes which looked so straight into his, and passed
on to the hospital to join Drs. Black and Bergmann.

Meanwhile, Sergeant Gorman, coming from the
consulate towards the town, had stopped to ask
Dr. MacKay if there was any service he could render.

"From the way the Frenchmen are shootin', I do
not expect that we'll have manny cases in the hospital,
barrin' it may be some of ourselves, if there's anny of
us left to patch the rest together.  So I moight as well
be doin' an odd job for you, if there's annything that
would be of service to you."

"Nothing that I know of just now, sergeant!
Nothing!  We have made all the preparations we
could think of.  We are in the hands of God.  But
your offer is itself a service.  I thank you."

A shell drove into the ground in a plantation of
young banian trees just to the west of the house.  Its
explosion threw up a miniature volcanic eruption of
gravel.

"Bedad, Dr. MacKay, I have been safer in manny
a battlefield than we are at this very minute."

"'The Lord is my rock, and my fortress, and my
deliverer; my God, my strong rock, in Him will I
trust.'"

"Thin, sir, you have better fortifications around
you than a great manny of us have."

A petty officer from the *Locust* came up the garden
walk, saluted, and said:

"Are you Dr. MacKay, sir?"

"I am."

"Commander Gardenier sent me to present his
compliments, and to invite you to bring your family and
your valuables and come on board the *Locust*.  He
says that you are in great danger here and that no
place on shore is safe.  A boat is waiting at the jetty,
sir."

His words were interrupted by the weird moan of
a shell, followed by an ear-splitting crack.  The air
was full of smoke and dust and flying fragments of
metal and stone.  It had struck a big boulder directly
in front of the house, on the edge of the narrow road
at the foot of the garden.

As they recovered from the shock, MacKay was
speaking as quietly as if nothing had happened:

"Give Commander Gardenier my thanks.  Tell him
that I am deeply indebted to him for his thoughtfulness.
Say to him that I have no valuables save these."  He
swept his arm around the semi-circle of native
converts, preachers, students, and simple believers.
"He could not accommodate all these.  It is not his
duty.  They are subjects of China.  But these are my
valuables, my children in the Lord.  Since I cannot
take them with me, I shall stay with them."

"I shall tell him, sir."

The sailor saluted and withdrew.

When Sergeant Gorman told Sinclair of it at the
hospital he said:

"I was born a Catholic, an' I'll die a Catholic.  But
whin I see that man up there on the hill an' thin think
of that college in Skibbereen, an' the priests that have
me little farm, that isn't mine neither, at
Sleeahtballymackcurraghalicky,
I'll tell ye it isn't the memory of
the priests that kapes me a Catholic.  It is because I
am an Irishman an' I hate the name of a turncoat."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE BALL PROCEEDS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XXV


.. class:: center large bold

   THE BALL PROCEEDS

.. vspace:: 2

"This is a sudden and unceremonious inroad
of uninvited guests, Mr. MacAllister," said
the consul as he entered.  "Awfully sorry
to crowd you so."

"There's no necessity for apologies, Mr. Beauchamp.
We are only too glad to share with all any
shelter or safety our situation may afford.  Will you
not stay and be as comfortable as the circumstances
will allow?"

"Thanks, very much.  I cannot stay just now.  I
see that you have every one from the hill except
MacKay and his family and those who are at the hospital.
But there are others who have taken refuge at Scott
& Co.'s bungalow.  I want to look in at the hospital,
and then go on to Peeatow.  I shall leave this party
in your care and that of Boville.  If it gets too hot
here, signal Gardenier, and he will take you all on
board.  I shall be back in an hour."

He was off, following the narrow, crooked, rough-paved
Chinese street, his quick, nervous step carrying
him rapidly on his tour of inspection.

Mr. MacAllister went up to the living-rooms where
the ladies were with De Vaux, Thomson the missionary,
Clark the tea-buyer, Boville, Carteret, and
practically the whole customs staff.  The house never
ceased shaking with the continual discharge of the
cannon.  Ever and anon the sharp splitting crash of a
bursting shell, some nearer, some farther away, gave
the nervous a start.  Less frequently could be heard,
even within the house, the mingled whine and whirr
of a passing projectile.

Not one of the ladies showed a sign of fear.
Mrs. Beauchamp was quiet and self-controlled.  Perhaps
there was a trace of anxiety as her eye followed the
light, fawn-like movements of Constance, or when
she thought of her husband out trying to assure
himself of the safety of others.  But there was no fear.
Mrs. MacAllister was at her best.  Whatever her
faults might be, timidity was not one of them.  She
belonged to a war-like people.  Her colour was high
Her dark eyes shone with a strange fire.  She looked
a score of years younger than she was.  Her husband
was struck by the change in her.  He found an
opportunity to say:

"You look beautiful to-day, Flora."

"I am thinking of you, Hector.  If you have
to go out into danger, I want to go with you.
Now I know why Allister would be a soldier.
And I know what Jessie would mean when she
says she wishes she wass a man.  I nefer knew
before."

She was deeply moved.  The instinct of a fighting
race had suddenly come to life with the sound of
battle and the accent of her childhood's speech was back
upon her tongue.

She looked around for her daughter.  Miss MacAllister
was standing near a window talking to Boville.
She was drawn up to her full height, dwarfing
the rotund commissioner of customs.  Her cheeks
were burning.  Her eyes had an almost unnatural
light.  Her bosom was heaving with the short, quick
breath of one in struggle.  Perhaps for the first time
in her life Mrs. MacAllister understood her daughter's
feelings.  But she did not understand how much
their interview of the day before had added to their
intensity.

"Mr. Boville, I really cannot stay in here and not
be able to see what is going on.  I simply cannot.  Let
us go out on the verandah."

"Very well, Miss MacAllister.  I do not know that
it is any more dangerous there.  I shall be glad to
go with you."

"So shall I!" exclaimed Mrs. Thomson, whose
natural vivacity had likewise been quickened by the
excitement of the occasion.  "I must go out.  If there's
any danger, let's take it in the open, and not shut up
here like rats in a hole."

Her husband made a slow and feeble protest.  But,
with a half-defiant "You may hide in here if you want
to," she ran out where she could get a view.
Meanwhile, Constance Beauchamp danced in and out,
bringing reports of what was to be seen to her mother,
who remained sedately inside.

A heavy projectile splashed in the river midway
between the company's jetty and the *Locust*.  Another
dropped on a cargo boat lying at the jetty, smashing
through its bottom.  The boat immediately filled and
sank.  A third drove into the soft mud of the shore
close by and exploded, bespattering the whole vicinity
with slime.  There was a moan and rush nearer still,
a shrill human shriek, a splitting crash, and a small
native house spouted up a cloud of dust and splinters
and fragments of sun-dried brick.  Then it collapsed
in a little heap of debris.  In that heap were the bodies
of an old Chinese peasant and his wife, and a little
child.  The great guns of the French Republic's
battleships had claimed some notable victims.

At the first sound of the shell Miss MacAllister and
Mrs. Thomson were unceremoniously rushed into the
house by Boville and De Vaux.  The latter showed a
presence of mind and courage in time of danger of
which his excitability on ordinary occasions had given
little promise.  The shower of fragments rattled
harmlessly on the roof and walls.

For a few minutes they appeared to be safe.  But
they did not have a long respite.  There was a terrific
crash and rending.  The house shook as if in the grip
of an earthquake.  A great, gaping hole appeared in
the back corner of the room on a level with the floor.

"Out on the verandah!  Quick!" yelled Boville.

"Don't stop there!  Bless my soul!  To the far
end!" echoed De Vaux.

With one exception all ran to the end of the
verandah farthest from where they expected the
explosion to take place.  For a moment or two there was
dead silence as hearts stood still in expectancy of the
death-dealing shock.  Then a quick step was heard
running up the stairs and into the room they had left.
The next instant Sinclair stepped out on the verandah.

"I hope no one was hurt," he said.  "There is no
immediate danger now.  It's a dead one."

A heavy shell from the *Triomphante* had ricochetted
from the hill behind, struck the back of the house just
above the level of the floor of the room in which the
refugees were, passed through the wall and floor, and
landed amid the boxes of tea piled in the lower story.
Dr. Sinclair was just entering the storeroom on the
ground floor at that moment, and soon satisfied
himself that it could do no more harm.

His assurance was received with a chorus of grateful
exclamations.  In the midst of them Mrs. MacAllister
turned to Carteret and said:

"I am very glad to see, Mr. Carteret, that you are
perfectly safe."

She had not failed to notice that he had been the
first to reach a place of safety, and had ensconced
himself in the corner farthest from the expected danger.
She had got a glimpse of the man's character.  She
could forgive drunkenness and gambling, and some
other things which need not be mentioned.  These
were the privileges of the nobility.  But cowardice!
She despised that.  Her voice was icily cold when she
said:

"I am very glad to see, Mr. Carteret, that you are
perfectly safe."

Carteret's pale face, paler than usual, flushed.  But
with ready effrontery he carried himself through:

"Thank you, Mrs. MacAllister; I am very glad to
see that every one is perfectly safe."

At that moment Sinclair's voice was heard saying:

"What's the matter in here?  Was any one hurt?"

He stepped into the room again, followed by all the
rest.  From a dark corner came broken ejaculations,
mingled with the names of the deity:

"Oh, God!  Oh, God! ... Lord! ... Lord! ... Oh,
God, have mercy on my soul!"

Peering through the semi-darkness after the glare
of the bright sunshine outside, they discovered Clark
on his hands and knees under a heavy teak table.

"Hallo, Clark!" exclaimed Sinclair.  "What are
you doing there?  Are you hurt?"

"Oh, God! ... No! ... We'll all be killed....
Lord! ... Lord! ... The shell! ... Oh, God!
Have mercy on my soul!"

"Lord bless my soul!" exclaimed De Vaux in his
high-pitched voice.  "Is the man a coward?"

"Lord have mercy on my soul!" prayed Clark,
under the table.

"My God! ... This is disgraceful," stuttered De
Vaux.  "I never heard of the like....  Bless my
soul!"

"Oh, God! ... Have mercy on my soul!" echoed Clark.

"Sounds like a Free Methodist prayer-meeting!"
remarked Sinclair, with a laugh, in which the rest
joined.

"Mother, doesn't Mr. Clark get under the table
and whine just like Carlo when father whipped
him for keeping company with those nasty Chinese
dogs?"

"Hush, Constance!  Don't you say another word."

Sinclair reached under the table and began to pull
Clark out:

"Come along, Clark!  The Lord's going to give
you another chance with that soul of yours.  Perhaps
you will have it in better shape by the time you get
the next call."

When a few minutes later a boat from the *Locust*
arrived to take all to the gunboat for greater safety,
Clark found his legs with amazing expedition.
Indeed, he would have been the first person in the boat
if it had not been that Lieutenant Lanyon, who was
in command, caught him by the collar and jerked him
back on the jetty with the warning:

"Ladies first, sir, or by my faith you don't go at all."

Meanwhile on the exposed hill-top MacKay, his
wife and children, and his Chinese converts, who had
no souls, remained calm and unmoved amidst the
ceaseless whirr and whine of the flying projectiles
and the crash of bursting shells.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A GAME OF BALL`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XXVI


.. class:: center large bold

   A GAME OF BALL

.. vspace:: 2

During the afternoon the French fire
slackened.  By four o'clock it had died away to
scattering shots.  The party of refugees had
spent most of the forenoon on board the *Locust*, had
lunched at Peeatow, and now were back at their
morning rendezvous.  Some of the men had remained at
Peeatow.  Clark, the hero of the teak table incident,
was not one of them.  Evidently believing that a special
divinity had been assigned to watch over the ladies,
he kept very close to them, so that he might share in
that divinity's protection.

Sinclair had spent the day at the hospital, though
there was not much to do there.  The all-day
bombardment had wounded less than a score of
Chinamen.  But when he visited the rendezvous in the
morning he noticed that Miss MacAllister seemed to avoid
him.  He was not the man to push himself in where
he was not wanted, and so stayed away.  But they
met in the late afternoon.  It was she who contrived it.

"Where is Miss MacAllister?" said Mrs. Beauchamp
to that young lady's mother.  "I have not
seen her for some time."

"I really do not know.  I had not missed her.  But
now that you mention it, I have not seen her since we
came back.  She may be in her room."

"Constance, would you go to Miss MacAllister's
room and see if she is there?"

"Oh, no, mother, she is not in her room!  I know.
I heard her dare Mr. Carteret to have a game of
tennis.  She said that she would get Dr. Sinclair, too.
She has gone away up to our place to play tennis."

"To play tennis!" both ladies exclaimed in horror.

"Yes," replied Constance.  "Mr. Carteret did not
want to go one bit.  He was scared.  I know.  He tried
to make all sorts of excuses.  It was because he was
so scared.  I know.  He looked just as frightened as
he could look.  But Miss MacAllister made him go.
Isn't she dandy?"

"Constance, quick, run and ask your father to come
here!"

When the consul heard what his wife had to tell,
he uttered one brief, emphatic word, not loud but deep,
grabbed his hat, and ran down the stairs.  Breathlessly
climbing the steep hill behind, he had just turned the
corner of the customs compound when he heard the
moan of a shell coming from the direction of the
*Vipère*, which had moved from her former position
and was lying well within the mouth of the river.  It
exploded in the air between the two mission bungalows.
A fragment cut its way clean through the
cottage roof of Thomson's bungalow, going in at one
side and coming out at the other, leaving a great
gaping hole in the tiles.

"By Jove!" said the consul to himself, "if that
had been a percussion, or if the Frenchman had given
it one second longer, Thomson would have been minus
a house."

He caught a glimpse of swiftly-moving white
figures on his lawn and quickened his pace.  He called
a cheery greeting to MacKay as he passed and ran
down into the little hollow between the missionary's
house and his own.  Just then he heard Sinclair's
strong voice calling:

"Fifteen—love! ... Thirty—love! ... Forty—love! ... Game!"

"What an expert!  Just look at the cool, confident
way he serves those balls.  And we might as well try
to stop a French shell with our rackets as return his
service.  Mr. Carteret, it's your service.  Now play up
or he'll win this set."

At that moment the consul ran through the gate in
the hedge into the midst of the players:

"What the deuce is the meaning of this?  Miss
MacAllister?  Dr. Sinclair?"

"Oh, Mr. Beauchamp, I'm so glad you have come!
We needed another player to complete a doubles.
Dr. Sinclair has been playing singles against
Mr. Carteret and me.  Won't you join in?  There's a
gentleman's racket on the settee right before you."

"Miss MacAllister, this is no time for fooling.  I
want to know what is the meaning of this.  Carteret,
you are a resident of the East and know what it means
to disobey the orders of a consul.  Why are you here
and not at the rendezvous?"

"Ask the young lady," replied Carteret, with a
shrug of his shoulders and a curl of his lip.

"Thanks, Adam!  Since the blame is to be thrown
back on Eve, she'll reply.  I got tired of being stewed
up in the house with men who crawled under the
table whenever there was a hint of danger.  So I came
up here.  Besides, I do not believe that it is nearly
so dangerous here as there.  Not a shell has come near
us since we came, and I have not seen where one has
fallen about here all day.  And, if they did start to
shoot at us, Dr. Sinclair keeps us jumping about so
lively after his balls that the Frenchmen could never
hit us."

It took all Beauchamp's self-control to maintain the
gravity of his countenance.  But he managed it
somehow, and answered as sternly as he could:

"This foolishness must stop.  I'm responsible for
your lives and I'm not going to have you stuck up
here for targets."

"But, Mr. Beauchamp," was the nonchalant reply,
"we have won the first set from Dr. Sinclair.  He
has very nearly won the second from us.  It would
be cowardly of us to run away now without giving
him a chance to finish it.  I'm sure Mr. Carteret would
never consent to that.  Mr. Carteret, it's your
service.  We must get moving or we all may be
killed."

"I think, Mr. Beauchamp," said Sinclair, "that
what Miss MacAllister says is about right.  There
really appears to be less danger here than down in
the town.  Whether or not the French gunners have
respected the consulate, their shells have done little
damage just here."

But the consul was not to be put off so easily:

"Miss MacAllister, Mr. Carteret, Dr. Sinclair, I
command you to stop this game and to go down to
the rendezvous."

"Mr. Beauchamp, may I ask you one question?"  Her
voice was almost infantile in its innocence.

"Certainly, Miss MacAllister.  If it be a short one."

"You remember the Canadian Indian song Dr. Sinclair
sang at the consulate the evening after we
arrived?  Was that really Indian?"

"How do you think I know?  I never lived among
the Indians.  It was all Greek to me."

"That's exactly what I thought.  It was Greek to
me.  Mr. Carteret, it's your service.  Please play
ball."

The consul gave a long, low whistle, shrugged his
shoulders, and said to himself:

"So that's where the wind lies.  I fancy I might
as well let them fight it out."

Sinclair's face crimsoned at her words; then paled
a little.  His jaw set hard and he returned Carteret's
service with such a volley that neither of his
opponents, though ordinarily better players than he, had
any chance.  In a few minutes he announced abruptly:

"Game!  Set!"

"Set—all!  We must play the rubber.  I suppose
you are willing to have a deciding set, Dr. Sinclair?"

"Certainly, Miss MacAllister."

There was something in his face and voice she had
never seen or heard there before.  She looked at him
curiously—a little anxiously.

They exchanged courts, Sinclair taking the north
or exposed end of the lawn, while his opponents had
the south end and were sheltered behind the fort.

The consul looked at them for a moment, then seized
a racket and joined Sinclair:

"If you young people are bound to be fools, I suppose
I might as well jump into it and be a fool, too.
It may finish the set so much the quicker."

It was not a long one.  Miss MacAllister played
well.  But her partner, Carteret, usually an expert at
tennis, was nervous and playing wretchedly.  On the
other hand, Sinclair, who ordinarily served well but
was weak on the return, completely excelled himself.
He drove his balls over the net with a savage strength
which made his opponents' efforts to return them
entirely hopeless.  And on the return, where he was as
a rule only moderately skilful, he let nothing pass him.
Beauchamp played his usual swift, tricky, cheerful
game.

The last game of the set had come.  It was Sinclair's
service.

"Play ball! ... Fifteen—love!"

He crossed to his left-hand court and lifted his
racket.  There was a long whine, a rush of wind,
and a terrific crash.  A slanting black groove was
scored across the green almost at Sinclair's feet, and
the earth thrown high in the air.

"Down!  Down!  Everybody down!" yelled the consul.

"Play ball!" shouted Sinclair, and drove a vicious
service at Carteret.  "Thirty—love!" he continued,
and strode back to his right-hand court to serve
again.

But there was no use continuing the game.  Carteret,
who had flung himself on the ground, arose with
a hanging jaw and ghastly face, and a nerve too
shaken to play any more that day.  Miss MacAllister
had thrown herself on a settee at the end of the lawn,
her face covered with her hands to shut out the sight.
The consul, though he had shouted to the others to
down, had remained standing himself.  He was
staring fixedly at Sinclair:

"Doctor, you beat the devil."

"Nothing to get excited about, Beauchamp!  Percussion
fuse!  If it did not explode when it hit the
corner of the fort, it wasn't likely to when it went into
the soft soil."

"Yes, that's all right.  But you hadn't time to work
that out before you served again.  Besides, it passed
within a yard of where you were standing."

"Well, what if it did?  A miss is as good as a mile.
There was no use going up in the air about it."

"Look here, Sinclair.  What the devil ever
induced you to play this fool game, anyway?"

"I had to."

The consul looked at him in silence for a minute.

"Well, perhaps you had," he said slowly.

"I'll leave you to see those people back to the
rendezvous, Beauchamp.  Carteret may need a stretcher.
I see that Miss MacAllister is quite able to walk.  I'm
going to MacKay's."

He turned to go.  As he did so he heard Miss MacAllister
pronounce his name.  He thought that she was
only saying a conventional farewell.  He lifted his hat
and said:

"Good-afternoon, Miss MacAllister."

Without looking in her direction he was gone.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE CHARGE OF THE TAMSUI BLUES`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XXVII


.. class:: center large bold

   THE CHARGE OF THE TAMSUI BLUES

.. vspace:: 2

During the week which lay between the first
and second bombardments, Dr. Sinclair and
Miss MacAllister saw very little of each other.
The doctor was busy.  But that was not the main
reason why he did not meet Miss MacAllister.  The
previous week, no matter how busy he was, he could
always find time to meet her.

The fact was that circumstances had changed.  He
did not want to see her.  Between the halcyon days
of the previous week and the gloom of this one some
painful episodes had occurred.  The stormy interview
between mother and daughter had taken place.  In
her indignation the young lady had determined to
make it plain to everybody in general, and to Dr. Sinclair
in particular, that she was not enamoured of
him and was not offering her love where it had not
been sought.

In some respects she succeeded beyond her expectations.
Sinclair was convinced.  More than that!  He
was convinced that all along she had been only
playing him.  That reference to the song he had sung
at the dinner made assurance doubly sure.  All through
those days when she had been so fascinatingly kind
she had only been leading him on so that her revenge
might be the sweeter.

If Sinclair had been a melodramatic individual, he
would probably have torn out whole handfuls of his
fair hair, thrown them two or three feet above his
head in the direction of the high heavens, and raved
some foolish and incoherent ravings, telling his wrongs
to the winds and the wild waves, if they cared to
listen.  If he had been a profane person, he would
have sworn picturesquely and would have asked
Sergeant Gorman or some one else equally vigorous to
kick him down the steep hill, on which the consulate
was built, and up again for being a fool.

As he was neither melodramatic nor profane, he
did neither of those things.  He merely made up his
mind in a cool, determined way that he would avoid
Miss MacAllister as much as the narrow limits of their
little community would allow, and when he was forced
to meet her he would not grow enthusiastic over her,
to say the least.  When he met Gorman he did not
ask to be kicked, but said:

"Look here, sergeant, there are going to be some
lively times round here, or I'm no prophet.  The
French are not going to be satisfied with bombarding.
And if they land a force and it comes to rifle-fire and
perhaps the bayonet, there'll be some Chinese hurt."

"Right you are, docther.  The shells don't take
manny lives, barrin' thim that the noise scares to
death.  But the rifle bullets, they're the little divils
that do the wurrk."

"Well, supposin' that you get leave again and we
offer our services to General Soon to organize an
ambulance brigade."

"I'm wid you, docther, from the drop of the hat."

So it came about that all that week Sinclair and
Gorman were out on the wide commons in the vicinity
of the Chinese camps, with squads of Chinese detailed
for that service, to use General Leatherbottom's
expression, "lickin' them into shape."  Gorman gave
them drill.  Sinclair taught them how to splint and
bandage, to put on a tourniquet and check the flow
of blood, to make improvised stretchers and carry
patients without irritating their wounds past recovery.

Soon the fair-haired "Life-healer" was nearly as
well known and as popular among General Soon's
yellow-skinned, slant-eyed hordes as he had become
in Liu Ming-chuan's army before Keelung.  But none
of these Chinese soldiers knew how much of the
training they received they owed to the fact that the
"Red-haired Life-healer" had been badly used by the
"barbarian girl" at a game of "phah-kiû," or strike ball.

One day Sinclair and Gorman were out as usual
drilling their corps and training them in the principles
of first aid.  An exclamation of "Tai-eng-kok
lang" (British people) from some of their men caused
them to look up.  Passing them some distance away
were Miss MacAllister and Carteret.  The latter was
carrying an easel, for among his accomplishments he
included considerable skill in sketching and painting.

They were making their way towards a little
eminence which commanded a magnificent view in all
directions.  Carteret had asked her to take a walk, that
he might point out the beautiful scenery.  She had
accepted the invitation in the hope of meeting Sinclair,
whom she had not seen since he had so abruptly left
the tennis lawn.

"Fwhat the divil is the spalpeen takin' the lady
there for, wid thousands of Chinese soldiers rampagin'
around for some diviltry to do?"

Sinclair took one look, then lowered his head, and
went doggedly on with his work, giving the Chinese
ambulance corps a demonstration of how to splint a
broken thigh.  Gorman looked at him wonderingly for
an instant; then without a word joined him, pulling
the shortened leg out into position and explaining
each movement in the vernacular.

Meanwhile, the prime danger to which Miss
MacAllister and Carteret were exposed was not from the
Chinese soldiers.  A herd of water-buffaloes were
feeding on the short grass of the downs.  Docile as
these huge beasts are with the little native herd boys,
they are often exceedingly vicious towards strangers,
especially those dressed in a style to which they are
unaccustomed.  Now they were irritated by the
bombardment and frequent ill-usage by the soldiers.

At the sight of the man and woman in foreign dress
they began to show signs of excitement.  Crowding in
a dense mass of blue-grey, hairless bodies, they moved
in arcs of a circle, of which the centre was the object
of their intended attack.  Their ugly snouts were
thrust forward on a level with their shoulders.  Their
great, curved horns lay back on their necks.  They
pressed closer and closer behind the two foreigners.
Suddenly one enormous brute with a snort threw
itself forward in a charge.

A yell from one of the Chinese attracted the
attention of Sinclair and Gorman.  Miss MacAllister had
turned to face the beast, with the light walking-stick
she carried upraised in her hand.  Carteret flung his
easel at it, but did not interpose himself between his
companion and the danger.

.. _`A yell from one of the Chinese attracted the attention of Sinclair and Gorman`:

.. figure:: images/img-259.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: A yell from one of the Chinese attracted the attention of Sinclair and Gorman.

   A yell from one of the Chinese attracted the attention of Sinclair and Gorman.

With a shout Gorman sprang to his feet and started
to run, waving a heavy stick in his hand.  He had
not taken a half-dozen paces when a rifle cracked
behind him.  A bullet sang past and the great blue
beast plunged forward on its knees, then rolled over
on its side almost at Miss MacAllister's feet.
Gorman glanced back.  Sinclair was lying on the ground,
in the act of throwing another shell into the breach
of the rifle he held in his hands.

"Better go on, Gorman, and drive off the rest of
the herd.  You may have to escort these people home.
It's not safe for them to be out."

With some shouts and a few resounding thwacks
of his stick on their tough hides, Gorman drove off
the buffaloes, and then turned savagely on Carteret:

"Tearin' ages!  Fwhat in the name of all the saints
possessed you to bring the young lady
here? ... Fwhat? ... For a walk! ... Faith, an' if it
hadn't been for the docther here, God bless him!—it's
a walk her young ladyship wud have been takin' to
hivin and you to hell this very minnit."

"You make very fine distinctions, Sergeant Gorman,"
said Carteret sarcastically.

"Distinction, is it?  Begorra, the only man that has
come out of this wid distinction is Dr. Sinclair here.
An' you had better be afther thankin' him that the
angels and the divils are not this minnit holdin' a
celebration over your two souls respectively."

In spite of the danger she had just passed through,
this was too much for Miss MacAllister's gravity.
Her merry peal of laughter rang out at the evident
discomfiture of Carteret.  It was with eyes dancing
with fun as well as full of gratitude that she met
Sinclair as he came to inquire courteously for her
well-being.  He received her warm thanks quietly and
made light of his skill as a shot, which she praised so
highly.

"I am only too glad to be of any service to you.
As for the shot, that was nothing.  I have been
accustomed to hunting in Canada since I was a small
boy.  I had to learn to take sure aim and shoot
quickly."

Carteret thanked him in courteous terms, but without warmth.

Sinclair did not wait for any further conversation.

"It is really not safe for you to be out here without
an armed escort," he said; "when the country is
so disturbed and there are so many camp-followers
about.  Even we who are in a sense in the Chinese
service always carry arms.  Sergeant Gorman will see
you safely home.  I am on duty here."

He did not mention the obvious fact that Sergeant
Gorman was also on duty.  But Miss MacAllister did
not fail to notice it, and understood.  She thanked
him as bravely as she could, and turned away with her
escort.  But it was some time before even Gorman's
quaint humours and repetitions could draw a laugh
from her.

That was the only time Sinclair and Miss MacAllister
met that week.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`UNHOLY CONFESSORS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XXVIII


.. class:: center large bold

   UNHOLY CONFESSORS

.. vspace:: 2

That evening De Vaux and Carteret sat in the
latter's quarters in the buildings of the
customs compound.  There were a number of
other occupants of the room.  De Vaux and Carteret
sat on chairs, at least they did during the earlier part
of the evening.  The others sat on the table.  They
were highly honoured and necessary guests.  They
consisted of sundry bottles of Scotch whiskey, a nearly
equal number of bottles of soda, and a varied
assortment of bottles of wine.

Carteret felt that he needed some comfort and
sympathy after the exciting experiences of the day.  He
had called in the guests, who now sat on the table to
comfort him.  De Vaux, as being somewhat permanently
installed in Carteret's quarters, was helping to
entertain.  Indeed, De Vaux had a singular facility
in entertaining and being entertained by guests of this
nature.

"A man needs something after such experiences as
I have had those last few days," said Carteret, pouring
out a glass of whiskey and starting to fill up with
soda.  "Talk about war!  By Jove!  I have been in
more uncomfortable places in the last five days than
I was in a whole campaign in Egypt."

"Not so much soda, Carteret!  Not so much
soda! ... it spoils the flavour and weakens the
effect.  'Pon my honour, it does! ... If my nerves
are shaky and I want the taste to stay in my mouth,
a little less than half soda is my rule."

"To the devil with the taste!  There's lots more
taste where this came from.  But you're right.  My
nerves are all on the jump."

"The consul tells me that you had a narrow escape.
Those infernal water-buffaloes!  Bless my soul!
I'm more afraid of a herd of them than a whole
regiment of Chinese....  'Pon my word, I am."

"So am I, the ugly brutes!  And if the girl had
got killed or injured there would have been the very
deuce to pay.  The consul and her father would have
blamed me."

"The consul blames you as it is."

"Yes, that's the way with Beauchamp.  He's an
Englishman.  But he's down on his own countrymen
and his own class, and all for those damn boors of
Canadians.  He thinks more of MacKay and that
upstart doctor than he does of a whole colony of
English."

"Well, I shouldn't like to say that.  Beauchamp has
always been awfully decent with me.  'Pon my soul,
he has! ... But he is vexed at you.  He says that
you ought to be deported."

"Only wish he would deport me!  Anyway, he
can't till the next boat.  And on it he's going to have
to deport his wife and Mrs. Thomson and Miss MacAllister.
That will hurt him worst of all.  Don't you
fret.  There'll be no deporting by that boat, unless I
deport myself."

"You are pressing your case with Miss MacAllister
deuced hard....  How is it looking?  You should
have some results by this time.  'Pon my honour, you
should!"

Carteret drained his glass and filled it again.

"The mother's with me.  She knows that the heir
has only one lung."

"And the father?"

"Says nothing one way or the other.  Don't think
that he is quite satisfied with my religious
principles."

"Bless my soul!  Could you blame him?"

"Not if he knew all about them.  But, thank the
Lord, he doesn't!"

Carteret laughed disagreeably, cynically as he spoke.

De Vaux took his cigar out of his mouth, blew a
cloud of smoke into the air, and tipped his long glass
so high that one might fancy that he feared lest even
the moisture adhering to its sides should escape him.
He set it down and wiped his lips with a sigh of
satisfaction.  Then he said:

"And what about the young lady herself?"

"An uncertain quantity."

"Has she given you no sign?"

"Signs enough sometimes that she wished I was in
Jericho, or at the North Pole, or some other equally
remote and cheerful place."

"Why?  What's the matter?"

"Just at present she's taken with that Canadian
peasant's muscles.  Like the rest of the women, she
is more attracted by the body of a man than by his
birth or brains."

He laughed again, and his laugh was unpleasant to hear.

De Vaux gulped down another drink and answered
with a little bit of angry stutter:

"You've said enough, Carteret....  By Jove! there
are lots of decent women....  If you and I
haven't met many of them, it's our own fault....
'Pon my honour, it is!"

"There may be.  But they are not in the Far East.
When I was in Shanghai, every woman in the
settlement had her price, if you only knew what it was."

"I don't know what they are in Shanghai,"
replied De Vaux.  "But I do know what they are in
some other places, and I'll stake my honour on it they
are not all like that.  'Pon my soul, they're not."

"Name one."

"Mrs. Beauchamp."

"Bound by conventionalities and kept in a glass
case by her husband," sneered Carteret.  "Get her out
of that and she'd be just like the rest."

De Vaux struggled to his feet, his face purple, his
voice choking with rage.

"Carteret," he stuttered in his high voice, "that's
a lie—-a damned lie! ... If you don't take
it back"—he shook his fist across the table—"if you
don't take it back, by God, I'll expose you!"

Carteret paled, sat up in his chair, and took the
pipe out of his mouth.

"Look here, De Vaux," he said, "don't make a
confounded fool of yourself.  One would think that
you were the lady's husband.  I didn't mean anything.
I was only joshing."

"Well, that's a kind of joshing I don't like when
it is about my friends....  'Pon my soul, I don't!"
replied De Vaux, settling himself back into his chair.

"All right, De Vaux, there'll be no more of it.
What'll you have? ... Let's break a bottle of
champagne."

That was irresistible, and in a few minutes De
Vaux's good-humour was restored.  Presently he said:

"So you have hopes of winning the fair MacAllister yet?"

"Sure of it when I get her away from here and
can use the title as a bait."

"The title!  Is it so near as that?  Have you had
any word?"

"Had word from my agent and solicitor by the
last boat.  My dearly beloved brother's cough is quite
distressing.  He has been ordered to Mentone for
the winter.  The agent does not think that he will
ever get there.  And, if he does, he's sure that he'll
never get back.  The old man is taking on about it.
He's not at all in love with the idea of the succession
of the heir presumptive.  They do not think that
he will live through the autumn.  If October does not
finish him, November will."

De Vaux had little reason to love his own parents
and family, whoever they were.  But the cynical
heartlessness of Carteret grated on him.  He turned
the conversation a little:

"So you intend to leave the island soon?"

"By the next trip of the *Hailoong*, if the French
do not bottle us up for the winter."

"And then you'll bring matters to a conclusion with
Miss MacAllister?"

"Yes.  Her people intend to spend the winter in
Hong-Kong.  So do I.  If the old man and my beloved
brother are only sufficiently obliging to depart
in peace with reasonable expeditiousness, I shall be
Lord Lewesthorpe.  You know what that means in
the colony.  I haven't yet seen the tradesman's
daughter who could resist.  They are all falling over each
other in their willingness to exchange their money
for a title.  Quite envious of the preëminent success
of their fair American cousins, as the newspapers
say, in getting so many titles knocked down to them.
The mother is ready to bid mine up.  The decayed
Lewesthorpe fortunes need the money more than I
need the girl."

Drunk as he was getting to be, De Vaux was disgusted
with the callousness of his companion.  He sat
silent for a few minutes, looking straight at
Carteret out of his bulging, bloodshot eyes.  Then he
blurted out:

"Carteret, what are you going to do with the
Chinese girl?"

"Nothing in particular," was the reply, with a
cynical laugh.  "Any of you fellows can have her,
if you want her.  If not, and the French take this
beastly island, one of them will take her.  They are
generally ready for an *affaire d'amour*."

"And you are going to desert that Chinese girl
and her child—your child—and let them go to the
devil?  And then you're going to ask Miss MacAllister
to marry you, she of course knowing nothing of
the other?"

"Of course.  Why not?  It won't hurt her so long
as she doesn't know anything about it.  If she does
find it out afterwards, she can make the best of it.
It would be the same if she married any other man."

"Carteret, you are a scoundrel....  'Pon my
soul! ... That's what you are—a double-dyed
scoundrel."

Carteret rose to his feet and faced De Vaux across
the table.  His face was pale and ugly:

"Come now, De Vaux.  A little of that goes a long
way.  If I am a scoundrel, you are five times as much
a scoundrel.  For, if my arithmetic and memory are
right, that is just the number of half-breed youngsters
I counted in your house up river."

De Vaux stood for some moments gasping for
breath and struggling to get control of himself.  He
was dangerously near the apoplectic fit which had
been so often foretold for him.  But he passed the
danger point, recovered himself, and said:

"Yes, Carteret, your memory and your arithmetic
were right.  There *were* five.  But they are all the
children of one woman.  And that woman, though
she is a Chinese, is just as much my wife as things
out here go as if the banns had been published and the
service read....  'Pon my honour, she is! ... I
am educating my children.  They are safe in
Hong-Kong at the present moment....  Bless my soul, I
had a letter from the oldest by the last mail....
More than that, Carteret, since I have had that Chinese
woman, I have never sought a white woman, and
never intend to....  Thank God, I have a little bit
of a man in me yet!"

"That's all old woman's sentiment, De Vaux.  I
didn't think you were such a molly-coddle.  Wouldn't
it make a furore in society if I was to take a Chinese
tea-girl home to be the Countess of Lewesthorpe?  I
have none of your fastidious notions.  I intend to
have a woman suited to my position, and money to
keep it up."

"And leave the girl and the kid."

"Then, by God, I'll have nothing more to do with you!"

And De Vaux meant what he said.  But another
bottle was broken, and then another.  And when the
dawn peeped in, De Vaux was stertorously slumbering
on a long bamboo and rattan chair, and Carteret was
hidden under his mosquito curtains.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`FLAGS OF TRUCE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XXIX


.. class:: center large bold

   FLAGS OF TRUCE

.. vspace:: 2

"Looks as if we might have something doing
to-day, sergeant.  I shouldn't be surprised if
we should have an interesting day.  What do
you make of those boats away there to the north?"

"Transports, docther.  They're not men-o'-war,
and what else could merchant ships be doin' there
except waitin' for a chanst to land soldiers?"

"I wonder where the other warships are.  I can
make out only the *Galissonnière* and the *Vipère*."

"Maybe they're close in shore, behind that hill
yonder.  If they are goin' to put a landin' party ashore,
they'll be needin' to cover it."

It was the eighth of October, six days after the
previous bombardment.  Sinclair and Gorman were,
as was their custom, on the top of the Dutch fort,
trying to foresee what might be the developments of
the day.

The morning wore on until nine o'clock.  Suddenly
spirts of flame shot out from the two French
warships which were in sight, and the thunder of their
guns mingled with the distant boom from others which
were hidden behind the northern hills.  A transport
appeared close to the shore, near the last stretch of
beach visible from the fort.  Another was probably
hidden by the hills.  The rattle of the machine guns
covering the landing of the troops filled up the
intervals between the booming of the big guns.

At the first report the consul joined them on the
lookout.  Boville, MacAllister, Commander
Gardenier, and one or two others came later.  With the
consul's permission, Gorman left to personally
superintend the work of his ambulance corps, of which he
was very proud.

"Don't let the Chinese mistake you for a Frenchman,"
called Sinclair after him.  "The Hakkas might
fill you with slugs from their old match-locks."

"Faith, an' it's a poor opinion you have of their
intilligence, to say nothin' of the insult you're offering
meself," was the reply of Gorman, as he ran down
the stair.

"There's the first load!" exclaimed the consul, as
a boat filled with troops pulled from the transport to
the beach.

Boat after boat followed, discharging their cargoes
of armed men, who formed up on the beach and then
marched away out of sight behind a spur of hills.
Soon the volleys of rifle-fire joined the crash of
machine guns in forming an interlude between the
thunder of the cannon.

An hour passed away.  As a week before, most of the
residents of the hill-top had repaired to the rendezvous
at MacAllister, Munro Co.'s.  But the consul and his
companions were still on the top of the fort.

"There comes the first of the Chinese wounded,"
said Sinclair.  "It's some of Gorman's corps who are
carrying him.  I can see the red cross."

A moment later he said:

"There come more.  The French must be doing
some execution.  There are already more wounded
in sight than we had all day last Thursday.  It's the
rifle-fire which counts."

Singly or in groups, the squads of stretcher-bearers
could be seen filing across the common on their way to
the Mission Hospital.

"I must go now.  We are going to have our hands full."

"Down!  Down!" roared Gardenier.

Every one fell flat behind the battlements.  There
was a crash and the old fort trembled to its foundations.
They sprang to their feet and looked over.  A
shell had struck it squarely a few feet above the
ground.  But the solid brick walls, eight feet thick,
built by conscientious workmen two hundred and fifty
years before, had hurled it back and were hardly even
dented by the terrific impact.

Soon afterwards Sinclair left for the Mission
Hospital down in the town.  There he joined Dr. Bergmann
in time to receive the first of the wounded.  But
they came so fast that before long the two doctors
had to signal for Black of the *Locust*.  As the
afternoon came on the number increased.  The hospital
was small, and soon not only the operating-room and
the wards, but the courtyard as well, were crowded
with between one hundred and twenty and one
hundred and thirty wounded men.

The forenoon passed into the afternoon; the
afternoon wore slowly away.  Up and down between the
lines of rude plank cots the three doctors moved, with
bare arms and clothing stained with blood.  Several
of the Christian students acted as nurses and assisted
at the dressings.

The noon hour had passed, but they took no time
for lunch.  A messenger arrived from the rendezvous
with an invitation from Mrs. Beauchamp and
Mrs. MacAllister to go there for tiffin.

"I fancy that we had better accept this," said
Black.  "We have more time now than we shall have
later.  But these are slaughter-house clothes in which
to go to tiffin with ladies."

"Das ist true," replied Bergmann.  "Ve vill slip
in mine house and vill get some clothes.  I can fit
Dr. Black.  But Dr. Sinclair, I know not.  He ist so big."

"That's all right, Bergmann.  Somebody has to
stay here and look after those fellows.  You two go
ahead and have tiffin.  Present my compliments and
regrets.  If there is not too big a rush when you come
back, I'll have something then."

His two confrères hastened away.  Sinclair went
on with his work silently, swiftly, determinedly.
Again the pain-drawn faces appealed to him.  Again
the wistful eyes followed him.  Again the word
passed from lip to lip, "I-seng lâi" (The Life-healer
comes).

Some belonged to regiments which had been in the
camp before Keelung and had known him there.
Some had come to know him during their ambulance
work of the past week.  Some had heard of him.
Some were mainland men from the North, speaking
a different tongue.  But all caught the phrase, and
from every plank bed he heard the word passed to the
next, "I-seng lâi" (The Life-healer comes).  And
he worked on.

Presently Bergmann and Black returned, and with
them a blue-jacket of the rendezvous guard, with a
pressing invitation for him to go for tiffin.  He looked
at the invitation; then at the ever-increasing number
of suffering men:

"Give my thanks to the ladies who sent you and
say from me that there are so many wounded here
now that I cannot find it in my heart to leave them.
I can do very well without food till dinner-time."

"Very good, sir.  I shall tell them."

The blue-jacket saluted and withdrew.  Sinclair
went on with his work.

A half-hour passed.  Again the blue-jacket appeared
accompanied by a native bearing on his carrying-pole
a pair of the many-storied bamboo baskets in which
the Chinese convey warm provisions.

"A chit for you, sir."

He took the note the sailor handed him and glanced
at the address.  It was in an unfamiliar feminine hand.
Opening it quickly, he read:

.. vspace:: 2

"Will Dr. Sinclair be so good as to accept the accompanying
refreshments from me?

.. vspace:: 1

"JESSIE MACALLISTER."

.. vspace:: 2

In spite of the mood of intense concentration which
was always on him when he was at work, in spite of
his rigid self-control, a slow flush showed in his face,
doubtful under the tan, but certain when it climbed
above the border-line of the sunburn.  It was not so
much the act, though that in itself would have been
enough to quicken his pulses.  It was the form of the
brief epistle.  She had started to write a purely formal
note, but had ended by making it warmly
personal....  "From me.  Jessie MacAllister."

"I have no paper on which to write an answer,
except a leaf out of a pocketbook.  You will have
to make apologies for me."

"I shall do my very best, sir," replied the sailor,
with a grin, as he took the hastily-scribbled note of
thanks, for the big, kindly doctor had, without an
effort, got the good-will of this man, as he did of
nearly every man his life touched.

Sinclair hastily swallowed several cups of tea, ate
a piece of chicken, and, telling his student assistants
to distribute the rest among the wounded, turned
again to his work of mercy.  But all the while four
words kept writing and re-writing themselves upon
his brain: "From me.  Jessie MacAllister."

It was the first time that he had seen her full name
written.  It had always been "Miss MacAllister."  Certain
definite pictures had been formed in his mind
with which that appellation was connected.
Sometimes stately and magnificent, sometimes teasing and
whimsical; sometimes kind, sometimes cruel; those
clear-cut portraits were connected inseparably with
the name "Miss MacAllister."  But some way "Jessie
MacAllister" was different.  It suggested something
more intimate, more confidential, more tender
than the other had ever done.  What could it mean?

Again and again he asked himself that question:
"What could it mean?"  Was she only playing with
him?  The week before the last bombardment she had
been exceedingly kind.  Then she had suddenly turned
and treated him cruelly.  Was she trying the same
trick again?  His jaw set and his lips closed tightly.
She wouldn't catch him like that again.

But another thought would pass through his mind.
This was different.  There was something about this
two-line note which he had never experienced
before....  "From me.  Jessie MacAllister."

Sinclair had made up his mind resolutely after that
tennis game that he would not put himself in the way
of receiving such treatment again.  When he set his
mind to anything, he was firm to the verge of
stubbornness.  He knew that.  And with all the
stubbornness of his nature he had resolved to have nothing
more to do with Miss MacAllister than the laws of
politeness required.

But somehow "Jessie MacAllister" did not seem
just the same.  Do his best, he could not be
indignant and angry with her in the same degree as he
had been with "Miss MacAllister."  He knew that
the fortifications of his resolution were shattered.  He
knew that the four words, "From me.  Jessie MacAllister,"
had made a breach in them.  They had been
standing not quite a week.

Strange to say, the thought that they were broken,
and the means by which it was effected, gave him a
secret pleasure, a sense of lightness and exultation
such as he had not felt for six whole days.  To be
consistent with himself, to maintain his self-respect
and reputation for firmness, he made a pretence at
repairing the breach and rebuilding the fortifications.
But all the while the two-line note with its signature
was stowed away in an inner pocket, which had an
intimate relation to the spot beneath which his strong
heart beat a little faster than usual.  With a new
hope and enthusiasm he toiled on among the wounded
all the rest of the day.  But the toil was light and
the afternoon sped away.

Meanwhile, the bombardment had come to an end.
The French attack had failed.  Entangled in a maze
of swampy rice-fields, their landing-party had been
fiercely attacked by the Chinese.  They were compelled
to retreat to their boats, carrying their wounded
with them, but abandoning their dead.

The wild Hakka tribesmen with General Soon's
army, following the practice they had learned in
border warfare against the Malay savages of the hills,
had cut off the heads of the fallen French soldiers
and exposed them on poles at the Chinese camp and
in the market-place of Tamsui.  Consul Beauchamp
and Commander Gardenier had indignantly protested
to General Soon.  The Chinese commander had at
once ordered that the bodies and heads of their fallen
foes should be buried and promised that it should not
occur again.

But the danger of the situation to the European
residents and visitors had been revealed.  While
General Soon and many of his officers and men were
deeply grateful for the services rendered by the
Mission Hospital, the doctors, and Sergeant Gorman's
ambulance corps, the foreigners stood in serious peril.
A great European nation, a first-class military power,
had been beaten back by the Chinese in an attempt
to capture Tamsui.  The savage instincts of the
irregular and undisciplined levies of the Chinese army
had been aroused by their success.  There was no
knowing the hour when these would break out in a
general massacre.  The consul resolved that all
foreign women and children, and such of the men as
duty did not compel to stay, should leave the island
at the first opportunity.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE MYSTERY OF LOVE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XXX


.. class:: center large bold

   THE MYSTERY OF LOVE

.. vspace:: 2

A day or two after the second bombardment the
*Hailoong* again appeared off the harbour.  The
French detained her long enough to satisfy
themselves that she carried no munitions of war, and
then allowed her to enter the port.  Nearly the whole
foreign community was at the dock to receive her.
It was only thirteen or fourteen days since she had
been there before.  But to those who had been in the
midst of war's alarms it seemed as many weeks.

Of course, Sinclair was there to give McLeod a
hearty greeting.  There was little time to talk, as
the chief officer had to oversee the discharging of
the cargo.  Sinclair joined him in this, his knowledge
of the ship and of conditions ashore making his
assistance most valuable.  He had his countryman's
knack of turning his hand to anything.  By the
afternoon they had so rushed the work that they were
able to knock off and have a comfortable chat in the
dining saloon.

After they had discussed the bombardment and the
landing, the prospects of more fighting and the
possibility of a blockade, and had laughed till their sides
ached at the oddities and eccentricities brought out by
the unusual situation, McLeod said suddenly:

"Say, Doc, you have not told me anything about
the Highland girl.  How is she?"

"Just as big a conundrum as ever, Mac."

"What!  Have you not been getting along well?"

"No!  I don't know where I'm at."

"Why?  I thought from the way she spoke of you,
and the way she received you when you came back
from Keelung, that things were bound to go like a
house on fire."

"Well, Mac, for a few days I was feeling pretty
good myself.  I thought that I was making great
progress.  But the day of the first bombardment my
castle in the air was blown sky-high and there has
hardly a fragment of it come back to earth yet."

He then told of the tennis game and of how
disgusted with himself he had been.  To his surprise
McLeod did not take it very seriously.  He expressed
concern at Sinclair's narrow escape from the shell,
but rather laughed about the rest of the incident,
especially at his friend's having left the lawn in a
tantrum, as he called it.

"You would have been madder than I was,"
retorted Sinclair, "if you had been in my place."

"Of course I should—if I had been in your place,
because like you I should not have looked for the right
reason for her actions—that is, if I had been in your
place."

"I don't understand what you are driving at," said
Sinclair, with a trace of irritation.

"It's all right, Doc.  Never mind now.  Go on
and tell us some more."

When Sinclair related the incident of the "charge
of the Tamsui blues," and Gorman's remarks to Carteret,
McLeod laughed so heartily that the doctor had
to join him.

"It's all very well for you to laugh like that," he
said, a little ruefully, when McLeod stopped for a
moment.  "You have nothing at stake.  But it's
different with me."

"You'll laugh about it yet, just as heartily as I
have done.  Probably more so.  Haven't you another
yarn up your sleeve?  I know that you have.  Go on.
Give us another."

He did.  He told about Clark praying under the
teak table, and De Vaux dancing and stuttering
around it.  Sinclair was a good story-teller, and
before he was through with the Free Methodist
prayer-meeting McLeod's laughter could be heard the length
of the ship.  Sinclair had forgotten his love troubles,
and his laugh, mingled with his chum's, was as
rollicking and care-free as that of a schoolboy.

In the midst of it Captain Whiteley's voice was
heard outside:

"What in the world's going on in here?"

A lady's voice replied:

"It's those two lovers.  They should never be separated.
Either one is quite inconsolable without the other."

The door was pulled open, and the two young men,
vainly endeavouring to choke down their laughter,
rose to receive Miss MacAllister, her father, and the
captain.

The two men did not remain long.  Mr. MacAllister
wanted to take Captain Whiteley to see some of
the damage wrought by the shells.  A few minutes
after they left McLeod suddenly remembered that
there were some duties connected with discharging or
taking cargo which he had to attend to at once.
Almost before they knew, Sinclair and Miss MacAllister
were left alone.

For some moments neither spoke.  Ordinarily both
were good conversationalists, able to acquit
themselves with credit in any company.  But now, left to
each other's company, each seemed suddenly bereft of
speech.  Sinclair probably never thought so quickly
on any other occasion in his life.  But with all his
thinking he entirely failed to think of anything to
say.  If he had thought of anything, it is doubtful
if he could have said it.  His heart was pounding so
hard and fast that he experienced a slight suffocating
sensation.  But he didn't open the door.  He had that
much presence of mind.  He didn't open the door to
let the outside air or any one else in.  Though
speechless, he was not bereft of reason.

It was Miss MacAllister who first recovered.

"Dr. Sinclair," she said, "I want you to forgive me."

Then Sinclair began to wonder what she had done
that he should forgive.  Could she ever have done
anything for which she needed to ask his forgiveness?

"But, Miss MacAllister," he stammered, "what—what
am I to forgive?  You never did anything——"

"Oh, Dr. Sinclair, you know that I did.  Last
Thursday; you remember.  I acted shamefully, and"—there
was a little break in her voice—"I nearly
caused you to be killed....  Can you ever forgive me?"

"I could forgive you anything."

"But you were very angry.  You went away angry,
and when I tried to call you back you wouldn't stop
to speak to me.  I wanted to ask your forgiveness
then."

"Miss MacAllister, I suppose that I was angry.  It
is I who ought to ask your forgiveness....  I didn't
mean to be angry.  But I felt hurt....  You had
been so kind just before that day....  I was foolish
enough to hope that you would continue to be kind.
But when that day came you were different, and it
hurt....  Miss MacAllister, I can't keep it back.  I
love you....  That's why it hurt."

She was sitting by one of the small windows of the
saloon, with one arm resting on its sill.  Through the
conversation she had kept her head lowered.  As his
accents grew warmer, she turned towards the
window, and seemed to be gazing on the water, which
the northeast monsoon, driving against the current,
was raising in choppy waves.  He had risen and was
standing in front of her.  He could not see her
averted face, and she made no answer.

"I know that it must seem absurd and presumptuous
of me.  I'm a poor and unknown missionary
doctor.  But I love you....  I tried not to.  But I
couldn't help it....  I resolved never to mention it
to you....  But we were left alone here together
and—I just couldn't help myself....  I had to tell you."

Without turning her face, she extended her right
hand to him.  He caught it in his and, dropping on
one knee, pressed his lips to it.

"I'm glad you told me, Donald."

For a moment he could hardly believe his ears.  He
looked up in a dazed, wondering fashion.  Her face
was no longer averted.  Shy, blushing, but smiling, it
was turned towards him, and their eyes met.  Almost
incredulously, wonderingly he asked:

"Do you mean that?" (He did not dare say her name.)

"Yes, Donald."

He bowed his head again over the hand he held,
and felt her other hand laid softly, timidly on his wavy
masses of fair hair.  For a few moments it rested
there like a benediction.  When she lifted it he rose
and, turning her face up to his, gravely, reverently
pressed upon her lips the sacramental kiss of pledged
love.

For a time they sat silent.  His arm was around
her.  Her head was on his shoulder.  Her forehead
and the crown of rich brown hair were touching his
cheek.  Neither wanted to speak.  Each was trying
to comprehend the mystery of love, the mystery of
two souls who had held aloof from each other, and
had fenced with each other, and had strenuously
asserted their independence of each other.  But all the
time they had been restless and dissatisfied.  Then
suddenly and unexpectedly they had been forced to
confess that they could not be happy apart.  And
immediately in that confession they had found joy
unutterable.  Over and over again it passed through their
minds.  And when they were done they understood
it no more than when they began.  But they knew
the fact.

At length he said:

"Jessie, where did you learn my name?"

She slipped her hand into her bosom and drew out
a leaf torn from a pocketbook.  It was his note of
thanks for the refreshments she had sent to the
hospital.  It was signed, "Donald Sinclair."

"And where did you get mine, Donald?"

From an inner pocket close to his heart he brought
out her note ending with the words: "From me.  Jessie
MacAllister."

"If it had not been for those four words, I do not
think that I could ever have had the courage to tell
you that I loved you."

"I'm so glad that I wrote them.  I tried to end that
note in formal fashion, but, before I knew, I had
written those words.  I sealed it in a hurry for fear I
should think twice and change them."  Her face was
hidden against his breast now....  "And—I know
you will think me silly—after the blue-jacket left, I
ran out to call him back....  But I was too late."

"That's once I can thank God for a person's being
late," he said, as he lifted her face to his own and
kissed her again, but with more of the passion and
abandon of love than before.  And the wonder of it
grew upon him.  Over and over again he kept asking
himself, Was this the proud young beauty of whom
he had stood in awe?  Was this blushing, tender girl
yielding herself to his embraces and responding to
his kisses,—was this the sprightly, mischievous belle
of the dinner party who had teased him, and made
game of him, and held him up to be laughed at by
the assembled guests?  It was almost incredible.  But
it was true.  And the mystery of love deepened.

They were silent for a while.  Thoughts were too
busy and too happy for speech.  Then she said:

"Donald, I know that this will sound awfully
improper.  But I do not want mother to know of what
has taken place for some time.  She would be so
disappointed and angry that she would make rash
statements.  And afterwards, even if she were convinced
that she had been wrong, she is so determined that
she would not go back on them."

"I was afraid that she did not like me, Jessie."

"It is not that she dislikes you.  It is because she
is ambitious that I should marry a man with a title."

"Carteret, for example," said Sinclair, with a smile.

"Yes, Carteret.  And I hate him," she replied, with
a flash of indignation.  "I shudder every time he
comes near me.  But mother has accepted him as a
suitor.  She has not been so taken with him of late,
since the first bombardment, and especially since the
charge of Sergeant Gorman's Blues.  She knew that
he played the coward both times.  But that is all
forgotten again.  He has the title."

"What!  Has Carteret succeeded to the title?"

"Yes.  He got word by the *Hailoong's* mail.  The
heir with the one lung died of hemorrhage while
crossing the Channel.  His father died of shock when he
was told of it.  Carteret is now Lord Lewesthorpe.
With mother the title has blotted out all his sins.  She
is more insistent than ever."

"Jessie, if Carteret bothers you, I'll wring his neck,
and the Lewesthorpe title can go looking for another
heir."

"Oh, no, Donald, you mustn't!" she said, in a
little alarm, as she felt the big muscles against which
she leaned swell with sudden passion.  "You mustn't.
Leave it to me.  Mother is determined.  But I can be
determined, too.  And father will not let me be pushed
too far."

"I'll do whatever you want.

"Thank you, Donald.  If mother knew now that
I had let you speak to me of love, she would never
forgive me.  But she will change.  There is
something coming which will change her.  I do not know
what it is.  But I know that it is coming.  We are
Highland, you know.  It is the second sight."

The lovers sat for a while longer.  Then she looked
at her watch:

"Oh, Donald!  Do you know that we have been
here nearly two hours?"

"It seemed to me like five minutes," was the reply.

She gave a merry laugh and said:

"If time always passes so quickly, we'll be old
before we know."

"I wish that I could be sure that the days after
you leave would only pass as quickly," he said, a trifle
sadly.

"They'll pass, Donald.  I'll be thinking of you, and
you'll be thinking of me, and the days will go.  But
what will Mr. McLeod be thinking of us, that we have
stayed here so long?  And isn't it strange that none
of the Chinese boys ever came into the saloon in
those two hours?"

Sinclair laughed his happy, boyish laugh.

"Trust McLeod!" he said.  "Probably he could
explain the prolonged absence of the boys, as well as
his own."

She looked at him archly.

"I am not sure now that I have done wisely in
giving you my undivided love, Donald.  I am afraid
that I am not getting the same in return.  I am really
jealous of Mr. McLeod."

The method of his reply need not be described.
She was satisfied with it.  And when they stepped
out and met McLeod on the deck he knew without
being told.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`ANCESTORS AND PEDIGREES`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XXXI


.. class:: center large bold

   ANCESTORS AND PEDIGREES

.. vspace:: 2

The last night of the stay of the MacAllisters
in Tamsui had come.  They were to sail for
Hong-Kong on the *Hailoong* the next day.
With them were going Mrs. Beauchamp and
Constance, Mrs. MacKay and her children, Mr. and
Mrs. Thomson, Carteret, Clark, and a number of others of
the foreign community.  The consul had ordered that
all the foreign women and children should leave North
Formosa.  A number of the men who had no taste
for the scenes and chances of war were going with
them.  Mr. MacAllister feared the possibility of a
blockade and so chose to go to Hong-Kong, where he
could freely prosecute his search.

As there had been on the evening after their arrival,
so there was the evening before their departure
a dinner at the consulate.  This time the guests left
early.  Many of them were preparing for a hasty
departure.  They knew that their hostess had likewise
much to occupy her time for the few remaining hours.
Sinclair had gone on board the *Hailoong* to have a
farewell talk with McLeod.  Sergeant Gorman, who
had been dining with the second officer and the second
engineer, joined them by their invitation.  They were
sitting on the after deck, sheltered from the raw wind
of the northeast monsoon.  The conversation drifted
from point to point of recent events.  McLeod and
Sinclair led Gorman on to tell in his inimitable way
incident after incident, while they laughed like a pair
of schoolboys out on a frolic.

"You never told me, sergeant, how you got along
with Miss MacAllister and Carteret the day you saw
them safely home after the charge of the Tamsui
Blues."

Gorman cocked an eye at Sinclair, with an expression
which was irresistibly comical.

"I knew that it wud come," he said.  "You did
nobly, docther.  You held your whisht for a full
week.  But I knew it wud come."

"That's all right, Gorman," replied Sinclair, laughing
to hide a little confusion.  "That's all right.  But
that's not the subject under discussion.  You tell us
how you enjoyed your walk."

"How did I enjoy it?  How could I do anything
else but enjoy it, wid the young lady talkin' to me,
and askin' me questions about me experiences in the
wars, an' about the camp and the hospital at Keelung;
and the two bright eyes of her lookin' at me so
friendly loike.  Fwhat kind of a man wud I be that
wudn't enjoy it?"

"So the young lady talked to you all the way
home?" said McLeod.

"Yes," said Gorman with a wink at McLeod, which
distorted all one side of his face, "she didn't know
that I was a married man."

McLeod laughed gaily at Sinclair.  The latter took
Gorman's banter good-naturedly.  He could afford
to be indulgent.

"How did Carteret take your monopolizing her?"
he asked.

"He tould me that it wud become me to have less
to say in the prisince of me betters.  'Begorra,' sez
I, 'barrin' her young ladyship here, there's none of
them prisint that I can see,' sez I.  'An' whin it
comes to savin' young ladies from General Soon's
Tamsui Blues, be the powers I haven't been seein'
me betters around here, exceptin' Docther Sinclair,
may the angels make his bed in glory,' sez I.  Wid
that the young lady fires up and sez, 'The divil a
bit of it,' sez she.  'We don't want the doctor to go
to glory yet,' sez she."

"What!  What!  What's that, Gorman!" exclaimed
McLeod, while Sinclair was fairly shrieking with
laughter.  "You don't mean to tell us that Miss
MacAllister said that—'the divil a bit of it.'  Did
she say that?"

"Och, Mr. McLeod, now you're spoilin' me story.
If she didn't say that in so manny wurrds, she thought
it annyway.  An' fwhat's the difference?  But I'll
take me affydavit on it that she did say that she didn't
want the docther here to go to glory yet.  An' I'm
jist tellin' the docther for his comfort, for be that
sign, they were very encouragin' wurrds."

"Did Carteret try to sit on you again?" inquired
Sinclair when they ceased laughing.

"He did.  'Sergeant,' sez he, 'you're too free with
your tongue.  Your company is offensive,' sez he.
'You may consider your services dispensed with.
And I shall consider it my duty to report you to the
consul.'  'Bedad,' sez I, 'if you had been a little
freer wid your courage, you wudn't have needed me
company.  As for me services,' sez I, 'I'm not under
your orders.  I was sint to see this young lady safely
home,' sez I.  'An' I cudn't think of lavin' her in
your care, for fear you might chanst to meet a
fieldmouse by the way, an' you moight run, an' lave
her to be devoured by the feroshus wild beast,'
sez I.

"Wid that the young lady tuk to laughin' an'
laughed so that I cudn't finish wid the spalpeen for
sayin' that he'd report me to the consul.  I was jist
goin' to be afther tellin' him that afther a consultashun
together wid the consul, I had decided to deport him
from the island.  But the young lady sez, sez she,
'Mr. Carteret, if I wish to talk to Sergeant Gorman,
I do not see why you should object.  I hope that you
will not interfere with him again, and I'm sure that
Sergeant Gorman will not say anything more to offend
you.'"

"Then the rest of your walk was quite peaceful
and agreeable," said Sinclair.

"It was," replied the sergeant.  "You see the
young lady and I talked all the rest of the way.  An'
that spalpeen of a Carteret was as paceful as you
plase, walkin' on the other side of her, kind of sulky
an' hang-dog loike, for niver another wurrd did she
say to him."

"You must have enjoyed it, for I never before
knew you to take so long a time on so short an
expedition."

"Och, docther, I wudn't have thought it of you.
But seein' that it's troublin' you, I'll just make your
moind aisy by tellin' you that I wasn't wid the young
lady all the toime.  Part of it I was wid her mother."

"Did Carteret tell her mother what had really
happened?" asked McLeod.

"I hadn't the honor of hearin' what he did tell
her.  But she wasn't jist taken wid it, for she asked
me to wait, an' afther the spalpeen was gone, she
tould me to step in, for she wanted to have some
conversashun wid me.  'Wid pleasure, ma'm,' sez I.
'Sergeant,' sez she, 'are these water-buffaloes
dangerous to people?'  'That all depinds on the people,'
sez I.  'But are they not very ferocious beasts?' sez
she.  'Ag'in that depinds,' sez I.  'If there's a bit of a
shillelagh wid a man behind it, they're as p'aceful
as lambs in spring-time.  But if there's nothin' but
a paint-brush, wid a good-for-nothin' omadhaun at
the back of it,' sez I, 'thin they bate Bengal tigers.'

"Wid that she got very red.  'Mr. Carteret's a
gentleman,' sez she.  'Maybe,' sez I.  'He's
well-born,' sez she.  'The divil,' sez I."

"You would say that," interrupted McLeod.

"Och, Mr. McLeod, there you'd be afther spoilin'
me story agin.  An' now that you call it to me moind,
I didn't say that nayther, seein' that it was a lady I
was talkin' to.  Fwhat I did say was this, that I didn't
know that he was anny better born than the rest of
us; an' though I did not remember much about the
occasion, I always onderstood that me own mother,
considerin' her opportunities, had brought me into
the wurrld jist about as nately as a duchess could
have done.

"Wid that she gave a bit of a laugh, an' sez, 'No
doubt, Sergeant Gorman!  But I didn't mean it just
that way,' sez she.  'I meant that his ancestors have
been men of rank and noble birth for generations.'  'As
for that,' sez I, 'I don't take much stock in me
pedigree,' sez I.  'A man don't go far wid his
ancesthors till he foinds wan he'd loike to trade off
for some wan else.  But seein' that they are both
dead an' done wid, he can't do it convaniently.  To
illustrate, I'll jist tell your ladyship how it happened
to mesilf,' sez I.

"'Wanst whin I was in Indy, I tuk it into me moind
to go home to Ireland an' hunt up me ancesthors.
I came to me birthplace, Sleeahtballymackcurraghalicky
in County Cork, an' tould the ouldest man in
the place who I was an' what was me business.  "Yis,"
sez he, "yis; I don't know you; but I've hard of you,
an' I knowed your fader.  Your name is John Gorman.
Your fader's was Shon Jay Pay.  His fader was
Shon Mor.  An' his fader was another Shon who
was hanged by the English for bein' a Rory of the
Hills."  'An', ma'am,' sez I, 'wud you believe me, I
didn't pursue me ancesthors anny farder—shure as
I'm a livin' man.  I didn't pursue me dead an' gone
ancesthors anny farder.'

'But,' sez she, wid a little laugh, 'Mr. Carteret's
ancestors were not like that.  They were noblemen.
His father is an earl.  His oldest brother is the heir.
But his father is an old man, and cannot live long,
and the heir has only one lung, and when he dies,
Mr. Carteret will succeed to the title and the
estates.'  'Well, ma'am,' sez I, 'if it's my opinion you want,
it's this.  The heir shud trade off his wan lung wid
an auctioneer for his two, an' give him £100,000 to
boot.  For it's little honor will be done to the title,
an' little profit to the estates, if that spalpeen of a
Carteret gets thim,' sez I, 'beggin' your ladyship's
pardon for talkin' so freely in your prisince.'

"Thin she got very red agin.  Afther a bit she
sez, 'Thank you, Sergeant Gorman, for your opinions,'
sez she.  'Here's a guinea for you.'  'Thank you,
ma'am,' sez I, 'but I'm nayther a lawyer to be sellin'
me gab for money, nor a beggar to be takin' charity,'
sez I.  'I'm the son of an Irish gentleman.'  Wid that
she looked at me kind of curious loike, an' sez,
'Pardon me, Mr. Gorman, for offering it to you.
But just the same I want to thank you for your
services to my daughter and to me,' an' she reached out
her hand an' shook hands wid me rale friendly loike."

When Sinclair, McLeod, and Gorman separated that
night, Sinclair saw before him the possibility of a
change of attitude on the part of Mrs. MacAllister
towards Carteret and himself.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A MAN AND A WOMAN`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XXXII


.. class:: center large bold

   A MAN AND A WOMAN.

.. vspace:: 2

The day of departure had come.  The *Hailoong*
was floating on a full tide, ready to cast
off.  Those who were remaining were down
to bid farewell to those who were going.
Impedimenta had been stored away, and all had gathered
in two groups on the promenade deck.  Dr. MacKay,
his wife and children, Mr. and Mrs. Thomson, and
a number of native students and preachers, formed
one group.  The Beauchamps, the MacAllisters,
Commander Gardenier, Boville, Carteret (for the
residents still called him by the name by which they had
known him all along), and most of the young men of
the customs and mercantile staffs, formed the other.

Dr. Sinclair, who had been busy helping in the
hasty preparations for departure, walked forward
along the side of the deck next the dock.  Miss
MacAllister disengaged herself from the little group
and stepped to the rail, as though to watch the last
incidents of the embarkation.  They met on the very
spot where they had stood that memorable evening
on which the *Hailoong* put out from Amoy to face
the capricious seas of the Channel.

What a change had come in their relations!  They
knew that many eyes were watching them.  Their
words, if spoken above a whisper, would be audible.
There could be no demonstration, scarcely even a
sign of understanding or affection.  Yet there was
the attitude of perfect confidence.  And when their
eyes met, they spoke a language which both understood.

"This scene must have grown very familiar to you
in the last two and a half months," he said.

"Yes," she replied.  "For that reason one is apt
to pass over many of the features of it without noting
them.  I want to impress on my memory every detail."

"Isn't it strange," he said in a very low tone, "that
this little port in a strange land, should so quickly
have become a sacred spot to us?"

"The most sacred spot in all the world," she replied
softly.

Some one called to them, and they both turned at
once, and stood side by side facing the company.

"What a magnificent-looking pair they make!"
exclaimed Mrs. Thomson, in a sudden enthusiasm
forgetting that the voice would carry to the ears of
all present.

"Was that what you called us to hear?" Miss
MacAllister flashed back.  "It certainly was worth
while.  Do you not think so, Dr. Sinclair?"  She
laughed gaily, a little defiantly, for she had seen the
expression on her mother's face.

"I certainly do.  And I'm proud to shine with the
reflected light of beauty," he replied.

"Oh, you!  You are worse than they are."

She turned hastily to the rail again, to hide her
blushes.  Her mother set her lips very tightly together,
lifted her head very high, and sniffed.  She was more
intent than ever on forcing her daughter to marry
Carteret.  Whatever doubts of his suitability to be a
good husband she may have entertained, had vanished
with his actual succession to the title.  A peerage
can cover a multitude of sins.

"All aboard!" rang out in English and Chinese.
Men sprang to the hawsers to cast off.  At that instant
a sedan chair, with sweating bearers on the run,
reached the dock and was dropped at the end of the
gang plank.  An unusually pretty Chinese girl of
seventeen or eighteen years, richly dressed, and
bearing in her arms a child of a few months old, stepped
hastily out of it, and ran for the gangway as fast as
her bound feet would carry her.  One look at the
child was enough to learn its story.  Almost as dark
as a Chinese in complexion, the features were
distinctly European.  It was a Eurasian, the child of a
European father and an Asiatic mother.

At the sight of the sedan chair Carteret had turned
abruptly from the group on deck, and had run down
the ladder.  The next instant his voice was heard by
those who leaned on the rail, speaking, not loudly,
but in tones of restrained fury.

"Put that woman off.  Don't let her on board this
boat," uttered to the accompaniment of savage oaths.

"Stand back, Mr. Carteret.  It is not for you to
say who will be a passenger on this boat.  This woman
has money to pay her passage, and she has the same
rights as you have.  Make way there."

It was McLeod's voice, clear and cold and hard as
steel.

Sinclair and Miss MacAllister did not look at each
other for some moments.  The others on the deck
heard only very imperfectly what was said below.
Some of the men talked continuously and loudly, so
that the women might not hear.  When Miss
MacAllister's eyes did meet Sinclair's, they had in
them such a look of confidence and content that the
memory of it never faded from his mind.

There was no opportunity for them to speak such
farewells as their hearts craved.  Once she had the
chance to whisper,

"I'll be thinking of you, Donald, and you'll be
thinking of me."

.. _`"I'll be thinking of you, Donald, and you'll be thinking of me"`:

.. figure:: images/img-297.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: "I'll be thinking of you, Donald, and you'll be thinking of me"

   "I'll be thinking of you, Donald, and you'll be thinking of me"

His answer was,

"And I'll come to you, Jessie, though all the world
try to keep us apart."

As the general farewells were said, Constance
Beauchamp shook hands with Sinclair gravely,
sedately; stood for an instant irresolute, and then with
a movement as light as that of a fawn, sprang into
his arms, clasped hers around his neck and kissed him
again and again, before them all.  She had another
parting boon to bestow.

"I am going away where I can't see you, Dr. Sinclair.
You may get your hair cut whenever you
wish.  But keep one of the curls for me."

And Miss MacAllister looking on, felt no jealous
pang.

Amidst waving hats and handkerchiefs, the
*Hailoong* swung out into the stream, and started on
her voyage, with her strangely assorted freight of
humanity, going to their various destinies.  Among
those surely none were more tragic than the destinies
of a man, of a woman, and of their child.  He was
bound for an English earldom, and a seat in the House
of Lords.  She was to drift into a native brothel,
frequented by the degraded of all nationalities, in
the great cosmopolitan port of Hong-Kong.  Their
child was to grow up in the streets of that tropical
city, a nameless, mongrel waif, never to know his
father's face, till he should stand as his accuser before
the judgment seat of God.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`MY CHILDREN IN THE LORD`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XXXIII


.. class:: center large bold

   MY CHILDREN IN THE LORD

.. vspace:: 2

"Dr. MacKay, you are not well."

"I know that, Dr. Sinclair."

"You have a temperature, I'm sure.  Have
you taken it?"

"No."

"How's that?  I thought that you were careful to
watch your health.  You told me that you could not
afford to be sick."

"So I am, as a rule.  But I could not take it this
time till my wife left.  She would not have gone if
she had known."

"You should have gone yourself.  The strain has
been too much for you.  Knowing the shape you are
in, why didn't you take a trip to Hong-Kong, or at
least to Amoy, and rest a while?"

"That would be to play the part of a hireling
shepherd.  'He that is an hireling, and not the
shepherd, whose own the sheep are not, seeth the wolf
coming, and leaveth the sheep, and fleeth, and the wolf
catcheth them and scattereth the sheep.  The hireling
fleeth because he is an hireling and careth not for the
sheep.'"

Sinclair was silent while he counted the pulse, and
awaited the report of the thermometer.  When he
looked at it, his face was grave.

"What is it?" asked MacKay.  "You need not
hesitate to tell me.  Is it high?"

"Too high for a man to have and be walking about.
One hundred and three and four-fifths."

"If it were malaria, I should not mind.  I have
worked for days on the East Coast with an average
of one hundred and three.  But this is not malaria.
I cannot be deceived in it.  I know malaria too well."

"Where is the trouble?"

"In my head."

"So I thought.  We must get you to bed.  I'll send
a chit to Bergmann.  He is your doctor."

That was the beginning of the fight for life.
MacKay was battling with all the determination of
his nature against cerebral meningitis.  The battle
was not very long, but it was exceedingly sharp.  By
his bedside all the time sat one or other of the three
doctors.  This stern, reserved, intensely concentrated
man had won their respect and admiration, and no
effort was spared to save his life.  Native students,
trained in the elements of nursing, glided noiselessly
in and out of the room.  Over at the college, where
the native preachers, elders, and students assembled,
a continuous prayer-meeting was in progress, these
yellow and brown-skinned men who "ain't got no
souls," praying with the simple faith of little children
that their beloved pastor might be restored to health.

On the white bed in the middle of the room, beneath
its drapery of mosquito curtains, MacKay's burning
head turned ceaselessly from side to side, day and
night, day and night without sleep.  And day and
night, day and night he talked, talked, talked,
sometimes in English, sometimes in Chinese, talked without
pause or cessation about his converts, the church which
he had brought into being.

"My people! ... My people! ... My children
in the Lord! ... Who will take care of them?
My sheep! ... My poor sheep! ... Left without
a shepherd! ... Who will feed them! ... My
little lambs!  My little lambs! ... Who will protect
them from the wolves? ... O God!  I commend
them to Thee! ... My children!  My children in the
Lord!"

One day the raving suddenly ceased.  Sinclair,
startled by the unwonted silence, stepped to his
bedside and threw back the curtains.  MacKay was sitting
bolt upright in bed.  The fire of the fever was still
in his face and eye.  But his voice was perfectly
natural, his manner calm and collected.

"Dr. Sinclair, what shall I do for my people?  If
I die, there is no one to take care of them.
Mr. Thomson is not able now—perhaps never will be able.
No person could come from Canada for a year, and
when one would come, he would need another year or
two for the language.  Some of the native preachers
are able, but none of them have authority to take the
lead of their fellows.  What shall I do?"

"Do not worry about that now," replied Sinclair
soothingly.  "There is the Good Shepherd still to lead
His sheep.  Leave it to Him.  It is for you now to
recover your strength."

"I am resolved what to do," MacKay went on, as
if without noticing Sinclair's reply.  "I shall ordain
A Hoa and Tan He,[#] the two ablest of the preachers.
That will give them authority to lead their brethren.
That will make them pastors, shepherds of the sheep.
It's irregular, I know.  A presbytery should ordain.
I'm not a presbytery.  It's unusual.  But unusual
circumstances demand unusual methods.  If I live, the
church lawyers at home will crucify me for it.  If I
die, they'll condone my action, praise me in public,
and scarify me in private.  But neither their praise
nor their blame can touch me then."


[#] Pronounced, Hay.


"The church lawyers be hanged, hanged in their
own red tape!" exclaimed Sinclair savagely.  "They
have never seen anything but their own little parishes,
and they think their tuppenny parochial rules can be
applied to the whole world."

"I know, Dr. Sinclair, I know.  What saith the
Scripture?  'Where there is no vision the people
perish.'  But I am resolved that my people shall not
perish....  Leng-a," he said in Chinese to the
student nurse, "call A Hoa and Tan He to come here.
Call all the other preachers, the students and elders
to come at once."

In a few minutes the room was full of native
Christians, while others stood in the hall on one side,
or out on the verandah on the other.  Briefly and
impressively MacKay explained to them the need and
his resolve, charged the two preachers to accept the
holy office, asked them the prescribed questions, and
then, when they had knelt beside his bed, he laid a
hand upon the head of each and reverently, solemnly
said in Chinese,

"In the name of the Lord Jesus Christ, the only
King and Head of the Church, and by the authority
He has given me when He committed to me the care
of these His people, I invite you to take part of this
ministry with me, and commit to your care these my
children in the Lord."

Tears glistened on the faces of the natives.  Sobs
broke from many of them.  But the sick man
continued resolutely, now in English,

"Dr. Sinclair, I have written to the Foreign
Mission Committee of our Church, asking them to appoint
you a medical missionary in North Formosa.  That
is your desire?"

"It is."

"If they grant my request—I do not say that they
will—but if they do, do you promise to stay with
these people as long as you may find it possible so to
do, to heal their souls as well as their bodies, and to
give these native brethren your counsel, according
as the Lord gives you wisdom?"

"I do."

"I am content."

With the benediction the Chinese softly withdrew.
The sick man fell back exhausted on the pillows, soon
to be tossing and raving in delirium again.  But over
in the little college building the native Christians, led
by their two new-made pastors, bowed themselves
continuously in prayer for the life which was more
than any other life to them.

Was it in answer to those prayers that ice was
unexpectedly brought into that port in that tropic
clime?  Who knows?  So many things are veiled
from our eyes!  But certain it is that when the ice
was heaped about his fevered head, MacKay fell into
a sweet, childlike sleep, from which he did not awake
for thirty-six hours.  And when he awoke he was
saved.

A few days later, under compulsion from the three
doctors, he sailed on board the *Fokien* to join his
family in Hong-Kong and rest.  The day afterwards
the French admiral declared a blockade, and Formosa
was sealed against the world.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE SOLDIER OF THE LEGION`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XXXIV


.. class:: center large bold

   THE SOLDIER OF THE LEGION

.. vspace:: 2

For the five months from October till March
Dr. Sinclair and Sergeant Gorman were with
the Chinese forces before Keelung.  For those
five months rain fell almost continuously.  Clouds
drifted in from the sea, trailed through the valleys, and
crept up the mountain sides, discharging their burdens
of water as they went.  The earth was sodden under
foot.  Walls and roofs sweated moisture.  Tents and
clothing mildewed.  Food moulded and rotted in the
constant wet.  Scarcely ever a gleam of sunshine broke
through the leaden canopy of cloud to cleanse the
reeking earth and atmosphere.  For one period of
forty-five days the rain never ceased for an hour.

All through the wretched winter French transports
arrived bringing reinforcements, and left again
carrying sick and wounded men.  All through the winter
a succession of petty conflicts took place, a series of
harassing, ineffectual actions was fought.  A French
column would issue from Keelung, plunge through
roads which were nought but channels of liquid mud,
struggle up dripping heights, through the tall grasses
and ferns and brush, exposed to the fire of concealed
sharp-shooters, and drive the enemy from the top at
the point of the bayonet, only to find that their labour
and the price of blood paid was all in vain.  In some
cases the small forces they were able to spare could
not hold the heights against the rallying Chinese.  In
others immediately behind they discovered higher and
more strongly fortified posts dominating those that
they had captured.

All the while the French cemetery on the east
side of the harbour, which they had named La
Galissonière, was growing more and more populous
at an alarming rate.  Typhoid fever, malarial fever,
cholera were far more dangerous than the bullets and
knives of the Chinese.  In spite of the numbers of sick
and wounded men sent home to France, by the time
the winter had passed into summer seven hundred of
the small force employed had been laid away in the
rain-soaked, wave-beaten beach at Keelung.

Meanwhile still heavier losses were suffered by the
Chinese.  The superior discipline and arms of the
French more than compensated for their inferiority
in numbers, and enabled them to work havoc in the
close-set ranks of the Chinese.  The little hospital at
Loan-Loan was always filled with wounded.  Sometimes
they overflowed into the neighbouring houses
requisitioned by the military authorities for the
purpose.

Among these wounded men Sinclair and Gorman
worked almost day and night.  When a battle was in
progress, one or other went out with the ambulance
corps, gave the wounded first aid on the field, and
forwarded them to the hospital for fuller treatment
there.  Under leaden skies and the incessant
downpour of rain, with insufficient medicines and
equipment, and subsisting on poor native food, they worked
on week after week, month after month.

Perhaps what was hardest to bear was the fact
that during all those months not a word reached them
from the outside world.  The blockade had effectually
excluded all mails.  Gorman heard nothing from his
family in Amoy.  Sinclair had never a line from
Hong-Kong.

"Bedad," said Gorman one day, "this is a time
when a man would be glad to be afther seein' the
shape of a letter, even if it were only from his
mother-in-law."

"Let me have a look at your tongue, and a feel of
your pulse, Gorman!" exclaimed Sinclair, reaching
for the sergeant's wrist.  "I knew that you were in a
bad way.  But I had no idea that you were so far
gone as that."

"Och, docther, but wudn't I show you the iligances
of an Irish jig, if the ould lady wud only write to me
that she was dead an' p'acefully departed.  Then I
cud go home to me wife an' childer."

It was a time when men were tested.  Daily, hourly,
Sinclair thought of the girl he loved, spending the
winter in Hong-Kong, subject to the attentions and
solicitations of the now titled Carteret, and the
pressure brought to bear by her mother.  His hands would
clench and his jaws set hard.  But he was sure that
Jessie MacAllister would do her part.  Over and over
again her farewell words kept running through his
mind, "I'll be thinking of you, Donald, and you'll be
thinking of me."

The longest and dreariest months will always come
to an end.  When February had passed, the skies
began to clear sometimes.  The first week of March
had some beautiful days.

With this came renewed activity on the part of the
French.  In a series of actions lasting five days, March
3d to 7th, they succeeded in capturing some of the
strongest Chinese positions on the mountain-tops near
Loan-Loan.

Sinclair had chosen for his field hospital and
ambulance station a situation at the back of the post most
strongly fortified by the Chinese.  It was a mountain
with a steep, almost perpendicular ascent, covered with
grass and ferns and bamboos, on the side of the French
attack.  In this cover the Chinese irregulars were
hidden.  The crest of the hill was crowned by an
interwoven fence of sharpened bamboos, a veritable
chevaux-de-frise.  Three other lines of entrenchments
extended along the face of the hill, and had to
be crossed by the assailants before the main position
of the Chinese could be reached.

Behind the bamboo stockade, on the slope which
led down towards the valley in which the river and
the town lay, was a strong force of regular troops.
Their right was commanded by the American, Silas
Z. Leatherbottom; their left by a young Chinese officer,
trained abroad.  Gorman was with the right; Sinclair
with the left.

It was the last day of the five.  On an opposing hill
which they had captured two days before, the French
camp was plainly to be seen.  Early in the morning
the movement of troops began.  A column moved off
the open plateau and disappeared in the fog which
hung in the valley, as if to attack the Chinese right.
Before long heavy firing was heard in that direction,
and Chinese troops were moved across from the left
to strengthen the right under the American.

Unexpectedly rifle firing broke out under the curtain
of mist in the valley directly in front.  The French
mountain guns on the opposite hill began to search
the Chinese left.  In an interval of the firing the order
"*Baïonnettcs au canon!  En avant!*" floated up to
where Sinclair stood with some Chinese officers on
the crest.  The loud "Hourras!" of the French
soldiers mingled with the shrill yells of the Chinese,
and the crackling of rifles.  The French were charging
the first line of entrenchments with the bayonet.

It was taken, and they pressed their retreating foes
on to the second.  It too was captured, and in the
same way the third.  All the while their progress
could be judged only by the sounds which came up
through the canopy of fog.

Now the helmets of the Europeans began to appear
through the veil of mist.  They were at the foot of
the last steep ascent, with its bamboo palisade at the
top.  The Chinese defenders poured on them a perfect
hail of bullets.  The ascent was so steep, the storm of
lead so terrible, that even those seasoned troops shrank
from it.  The foremost, a company of the Bataillon
d'Afrique, swung off to the left in search of an easier
ascent and less deadly fire.  Another company of the
same regiment dashed straight at the steep hill-side.
But the deadly fire of the Chinese mowed the foremost
of them down.  A company in a different uniform,
which had been held in reserve, two hundred strong,
was ordered to their support.  On they came with a
rush, cheering each other in a perfect babel of tongues.
The "En avant" of their officers was echoed in
almost every language of Europe.  It was a company of
the famous *Légion Étrangère*, the Foreign Legion.

Their polyglot cries mingled with the French of
the Bataillon d'Afrique, as in regimental rivalry they
struggled up that terrible ascent.  Bamboo scaling
ladders were placed, only to be thrown down.  Men
climbed them, only to be crushed by the rocks which
the Chinese hurled upon them in savage hand-to-hand
warfare.  But the assailants did not draw back.
French, Austrians, Germans, Italians, Corsicans,
Poles, men of Alsace-Lorraine, exiles from every land
of Europe, they struggled desperately up.  They
fought their way to the palisade, hewed gaps in it,
and formed on top.

The Chinese irregulars, driven in on their regular
troops, threw the latter into confusion.  In spite of
the gallant efforts is of their young commander, most of
them broke and fled.  Not so their leader.  Rallying
a hundred or so of his broken army, he led them in
a bayonet charge against their foes.  A volley
decimated their ranks.  When the smoke cleared away,
the young officer was seen leading those who remained
to the attack.  Another volley rang out, leaving him
only a handful of men.  But once more the gallant
Chinese gathered the little group around him, and
dashed at the invaders.  When the smoke of a third
volley cleared away there were none left to charge.
The brave young pioneer of the new China which is
to be, had died on the field he was determined to hold.

The American general, Leatherbottom, realized
when it was too late that the French had deceived him
by a false attack on the right, while their real objective
was the weakened left, commanded by the young
Chinese.  He explained to Sinclair afterwards,

"'Thet's whar these 'ar Europeans get the start on
me.  When it comes t' fightin', I kin fight.  Don't yew
make enny mistake about thet.  But when it's a question
of military evolyewtions an' tictacs, thet's whar
they've got me beat by a mile."

And certain it was that when the Chinese left position
was captured, and the right was forced to retreat,
the French were kept from coming to close quarters
by the deadly shooting of one rifle in the Chinese
rearguard.  And that rifle was in the hands of the general
of the retreating force, the long, slab-sided Vermonter,
Silas Z. Leatherbottom.

Meanwhile Dr. Sinclair, realizing that the day was
lost to the Chinese, was forwarding the wounded with
all possible speed, down into the valley towards a
place of safety.  As the Chinese left was broken, he
had come down with a long line of stretchers, bearing
wounded who had been picked up under fire.

As he descended to the level of the ravine which
encircled the mountain, he saw within a hundred yards
of him a squad of the Foreign Legion, hurrying along
the ravine, either seeking an easier ascent to the field
of battle, or making an attempt to cut off the Chinese
retreat.

Suddenly out of a dense grove of bamboos on the
hill-side spirted streams of flame and smoke.  The
stout, fair-complexioned sub-lieutenant who was
leading them, threw up his arms, staggered, caught the
trunk of a tree-fern which saved him from falling.

"*Mein Gott im Himmel!*" he screamed.  "*Je suis
tué!  En avant, mes camarades!  Vorwärts!*"

They were his last words.  But they were typical
of the character of the Legion.

A sergeant of almost gigantic size sprang forward.

"*Vers la gauche!*" he shouted.  "*Charges à la
baïonnette!  En avant!*"

"Good for you, sergeant!" yelled an exile of
Ireland fighting under a foreign flag.  "Give the yellow
divils a taste of the steel.  Hurroosh!"

They dashed at the bamboos.  But the withering
fire cut them down.  Not a man reached the
ambuscade but the big sergeant.  A bullet hit him.  He fell;
rose to his feet, and made a couple of paces forward.
Another hit him on the leg.  He raised himself on a
foot and a knee.  A heavy stone thrown at a few yards
struck him on the head.  He went down silent and
motionless.

With wild screams the Chinese irregulars burst
from their cover, brandishing long knives and racing
with each other to be first to reach their victims.  It
was not merely their lust for blood which clamoured
to be satisfied.  Still more was it their lust for gain.
There was a price set upon French heads.

Anticipating the result, and knowing what would
follow, Sinclair dashed down the steep, grass-covered
side of the ravine at the top of his speed.

"Wait a little!" he yelled in his imperfect Chinese.
"Stop that!"

But the irregulars were Hakka tribesmen from the
savage border, speaking a different language from that
he was learning.  They probably did not understand
him.  If they did, they were not to be baulked of their
rewards by the orders of the foreign doctor.

Already the bloody knives were at work.  Several
were quarrelling over the body of the lieutenant, for
there was a higher price for the head of an officer.
Two or three had thrown themselves upon the
sergeant.  This was the nearest body to Sinclair.  One
of the knives was lifted.  At a dozen paces Sinclair's
big revolver spoke.  The Chinese flung backwards
down the slope, throwing his glittering knife high in
the air.

That was a language they all could understand.
For a moment they seemed disposed to resist.  But
the big foreign doctor was already among them, his
revolver barking with the rapidity of a machine gun,
and at every spirt of flame a man went down.  Behind
him came a number of well-armed regulars, who had
been detailed to convoy the ambulances.  The irregulars
broke and fled.  But they carried away with them
the head of every man of that little squad save the
sergeant.

The broken leg with its great gaping wound was
hastily bandaged and supported by splints.  The torn
shoulder and the cut head had the blood staunched.
Then the unconscious man was placed on a stretcher
and borne to camp to be cared for in the same hospital
as the Chinese wounded.

As the line of stretchers moved down the ravine,
the tri-colour could be seen floating over the crest of
the mountain where the battle had been fought, and
the French bugles could be heard sounding "*au
drapeau*."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE LANGUAGE OF PARADISE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XXXV


.. class:: center large bold

   THE LANGUAGE OF PARADISE

.. vspace:: 2

The war was practically over.  The Chinese
could not dislodge the French from Keelung.
The French could not advance any farther into
the country.

What had they gained for all their expenditure of
blood and effort?  They had not been able to make
themselves masters of a single foot of ground at
Tamsui.  At Keelung they held the ruined town and
the harbour, and some outposts two miles from where
their warships lay.  Beyond the range of their naval
guns they could not go.  For such barren results, all
of which in three months' time they were to relinquish
again, they had sacrificed fully one thousand lives of
French soldiers and sailors, had disabled hundreds
more through wounds and disease, and had killed an
unknown number of Chinese, none of whom knew
what the war was about.

It dragged on for another month and a half before
the blockade was raised and hostilities ceased.  Six
weeks elapsed after that before Keelung was evacuated,
and the French squadron and transports sailed
away, leaving their silent city of the dead, their tale
of killed and wounded and missing.

Through the month of March and half of April,
Sinclair laboured on among the wounded of the
Chinese army.  He was their Life-Healer.  By one of the
strange ironies of life two of those Hakka tribesmen
who had gone down before his revolver on the seventh
of March, were brought to him for treatment, and he
healed them.  They looked with wonder, not unmixed
with fear, at the big fair-haired foreigner, who had
been so ferocious a day or two before.  Now his
touch was as gentle as it before had been terrible, and
in his very word was healing.  They did not understand.
It was a part of the foreign devil's madness.
It was a part of his magic.

But there was one over whom Sinclair spent more
time than over any other.  It was the big sergeant of
the Foreign Legion.  He was desperately wounded,
and for a long time lay silently unconscious.  From
that stage he passed into one of delirium.  Then he
raved, sometimes in French, sometimes in German,
sometimes in English, sometimes in a jumble of
languages like the Babel of tongues in the famous corps
to which he belonged.  But there was one language
which he used more than all the others, and when he
used it, his voice was soft and his accents tender, like
those of a child talking to his mother, or of a lover to
his beloved.  That language Sinclair did not understand.

Day after day, night after night, he sat by the
wounded man's bed in the tent where he and Gorman
had their quarters.  Every moment he could get off
duty among the Chinese he was at his post.  There
was something about this French sergeant which
attracted him strangely.  He was big and dark, with
jet black hair and large, dark eyes.  When he was
wounded his face, save where it was covered by thick,
black, stubbly whiskers, was tanned to a dark brown.
But as the days and weeks of illness passed by, the
sunburn faded from his face, and left his skin clear,
almost to transparency.  Then Gorman shaved him,
"to make the poor craythur a little more comfortable
loike."  The fineness of the features at once struck
Sinclair.  Was it only fancy, or was it a fact that he
had somewhere seen some one who resembled this
man?  He racked his brain to recall who it was, or
where he had seen that expression and form of face.

"I can't think.  But I know that I have seen that
face or its counterpart somewhere."

The big dark eyes of the patient opened, and began
to wander over every object in the tent.  Then the
wounded man began to talk.  It was in the language
Sinclair did not understand.

"I wonder would Gorman know anything of that,"
he said to himself.  "He has a little bit of each of
a score of tongues."

A native boy ran for the sergeant.  He came quickly.
The wounded soldier was silent when he entered,
and Sinclair was afraid that he would not speak again.
Presently his eyes began to rove around.  Then he
spoke in a low, soft voice, words of the unknown
tongue.  For a few moments Gorman stood silent with
a puzzled look on his face, as if unable to get the sense
of what was being said.  Then with a sudden start he
lifted his hands above his head.

"Be all the saints in glory, docther, do you not
know that?  It's what you'll have to speak whin you
get to hiven.  It's Gaelic.  Not Irish, but Scotch!
The man's a Highlander....  He's jist a bit of a
gossoon ag'in, wid his mother croonin' over him and
puttin' him to sleep, an' him not wantin' to go.  Och,
the poor bhoy!  The poor bhoy!  An' the divils had
nearly cut off his head!"

Sinclair sprang to his feet, his face as pale as death,
his whole frame trembling with excitement.

"Gorman," he said, with the slow emphasis of
absolute conviction, "it's Miss MacAllister's brother."

"Be the love of God, docther, I believe that you are
right."

"I know that I'm right, Gorman.  It's Allister
MacAllister.  I was trying to place his resemblance
to some one I knew.  Now I know what that resemblance
is.  It is neither to Miss MacAllister nor her
mother.  It is something between the two.  He has
his mother's colour of hair and eyes, and form of
face, with his sister's expression."

"Right you are, docther.  An', docther, he mustn't die."

"He must live, if human power can save him, and
God's mercy will spare him," was the solemn reply.

Half-an-hour later a speedy runner left for Tamsui,
bearing a letter to Drs. Bergmann and Black, with an
account of the case of the wounded Frenchman, a
request for needed medicines, and the hope that one
of them might be able to come over to the camp before
Keelung for a consultation.

They both came.  They held a consultation, spoke
many kind words of what Sinclair had accomplished,
and returned to Tamsui to tell of the most wonderful
work they had ever seen accomplished by one doctor
against such obstacles.

The day after they left, Sinclair sat by his patient
in the tent by the river side.  The spring sun was
shining gloriously, drawing up the moisture from the
saturated earth.  The rippling of the river, the scent
of the flowers, the song of the birds floated into the
tent where the sick man lay.  Sinclair had been looking
out on the flowing water.  Something drew his gaze
towards the patient's cot.  The large dark eyes were
fixed on him, no longer wandering and restless, but
intelligent, full of questioning and wonder.

"Where am I?" he asked in French.

"With friends," was the reply in the same language.

"How did I get here?"

"You were wounded, sergeant."

The last word seemed to help his memory.

"I remember.  We had taken the fort on the Table,
and were trying to capture Fort Bamboo, on the South
Mountain."

"Yes, that's it."

"Did we capture it?"

"Yes."

"But some of us ran into an ambuscade in the
bamboos."

"Yes, and you were wounded.  I've been trying to
fix you up again."

"Are you a doctor?"

"Yes."

"You are not one of the doctors of the Legion.  I
do not remember you.  Do you belong to the Zephyrs
or l'Infanterie de Marine?"

"To neither.  I am a volunteer doctor.  But you
have talked enough.  I do not want you to tire yourself.
I want you to get better.  You must go to sleep."

That afternoon General Liu Ming-chuan visited the
hospital to personally announce that an armistice was
likely to be arranged, to thank Dr. Sinclair for his
invaluable services, and to tell him that both he and
Sergeant Gorman were recommended for various
buttons and rings of jade, daggers, and feathers of
honour.

"Now," he concluded, "is there any request with
which the honourable physician will deign to
honour me, that I may have the pleasure of
granting it?"

"There is, Your Excellency," replied Sinclair.

"Will the honourable physician name it?"

"That Your Excellency will graciously condescend
to grant that the wounded French prisoner be handed
over to me, that I may restore him to his aged father,
of whom he is the only son."

"The honourable physician's request is granted;
and may the young man comfort the heart of his
father, and do honour to his ancestors."

A week later Sinclair and Gorman left the Chinese
camp for Tamsui, carrying with them in a specially
constructed litter the man whom they were convinced
was the long-lost son and brother.

Of their suspicions concerning him, the wounded
man knew nothing.  He indeed knew where he was
and how he came to be there.  He knew that he had
been a prisoner in the Chinese camp.  He knew that
he had been cared for and his life saved by a Canadian
missionary doctor and an Irish sergeant.  He knew
that instead of leaving him in the hands of the Chinese,
they were taking him to the foreign settlement at
Tamsui, until he should be strong enough to rejoin
his regiment.  But for any hint they gave or aught he
suspected, he was nothing to them but Sergeant Alfred
Melnotte, of the 3d Company, 4th Battalion of the
Foreign Legion, reported by his company commander
as "*disparu*," missing.

When he reached Tamsui and was installed in a
large, airy room in Dr. MacKay's house, where the
soft April winds blew in, where he lay and luxuriated
in a great white bed, with its canopy of mosquito
curtains, such luxury as he had not known for years,
he wondered at the kindness of these strangers.  But
to them as to all the other residents of Tamsui, he
was just "the French sergeant, Sergeant Melnotte."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`AN APPARITION`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XXXVI


.. class:: center large bold

   AN APPARITION

.. vspace:: 2

In Hong-Kong the winter had passed in such a
round of gaieties as the colony could afford.
There were balls and dinner parties, state and
private, afloat and ashore.  There were cricket matches
and military reviews in the city.  There were races
and golf, and more cricket matches and picnics at
Happy Valley.  A company of players of more or less
excellence, going from Australia to England or
America, from time to time came by way of
Hong-Kong, and perhaps for a week drew astonishingly
large houses, considering the smallness of the
European population.  There were excursions to Macao,
and trips to Canton.

Mrs. MacAllister entered with the utmost zest into
the social life of the great southern city.  Although
never at ease in society, always revealing to the
practised eye that she had not been accustomed to it in her
youth, the continual attendance at all manner of
functions, the association with people supposed to be of
social standing, had become her ideal of happiness.
In the sumptuous apartments her husband had taken
in the hotel, she entertained lavishly.  Her wealth
covered all defects of education and training.
Perhaps the majority of those she met in the social life
of the colony were not so much better bred than
herself.  And those who were, accepted her bountiful
hospitality, and did not laugh at her till her back was
turned.

Then she had far more compensating circumstances
than most who have to depend on their wealth for
admission into society.  Her husband was keenly
intelligent, well-informed, and perfectly at home anywhere.
Her daughter was strikingly beautiful and accomplished.
The accepted suitor for that daughter's hand
was an earl.  How could any colony be expected to
resist such a combination as that?  Hong-Kong simply
surrendered at discretion.

It is true that Mr. MacAllister grew very weary of
the inanities of the social round.  He was becoming
more and more anxious about his ill-success in getting
any trace of his son.  It is true also that many noted
the fact that Miss MacAllister seemed to be very
indifferent towards her titled suitor.  But, as she once
in confidence explained to McLeod, his acceptance by
her mother saved her from being bored by any other
of the aspiring young men she met.

Carteret had been in Hong-Kong on several
occasions before and had been almost entirely ignored
by colonial society.  But society is not to be blamed
for that.  A younger son, on a small remittance, is a
very different proposition, even if the heir has only
one lung, from a real live earl, with the full income of
his estates at his disposal.  Society has a keen
appreciation of the fitness of things.  It regards not what
a man is, but what he has.

Thus the winter passed away.  But it was not
without other incident.  One day in January two young
men were talking in the rotunda of the hotel.  They
were both officers of an English regiment then
forming part of the garrison.  One had just returned from
leave, having arrived by the P. and O. liner the day
before.  The other had been in the city with his regiment.

"By Jove, Powell," said the former, "I got the
biggest fright of my life yesterday."

"How's that?" said the other.  "Didn't know that
you ever got frightened."

"Well, I'll acknowledge that I'm not strong on
getting scared, unless there's a woman in the case.
Then I run every time."

"Perhaps!  But that has not enlightened me as to
what gave you the fright yesterday."

"It was this way.  When we came to anchor we
found ourselves right alongside of the French
transport *Canton*, with troops for Formosa.  She had a
battalion of the Légion Étrangère.  I had heard of them
at Singapore, and knew that there was an old
schoolmate of mine on board—Du Marais, captain
commanding the first company.  We chummed together
when I was studying French and drill at Saint Cyr.
So before coming ashore I went aboard the *Canton*
to look him up.  Du Marais was there all right, brown,
black rather, but fit as a fiddle after campaigns in
Algiers.  But it wasn't Du Marais who gave me the
scare."

"What was it?"

"You remember MacAllister of the —th Dragoon Guards?"

"Who shot Standish after Tel-el-Kebir?"

"Yes."

"Of course I do.  His father and mother and
sister are in Hong-Kong now."

"Well, I could swear that he was on board the
*Canton* in Hong-Kong Harbour yesterday."

"But he was reported killed by Arabs on his way
to Alexandria."

"I know.  And that is what gave me the fright.  As
I was talking to Du Marais a big sergeant passed and,
by the Lord, if Allister MacAllister is living that
sergeant was he!  If he's dead that was his ghost.  Du
Marais noticed me start and asked what was the
matter.  I told him.  He said that the sergeant was not
of his company and he did not know him, but that
he would inquire.  He came back in a little and said:
'You must be mistaken.  That was Sergeant Melnotte
of Lebigot's company.  He is a Frenchman from
Besançon.'  But I was convinced that it was
MacAllister or his ghost."

The two young officers strolled away.  They did
not notice a man sitting under a spreading tropical
plant and hidden still more by the home newspaper
he was reading.  If they had noticed, they would
have seen that the newspaper trembled like an aspen
leaf in the palsied hands which held it.  When they
were gone, Mr. MacAllister rose from behind the
plant.  His face was pale as ashes, but his
movements were quick and decided.  He hurried to the
harbour-master's office to ask about the
*Canton*.  She had sailed for Formosa the evening
before.

He returned to the hotel to write letters to Consul
Beauchamp, to Commander Gardenier, to Dr. Sinclair.
Under the stringent rules of the blockade, those
letters did not reach their destinations till their
usefulness was past.  He set himself to devise means
to effect his own return to Formosa.  It was not until
April that it could be accomplished.  Meanwhile he
told neither his wife nor his daughter, lest their hopes
should be disappointed, and the disappointment should
be more than they could bear.

On the fourth of April the protocol was signed by
the representatives of France and China.  As soon
as the news reached Hong-Kong the *Hailoong* sailed
for Tamsui.  She had on board two white passengers
for that port, Dr. MacKay and Mr. MacAllister.

The forces of nature and of man seemed determined
to prevent her reaching there.  When near her
destination a terrific storm forced her to run back
to the coast of China for shelter, as she had been
compelled to do the previous August.  When she again
appeared off Tamsui a shot across her bows brought
her to.  The French commander had not heard that
the blockade had been raised.  Once more she had
to put about and steam for the Pescadores to get
authority from Admiral Courbet himself.  From the
Pescadores to Amoy, and again to Tamsui, she carried
her impatient passengers before they were allowed
to land.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`"MY SON!  MY SON!"`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XXXVII


.. class:: center large bold

   "MY SON!  MY SON!"

.. vspace:: 2

The day the *Hailoong* first appeared off the
harbour of Tamsui was one of deep anxiety to
Sinclair.  While the other foreign residents
were almost delirious with joy at the prospect of the
removal of the blockade, he was disturbed and anxious.
He did not know who might be on board that boat.
He had a presentiment so fixed that he could not
shake himself free from it, that Mr. MacAllister was
coming back again.

He dreaded the effect on his patient of the
meeting between father and son.  The wounded man was
still weak.  The doctor had not even hinted to him
that he was known.  Indeed, he had no absolute proof
that this was Allister MacAllister.  Yet he was
convinced that this was he.  He felt that he ought to tell
him that he was known, and that his father was
coming.  Deep as was his own disappointment at the still
further delay of word from Hong-Kong, it was
nevertheless with a feeling akin to relief that he saw the
*Hailoong* forced to steam away without entering port.
He resolved that his patient must be prepared for her
return.

The two young men had grown deeply attached to
each other.  It was not strange.  Sinclair had good
reason to like the man he believed to be Jessie
MacAllister's brother.  Sergeant Melnotte had good
reason to be grateful to the man who had saved his life.

But there was a deeper reason.  It was the
instinctive attraction of mutually complementary
characters.  Sinclair's invincible good-humour and
cheerfulness were as life-giving sunshine to the wounded
soldier, worn by hardship and suffering.  Melnotte's
patient, uncomplaining endurance of intense pain,
his quiet but profound gratitude, appealed to Sinclair's
admiration for all that was heroic and manly.  The
large, dark eyes followed his every movement with a
look of devotion and thankfulness which was pathetic.
It was the expression of dependence of one who had
been strong, but was now brought down to the weakness
of a child.  In this gratitude Sinclair found his
opportunity.

"Sergeant Melnotte," he said, "you are not French."

The invalid's face flushed a little, but he answered
quietly:

"What makes you think so, doctor?  Do I not
speak French correctly?"

"Oh, yes!  So far as I can see, you speak it
perfectly; much better than I do.  But you are not
French."

"How do you come to that conclusion?"

"When you were delirious you spoke Gaelic."

"Did I?" he asked quietly, as if holding himself
in hand.

"Yes."

"Did you understand what I said?"

"No; but Sergeant Gorman did."

The man on the bed did not reply.  His face assumed
a strained, hunted look.  Sinclair sat on the
edge of the bed and laid his hand gently on his
patient's.

"Sergeant Melnotte," he said in a low, kind tone,
"you need be afraid of nothing from me.  Are you
not Allister MacAllister?"

The wounded man's hand gripped Sinclair's.  A
spasm of pain crossed his face.  He closed his eyes
and lay for a few moments very still.  Then,
without opening his eyes, he said in English:

"What do you know about Allister MacAllister?"

"I know his father, his mother, and his sister.  I
know that they are searching the world for him.  I
know that he disappeared and left no trace behind
him, because he thought he had killed a man."  The
great, dark eyes were open now and looking in
unbelieving wonder into Sinclair's frank, kindly blue ones.
"But he didn't kill him."

"Dr. Sinclair, do you mean to say that Captain
Philip Standish did not die?"

"Yes, that is what I mean.  He is alive and well,
and has been helping your father to search for you."

"Thank God!  Oh, thank God!"

He covered his face with his hands.  His lips moved
as if in prayer.  Sinclair did not stir, nor utter a
word to disturb his thoughts and thankfulness.  At
length he uncovered his face and looked up.

"Dr. Sinclair," he said in a voice scarcely above a
whisper, "where did you meet my people?"

"Here in Tamsui....  No," he continued, in
answer to the eager, startled look, "they are not here
now.  But they are not far away.  They are in Hong-Kong."

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center white-space-pre-line

   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1



Four days later the *Hailoong* was again seen standing
in towards the harbour.  After a very brief delay
the French allowed her to proceed.

The whole foreign population except Sergeant
Gorman and the patient, whom he remained to care for,
were down at the dock.  The native Christians were
there in a body in the hopes that Dr. MacKay might
be on board.

As the first boat with the first news from abroad
for exactly six months zigzagged through the field
of mines and obstructions with which the mouth of
the harbour was blocked, every glass was focussed
upon her.

"It's McLeod who is bringing her in," said Boville,
who was using the long customs telescope.  "Whiteley
is not on the bridge.  He is on deck with two
passengers."

"That's MacKay next to him," said the consul.
"I can tell him by his size and the long black
whiskers against his white clothes."

"Who's the big man on MacKay's left?" asked
Sinclair, who wanted some one to confirm his own
impressions.

"It looks like MacAllister," replied Boville.  "Yes,
it is MacAllister.  I can see him plainly now that she
has swung to starboard.  I wonder what is bringing
him back to Formosa."

"Lord, what shall I do to entertain him? ... I
haven't a thing to eat fit to offer a white man....
'Pon my soul, I haven't!" spluttered De Vaux.

Sinclair and the consul glanced at each other
understandingly, and the latter said:

"Make your mind easy about that, De Vaux.  With
your permission I shall be glad to entertain
Mr. MacAllister.  I have a little foreign chow left.  My wife
will probably have sent some more by this boat."

With tears of joy, shrill cries of welcome, and
exclamations of thankfulness the natives received their
pastor.

No less gladly, but hiding their feelings under jest
and laughter, the Britons welcomed their countrymen.
In the midst of the handshaking Beauchamp said:

"Mr. MacAllister, you will be my guest this time.
Come away up to the consulate."

With a brief word or two in an undertone to Sinclair,
the consul led his guest away.  After a cheery
laugh and an exchange of banter with McLeod, the
doctor climbed the steep hill with MacKay and his
converts to the former's house.

Twenty minutes later he looked from the verandah
and saw the consul and Mr. MacAllister coming.  The
latter's face was pale as death.  He was stooping
forward and trembling as if with palsy.  But he was
covering the ground with such strides that the consul,
in spite of his agility, was almost running to keep
pace with him.  As he drew near the verandah the
father broke into a run, and his trembling hands
caught Sinclair's:

"May I see him, doctor?  May I see him?"

"Yes.  He's expecting you."

"God bless you, Dr. Sinclair!  God bless you!"

As the door of the room swung open the man on
the bed raised himself on his elbow and uttered one
word in Gaelic:

"Athair!" (Father).

"My son!  My son, Allister!  My son!  My son!"

The father was on his knees beside the bed, holding
the great worn frame of his boy in his arms.  The
son's arms were around the father's neck.  They were
kissing each other, were crooning to each other in the
Gaelic.  All the passion and the tenderness of the
Celtic nature was being poured forth, unrestrained.
The love of this man of business and his soldier son
was like the love of a man for a woman, and of a
woman for a man.

Half an hour later Sinclair and MacKay gently
opened the door.  They were anxious about the
strength of the wounded man.  The father was still
on his knees by the bed.  The son's arms were still
around his neck.  The father's voice was being lifted
up to God in prayer, still in the language of his native
hills.  It was not a prayer of petition, but of
thankfulness.  And the words they heard were these:

"'For this my son was dead, and is alive again.
He was lost and is found.'"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`REJECTED`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XXXVIII


.. class:: center large bold

   REJECTED

.. vspace:: 2

MacKay and Sinclair were sitting in the
former's study.  It was the first moment they
had found in which to discuss their own
plans and prospects.

"Dr. Sinclair," said MacKay, "you remember my
prophecy about the way the Church at home would
treat me, because I ordained those two native
preachers."

"Yes, I remember."

"Read that."

He handed Sinclair a letter.  It was from an old
official of the Church.  In dry, formal words he
recounted the misdemeanours and errors of which
MacKay was guilty in that "you did arrogate unto
yourself and usurp the functions of a Presbytery, and did,
by the laying on of your hands, without the presence
and without the authority of a Presbytery, ordain or
pretend to ordain to the office of the holy ministry
two native preachers: to wit, one A Hoa and one
Tan He."

After having recounted the pains and penalties
which the heinous offence might incur, the letter
closed with the consolation that, in view of his past
services and his zeal which had outrun his discretion,
the General Assembly would be petitioned to
condone his offence, and it might be pleased to grant
the prayer of the petition, on condition that he would
promise that it would never happen again.  This
promise, it was trusted, would be forthcoming by
return mail.

When he finished reading Sinclair sat in silence for
some moments, looking straight at MacKay.  Then
he burst out:

"The old fossil!  Has he no imagination?  Has he
no knowledge of conditions here?  Has he no
common sense to apply to an uncommon situation?"

"It looks like that," replied MacKay.  "But
perhaps it is not all his fault.  He has never seen
any Christian work except that in a congregation
of decent Ontario farmers, or in a city church
composed of the hereditary good.  He has never been any
place where cut-and-dried Presbyterian rules could
not be applied as easily as a straight edge to a plane
surface."

"A mere animated edition of Rules and Forms of
Procedure."

"Yes."

"But did you not explain to him the exceptional
situation, demanding exceptional treatment?"

"Yes.  I explained it very fully."

"And could the old dry-as-dust not understand?
Could he not understand that at the time you did
this you were likely to die within twelve hours?  Could
he not understand that, if you had died and you had
left no one to take the lead, all this work, this Church
you have builded, was likely to go to smash before
they could get another man capable of carrying it on?
Could he not understand that?"

"No, he could not understand.  And if he could,
the total destruction of the native Church would be
nothing as compared with the calamity of having
broken a rule framed for the Church in Canada, but
not in China."

"A case of man's being made for the rules, and
not the rules for man."

"Exactly."

"I suppose he can't help it.  He has been reared
in a groove.  He lives in a groove.  He will die in
a groove.  And if he gets to heaven it will be through
a groove fenced in by rules and precedents."

"If you like to put it that way."

"But will you submit to it?  Will you promise to
be good and not to do this wicked thing any more?"

"Yes."

"I don't think I would."

"If I didn't, I'd be suspended and have to give up
my work.  I would submit to nearly anything rather
than leave these people.  They are my children in
the Lord."

Sinclair made no reply.  He was seeing more
deeply than ever into the secret springs of the life
of this stern prophet of North Formosa.  He had not
wondered at his bearing hardship, at his facing
danger, at his seeming almost to court death.  That was
what was to be expected of one of his nature.  But
when he saw this fiery Celt meekly submit to the
rebukes of small and ignorant men, in order that
he might be permitted by their ill-grace to go on with
his work, he began to fathom the depth of his love
for the dark-skinned people of his island home.

Presently MacKay spoke:

"I have another letter which touches you more
closely.  It is the reply to my request that you should
be appointed a medical missionary.  Do you care to
read it?  Here it is."

Sinclair took it and read.  It had evidently not
been written until after the Church at home had
received word of MacKay's recovery from his
serious illness.  It opened with some very conventional
and perfunctory expressions of thanksgiving to the
Almighty for having "spared the life of His devoted
servant and restored him to such a large measure of
health."

Then it proceeded to deal with the application for
Sinclair's appointment as a missionary.  It was
"contrary to the usage of the Committee to appoint a man
who had not put in his application in regular form.
The Committee also preferred that the candidate for
appointment should appear in person before it, that its
members might be satisfied as to his fitness.  Doubtless
Dr. Sinclair was all that Dr. MacKay represented him
to be.  But the Committee felt that it would be unwise
to rely on Dr. MacKay's judgment in the matter,
especially in view of some recent regrettable occurrences....

"The Committee was very particular that its missionaries
should be men of deep spirituality, spending
much time in prayer, characterized by meekness and
humility, filled with love for the natives, ready to
make sacrifices and endure hardships in order that the
Kingdom of God might be established on the earth.
The Committee regretted that it could not accept
without reserve Dr. MacKay's judgment of the
candidate's fitness, especially in view of recent events....
If Dr. Sinclair really desired appointment, he must
return to Canada and appear in person before the
Committee...."

As he proceeded Sinclair's face was a study.  When
he had read a page or more of this epistle he stopped,
glanced at MacKay, then turned to the last page, and
looked at the signature:

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

   "Your brother in the Lord,
       "THADDÆUS CORNELIUS McGUFFIN."

.. vspace:: 2

"Thaddæeus Cornelius McGuffin," he repeated.
"Who in the world is that?  I thought that I knew
most of the Church officials at home.  But I never
heard of him.  Who is he?"

"A young clerk who has been appointed to help
the convener of the Committee.  A sort of office
assistant."

"And does he dare to write to you like that?"

"You see for yourself."

"The gall of him!  What does he know of the qualities
needed in a missionary?  Has he ever been in the
foreign field?"

"Never been nearer to it than the suburbs of Toronto."

"He talks about sacrifice and enduring hardships.
What has he sacrificed?  What hardships has he
borne?"

"To the best of my knowledge he has never sacrificed
a meal of victuals or a night's rest.  But these
are the men who talk most glibly of self-sacrifice.  As
for hardships, I think the greatest he has ever known
has been to ride down to the office in a Toronto
street car."

"That's bad enough," laughed Sinclair, whose
good-humour was returning as the absurdity of this
office-hand's high and mighty attitude towards the
veteran missionary grew upon him.  "But tell me,
Dr. MacKay," he continued, "what would they do
with me if I did go home and appear before the
Committee?"

"They would ask you a number of harmless questions
about your disposition and temper, and your
submissiveness to authority, your religious experience,
devotional practices, and habits of study—the
whole lasting perhaps fifteen minutes."

"And do they imagine that they would learn more
of me by that than you could testify of me after
having seen me among the natives for the last nine
months?"

"Evidently!  Especially as my judgment is not to
be trusted since some recent events."

"And for that fifteen-minute interview they would
expect me to travel ten thousand miles?"

"Yes."

"Then I'm not going.  I shall not submit myself
to the inquisition of Thaddaeus Cornelius McGuffin."

"I am very glad."

Sinclair looked at MacKay with surprise and
question in his eyes.

"I am very glad that you will not go.  You would
not be appointed if you did."

"How do you know?"

"Read the rest of the letter."

"You tell me the substance of it.  Life's too
short to spend so much time reading McGuffin's
effusions."

"Your sins have found you out."  MacKay's face
showed a gleam of grim humour as he spoke.  "You
are not spiritual.  You were accustomed to spend only
fifteen or twenty minutes in your morning devotions
instead of a full hour as required by McGuffin's
standards.  You are not meek.  You once thrashed a rough
who insulted a lady on the street instead of sweetly
reasoning with him.  Then you took him to the
hospital to recover from the thrashing.  You are not
sound.  It is whispered that you said that you didn't
think Moses wrote the account of his own funeral in
the Book of Deuteronomy."

As Sinclair listened to this epitome of McGuffin's
catalogue of his shortcomings he went off into peals
of laughter, in which MacKay joined.  The inner
nature of the quiet, reserved man had come out in the
intimacies of a rare friendship.

"Do they think that I would corrupt the morals
of the heathen?" Sinclair inquired as he recovered
himself.

"Apparently.  Perhaps you would batter your
heresies into them with your fists."

"What would McGuffin have thought if he had
seen me at Sin-tiam or where the Hakkas were trying
to cut the head off poor young MacAllister?"

"He wouldn't have seen you.  He would have
swooned away."

"Well, I suppose it is all off with me so far as
being a missionary under my own Church is
concerned."

"I am afraid that it is.  I had set my heart on it.
We could have done so much together.  You have won
the hearts of the natives in a wonderful way.  I could
have left the medical work all to you.  You would
have done great good.  But it is an unrealized dream.
I am disappointed.  But I am not discouraged.  I am
accustomed to disappointments.  I meet them often.
But discouraged?  Never!"

Sinclair gripped MacKay's hand in his powerful grasp:

"I am glad to have known you, MacKay.  It has
done me good."

"And I, you.  But we'll say no more of that.  What
are you going to do?  Have you anything in view?"

"Nothing.  But something will always turn up
for a doctor.  I'll find work somewhere, where the
sins of my past are not known."

Just then there was a whoop outside.  Then another
and another.  Then the sound of a heavy footfall in a
war-dance on the verandah.

"That's Gorman!" exclaimed Sinclair.  "What is
the matter with him?"

He sprang to the door, followed by McKay.
There was Gorman, executing the wildest kind of a
dance, bringing his feet down with a vigour which
threatened to split the tiles of the verandah, and all
the time waving a letter over his head to the
accompaniment of wild yells:

"Whoop!  Docther!  Hurroosh!  Be the blissin'
of the saints!  Whoop!  Me mother-in-law's gone to
glory.  Hurroosh!"

"Dead!" exclaimed Sinclair.  "When did it happen?"

"Six weeks ago, be the blissin' of hiven!  Whoop!
Won't the angels be havin' a divil of a time wid her
now!  Hurroosh!  That's always the way wid her.
The first month she's p'aceful as a suckin' lamb wid
its twinklin' tail.  Thin she cuts loose, an' be the
middle of the second she bates Banagher.  She'll jist
have hit her gait be now.  Begorra but they'll jist be
wonderin' what they've got!  Whoop!  An' now me
wife an' childer for me, an' a quiet loife!  Hurroosh!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A REALIZED DREAM`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XXXIX


.. class:: center large bold

   A REALIZED DREAM

.. vspace:: 2

"Dr. Sinclair, I owe you an apology.  I
have a letter for you which I neglected to
deliver.  I was so selfish in my gladness
yesterday that I forgot that I had this for you."

Sinclair rose from where he sat beside his patient
on the broad verandah and received from Mr. MacAllister
the letter.  It was addressed in the same
hand as a little note he had carried in an inner pocket
until it was worn to fragments.  In spite of his efforts
at self-control, the hot blood rushed to his face.  The
keen grey eyes had a humorous twinkle.

"I shall keep Allister company for a while.  When
you are ready, I should like to have a few minutes' talk
with you."

"Thank you, I'll be back shortly," was all Sinclair
could say as he hurried to his room.

It had been a bitter disappointment to him the day
before, when the *Hailoong's* mail was distributed,
that there was not so much as a note from Hong-Kong
for him.  All through that long, lonesome winter he
had centred his anticipations around that first mail.
Now it had come.  There were other letters for him.
But there were none from Hong-Kong.  It was not
till then that he realized how much Jessie MacAllister
had been in his thoughts and how blank life would be
without her.

But, with the stoicism which lay hidden under the
easy good-humour of his surface temperament, he
said nothing of his disappointment, even to McLeod,
and went about his duties outwardly as cheerful as
usual.  He did not know how many letters in the
same handwriting were lying at Swatow and Amoy
and Foochow, awaiting an opportunity of transmission
to the blockaded Formosan coast.  He did not
know of this letter, sent by her father's hand, that it
might be safely delivered.

That letter was sufficient reward for all his waiting
and disappointment.  It was so tender, so trusting, so
full of longing for his coming.  Words which had
refused to leave her tongue during those few brief
hours of intercourse after their mutual confessions
flowed easily from her pen.  Again the wonder came
to him that this girl who wrote to him with such
confidence and laid bare her heart to him should be the
same as she who had flouted him on the deck of the
*Hailoong* only a few short months before.  He had
to read the letter again and again and look yet once
more at the signature—"Jessie MacAllister," to be
sure.

There was another thought.  Her father must know
and be satisfied.  That gave him no little comfort.

But with this he suddenly remembered that he had
promised Mr. MacAllister to be back shortly.  He
had no idea how long he had spent reading that
letter.  He sprang to his feet and hurried out to the
verandah, where MacKay had joined the father and
son.  At his apology for being longer than he had
expected there came again the little twinkle in the
grey eyes and the quiet reply:

"No apologies are necessary.  I, too, have not found
the time long."

It did not entirely remove Sinclair's embarrassment.
But the business man went on in a serious tone:

"Dr. Sinclair, I am informed by Dr. MacKay that
your Church has refused to appoint you a medical
missionary."

"Yes, Mr. MacAllister, they have rejected me.
They do not consider that I am sufficiently devout
or sufficiently orthodox to be trusted to heal the
heathen."

"Yes!  Yes!  I understand.  I have seen a
lot of this in the church.  There is a wrong
standard.  A devotion and spirituality which is
too deep and real to be wordy is rejected, and
that shallow, spurious kind which vents itself in
talk is accepted.  A man who says nothing but
sacrifices himself is given second place, and he who does
nothing but talk of self-sacrifice is put first.  They
are less concerned about orthodoxy of life than they
are about orthodoxy of creed.  But a better day is
coming.  These things will right themselves by and
by.  In the meantime you want work, do you not?"

"I certainly do."

"There is a scheme I wish to lay before you.  God
has just given me the greatest joy of my life.  My
son, my Allister, has been restored to me.  I want to
establish some permanent memorial of my gratitude,
something which will be of use and do good to men.
It was by a doctor that my son was saved from a
cruel death.  It was by a doctor and in a hospital that
he was nursed back to health.  It was by a doctor that
he has been restored to me, and will be restored to
his mother and sister.  It seems to me that I could
give no more fitting token of my thankfulness than
to erect and equip a hospital and ask that doctor to
take charge of it.  Dr. Sinclair, will you accept the
position?"

"Mr. MacAllister, such a position has been the
dream of my life.  I will accept it gladly."

"I thought you would.  Now as to the place.  Since
it was in North Formosa my son's life was saved, it
would be appropriate that in North Formosa the
hospital should be built.  And there I intended to build
it and present it to the mission of the Canadian
Church.  But, since your Church has refused your
application on what are to me entirely insufficient
grounds, the hospital will be erected in Hong-Kong
and presented to one of the missions there.  In all
probability you will be able to do as great, or even
a greater, work there than here.  Would you be
agreeable to that?"

"Quite.  I had hoped to be able to work under the
Church in which I was trained from childhood.  But,
since it has rejected me, it is a matter of indifference
to me under what board I labour, so long as I am
doing the duty set before me.  But there is one
request I wish to make."

"What is it?"

"I wish to take Sergeant Gorman with me as chief
of the staff of male nurses and attendants, whether
native or foreign.  As you know, he is a Roman
Catholic, and some narrow-minded people may make
objections."

"There will be no objections.  It will be stipulated
in the deed of gift."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE COWARD`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XL


.. class:: center large bold

   THE COWARD

.. vspace:: 2

April had passed.  The first week of May had
come, the hot May of the tropics.  Yet there
was a sweetness, a certain morning freshness
about it.  On her second trip after the blockade the
*Hailoong* had borne back to Hong-Kong a little group
of passengers.  They were Mr. MacAllister, his son,
and Dr. Sinclair.

Sergeant Gorman, who had returned to Amoy to
his family by the previous voyage of the boat, joined
them at that port and accompanied them to Hong-Kong.
As he expressed it to McLeod, he wanted
"jist to be in at the finish; jist to see the docther
fix bayonets an' take the fort wid one gallant
charge, an' see that spalpeen of a Carteret scattered
an' runnin' for cover in total rout and confushun."

Towards midnight the *Hailoong* slipped into port.
There were few about and no guests in the rotunda
or corridors of the hotel to whom it was necessary for
Mr. MacAllister to introduce the young men by whom
he was accompanied.

In the reunion which followed Mrs. MacAllister
forgot for the time her opposition to the friendship
between her daughter and Sinclair.  Her gratitude
for his rescue of her son was deep and sincere.  With
all the warmth of her Highland nature she thanked
him, till he blushed painfully and showed an
embarrassment under praise which he had never manifested
in the most trying moments of the ridicule he had
suffered when they were first acquainted.

The next day passed like a dream to Sinclair.
Father and mother were constantly with their long-lost
son.  Sinclair and Miss MacAllister were left much
to themselves.  In some way during those seven months
of separation they had grown acquainted with one
another.  That sacred and never-to-be-forgotten hour
in which they had confessed their love had found them
almost strangers.  It had been as one kneels to a
sovereign that he had knelt before her and gave her hand
the kiss of homage.  It was with the grave reverence
of a sacred rite that he had sealed their vows of love
by pressing his lips to hers.

But that was in the past now.  Seven months had
slowly worn away; seven months in which thoughts
had been busy.  And ever in the background of those
thoughts was the fact that they loved each other, and
had confessed their love, and neither had shrunk from
the other nor repelled a caress.  The passion, the
abandon of love had grown during those months of
waiting.  It knew that it would not be refused.

"Oh, Donald, I have been so weary for you, so
lonesome and weary!  I have dreamed of you out
there under the rains, among the wounded, and
facing the bullets....  Donald, I'm ashamed.  I know
that it wasn't brave.  But I couldn't help it.  Often
and often I cried myself to sleep."

Her face was tear-wet now as he lifted it to his.
But it was smiling through its tears.

"Jessie, it was the thought of you which kept me
up.  It was because of you that I stayed at work.
If it hadn't been for you, I might have given up
before the end came....  I might not have been there
when Allister fell."

She shuddered at the thought and pressed closer
to him.  But Allister was safe, and the suggestion of
what might have been now only served as a stimulus
to her love for the man to whom she had given her
heart before he had done that which was to bind her
to him by gratitude as well as by love.

But her mother was not yet ready to give up her
project of marrying her daughter to the Earl of
Lewesthorpe.  He was still the suitor she had
accepted, if her daughter had not.  She realized very
clearly that her daughter had no more inclination
towards him than when they came to Hong-Kong.
Indeed, it was the other way.  On more than one
occasion her aversion to him had been so manifest as
to cause comment.  But Mrs. MacAllister had resolved
to have her own way and gain her ambition.  Not
even gratitude to Dr. Sinclair for his inestimable
service could bend her will.

If because she was grateful she had allowed him
some liberty that day without her watchful presence,
she had intended that evening to make it perfectly
plain that Lord Lewesthorpe was the only one who
would be countenanced as an aspirant for her hand.
With her love for social events, and a touch of the
melodramatic, she had invited a very few very select
friends for the evening.  Most of them did not know
that she had a son.  None save those who had
accompanied him from Formosa knew that her son was
in Hong-Kong.

Of course Captain Whiteley and Mr. McLeod were
among the guests.  Her husband, son, and daughter
had insisted that Sergeant Gorman should be one of
the number.  Remembering that he had once told her
that he was the son of an Irish gentleman, she
consented.  Otherwise it was to be a surprise.

It was a surprise.  The guests arrived one by one
and were presented to Allister.  The last to come was
the lion of the evening.  Mrs. MacAllister greeted
him effusively and conducted him to where her
son sat in a great easy-chair, hidden by a group of
guests.

"Allister, my son, I want you to meet one of our
most intimate friends, a particular friend of your
sister, the friend of whom I spoke to you to-day, his
lordship, the Earl of Lewesthorpe."

Allister had risen to his feet.  The two young men
were facing each other in silence.  The young
aristocrat's dark countenance turned a ghastly yellow and
his jaw dropped.  Allister's pale cheeks had a flush
of burning red and his great dark eyes fairly blazed
with anger.

"Carteret!  The coward!" burst from his lips.
On the blanched faces of the guests wonder and
consternation were written.  But astonishment held
them dumb.  Before any of them could speak
Carteret's ready self-assurance returned.

"Lieutenant MacAllister," he said, "why not let
by-gones be by-gones?  We have both made mistakes.
We have both suffered.  These things belong to the
past.  Why not let them die, and start afresh?"

"If it were only the past, Carteret, I would let
them die.  But it is the present.  You were a coward
in the past.  You are a scoundrel now."

Sinclair stepped quickly to Allister's side, for he
saw that he was becoming dangerously excited.
Mrs. MacAllister awoke out of her paralysis of surprise
to cry:

"Allister!  Allister, my son!  What is the
meaning of this?  Has the fever come back on you?  Why
do you insult his lordship so?  What is the meaning
of this?"

"Mother," he said, "it is not fever.  It is cool fact.
That is the man who ragged me all through my
service in the Guards.  That is one of the men who
insulted me after Tel-el-Kebir.  He is the one who was
too much of a coward either to take a thrashing or
to fight, and Standish was shot.  That is the man
who has caused me to be an exile these nearly three
years, to suffer starvation and wounds under a
foreign flag.  Yet I could forgive all that, as I have
forgiven Standish.  But knowing that, and without your
knowing it, he has dared to speak love to my sister
and ask her hand in marriage.  I'll never forgive him
that.  Never!"

Drawing herself up to her full height, Mrs. MacAllister
turned on her lion.  Her raven black hair, her
flashing eyes, her high colour and large, strong frame
were the very embodiment of the fearless spirit of her
race:

"Lord Lewesthorpe, iss thiss true?"

"It is very apparent that I am not welcome here,"
he replied.  "With your permission, I'll retire."

"Bedad, an ye'd betther, ye cowardly spalpeen!"

Gorman had made one quick step forward, with the
evident intention of helping him to retire, when
Sinclair's iron grasp closed on his shoulder.

"You're right, docther; I was forgettin' meself."

That was the only departure Gorman made that
evening from the strictest rules of the conduct to be
expected of the son of an Irish gentleman.  And
perhaps it wasn't a departure, either, but the most
characteristic act of all.  In any case, he saw "that
spalpeen of a Carteret scattered an' runnin' for cover
in total rout an' confushun."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`"GOOD WILL TOWARD MEN"`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XLI


.. class:: center large bold

   "GOOD WILL TOWARD MEN"

.. vspace:: 2

It was Christmas Day.  Not Christmas Day of the
North, with its clear frosty air, its robe of
virgin snow, its furs, its prancing horses, and tinkling
sleigh-bells.  It was Christmas Day in the tropics,
with a summer sky and summer sun, with roses blooming
and rich tropical plants spreading their huge leaves
and casting a grateful shade in the botanical gardens.
A slight breeze from the northeast tempered the
warmth.

It was a high day in Hong-Kong.  In the early
forenoon services had been held and the age-old song
had been sung.

   |  "Glory to God in the highest,
   |  And on earth peace, good will toward men."
   |

At high noon in the Union Church, where men of
many creeds worshipped in harmony, Dr. Donald
Sinclair and Miss Jessie MacAllister were married with
simple, yet solemn, rites.  The ceremony passed
without unusual incident, save that Constance Beauchamp
just missed kissing the groom before he had time
to kiss the bride.  And when they turned to pass out
of the church Sergeant Gorman, in a stage whisper,
said to McLeod:

"Be all the saints above, McLeod, if the angels in
glory look anny purtier than thim two, glory's no place
for you an' me."

In the afternoon the Allister Thanksgiving
Hospital was formally opened by the governor of the
colony, and in the name of Him who came to heal
men's diseases it was dedicated to the work of
healing the diseases of men.

When the notables had dispersed to talk of the
merchant prince's munificent gift, when the guard of
honour had marched back to the barracks, and the music
of the bands had died away, a few who had special
interest in the work, or had come from far to be
present on that day, still strolled through the long,
cool corridors, the well-furnished wards, and the high,
centre-lighted operating-room.  Consul Beauchamp
and his family and Dr. MacKay had come from Formosa
to be present.  They stood with the donor, his
wife, and son.

"This must be a great satisfaction to you,
Mr. MacAllister," the consul said.

"Yes, Mr. Beauchamp.  I never before knew as I
know now that the pleasure of wealth is not in
making or keeping money, but in giving it away.  What
do you think, Dr. MacKay?"

"I was not thinking of that.  I was thinking of my
little hospital with its poor equipment and its need
of a doctor to take charge.  I am not covetous.  But
I cannot help thinking that this hospital and the
doctor who is at the head of it might have been in North
Formosa, where it is needed even more than in
Hong-Kong.  But there was no vision, and my people must
suffer."

And when that hospital became not only a centre
of healing but developed a medical college in
connection with it, when the doctor at the head of it grew
to be such an authority on tropical diseases that he
was called to England to be dean of a great school
of tropical medicine, when he received honours from
medical colleges and societies the world over and a
knighthood at the hands of his sovereign, those who
knew him often thought of the day when he was
refused appointment as a medical missionary in the
little North Formosa Mission.  And they wondered.

But Dr. Sinclair was not thinking of that then.  He
had been showing his bride the great building her
father had erected, for she had arrived from England
only the evening before and had not found an
opportunity to see it.  Together they walked on the deep,
cool upper verandah and looked out over the glorious
prospect of city and harbour, mountain and sea.  Side
by side they stood under one of its arches, her hand
resting lightly in his.

"It is all so fairy-like," he said, "that even yet I
can scarcely persuade myself that it is not a dream."

"It is a dream, Donald, the loveliest dream one
could wish.  But what is best about it is that it is a
dream of delight which does not vanish with one's
waking."

"To me the strangest thought of all is the way it
was brought about.  I left home not knowing where
I was going, with only a vague idea that I might find
a place to do good somewhere.  I have been given an
appointment beyond my fondest imaginings.  What
is more than all beside, I have been given you."

Behind the lattice-work which sheltered one end
of the verandah from the rays of the sun and from
the gaze of the inquisitive, her head rested on his
shoulder, her lips were lifted to his.

"Donald," she said softly, "my story is even
stranger than yours.  I came to the East with little
thought of anything but pleasure; with little purpose
in life, and no ambition to do good.  I have been
given a brother and a husband, love and a life to live.
I did not deserve it.  What does it mean?"

"It means that there is a hand shaping our destinies,
giving us a work to do, showing us a path to
tread.  Are we willing to follow the leading of that
hand, Jessie?"

"Yes, Donald."

The measured step of drilled men sounded on the
steep gravelled road below.  Sergeant Gorman and a
squad of the ambulance corps he had already trained
were bearing an injured man to the door.  Arm in
arm Dr. Sinclair and his bride walked down to see the
first patient borne in.  In a few moments more his
wedding coat was thrown off, his operator's apron and
sleeves slipped on, and Sinclair was at work.

Thus without fuss or delay, refusing to be excused
even by the festivities of the marriage-day, the
Life-Healer and the fair woman who had been willing to
blend her destiny with his together entered on their
life-long labour of Good Will Toward Men.

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   PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.

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