For Love of a Bedouin Maid

"I wonder what would have happened," he said half aloud, "if I had never left Napoleon."

He sighed again, then began slowly moving to the house.

A noise of shouting in the distance made him check his steps. He listened; the sound came nearer, and still nearer. Then, besides the shouting, he could distinguish the clattering of horses' hoofs and the pattering of running feet. Plainly, men mounted and on foot were hurrying along the high road in chase of somebody or something. And now a cry fell on his ear, that took him back to the bygone days—to France.

"A moi, mes amis; à moi, au secours!"

Without a moment's hesitation, St. Just dashed down the carriage way in the direction of the sounds. When he reached the gates, he saw an emaciated figure, panting and exhausted, running down the road; and, about a hundred yards behind the fugitive, some dragoons, with an officer at their head. The officer was waving his sword and shouting, "Stop him, stop him, in the king's name. He is a French prisoner escaped from Lewes." Some laborers in the neighborhood were following the dragoons. Other villagers hearing the noise, came up from the opposite direction with lanterns, to see what it was about.

Thus hemmed in, the hunted creature had no chance of escape. Seeing this, he would have given up the attempt and quietly submitted to re-capture; when St. Just, knowing, or rather guessing, that those who were pursuing him knew no French, shouted to him, "A moi, pour France."

The fugitive dashed on, and fell palpitating at St. Just's feet.

"The very man I sought," he gasped. "Take it." And St. Just felt a small, but weighty, parcel thrust into his hands, under cover of the darkness. To save the man from capture was impossible, for the soldiers were close upon him; and St. Just had only time to conceal the packet, when the commander of the dragoons rode up, a few yards in advance of his men. The fugitive had scrambled to his feet.

"Caught, you French rascal," exclaimed the officer, striking at him with the flat of his sword. The man bent to dodge the blow, and then, before anyone could divine his purpose, he made a dash at the holster before the saddle, and seized one of the officer's pistols. In an instant he had fired.

His aim was true. The officer swayed in his saddle, bent forward, then rolled off his horse to the ground, shot through the heart. But, before this had happened, there was another explosion. The assassin had raised the pistol to his head and fired the second barrel. He dropped to the ground and lay huddled up beside his victim. At the same moment, the foremost trooper rode up and dismounted to examine the body of his officer. He was stone dead.

The villagers crowded round the other man. He moved slightly. St. Just bent over him. The wounded Frenchman murmured the words, "May the good God forgive my sin;" then a shiver passed through his frame and he was dead. St. Just examined the man's features by the lantern's light, and was shocked to recognize in them Tremeau, the man of whom he and his wife had but now been talking.

The other soldiers had now come up, and the sergeant dismounted and proceeded to search the body. There was nothing on him, but the rags that covered him.

The sergeant scratched his head and seemed perplexed. How to remove two bodies on the high road with no proper means of transport, and whither he should take them, required deliberation.

He was considerably relieved, accordingly, when a short, broadset man, with gray whiskers and a florid face, and dressed like a country gentleman, came up. He had half a dozen greyhounds with him. The villagers made way for him and touched their caps respectfully.

"It is the squire, a magistrate," St. Just muttered to the Sergeant; "He will see to this business."

"Hullo! neighbors, what's the matter?" asked the squire.

He spoke in a sharp, jerky manner, with a strong Sussex intonation. Provincialisms were more marked then, than in these railroad days.

St. Just who had been the nearest witness to the tragedy, told the magistrate what had occurred, omitting however, the fact of Tremeau's having handed him the packet, for no one had seen the transfer.

"The damnable villain!" was the squire's comment, when St. Just had finished. "Thank God, we have done with these murderous French at last. Boney has been so soundly thrashed, that he will never work more mischief." Which showed that the squire did not excel in prophecy. But the villagers held the same opinion. "You're right there, Squire; we've done with Boney at last, but he's took a deal of doing," assented one, who seemed to take the lead. The others sent up a little cheer, but the grim sergeant only nodded.

"Take both bodies to the Hall," the Squire resumed. "I will communicate with the coroner; the inquest can be held there. You, Mons. St. Just, will, of course, attend it. And you, Sergeant."

St. Just assented, then wished the Squire good-evening and withdrew. He was anxious to put the packet in a place of safety for future examination, when he should be alone; for now, he expected his wife to come out every moment, to inquire the meaning of the disturbance; she must have heard the shots.

When he reached his study, he took the packet from his pocket and examined the outside. It was stitched up in a sleeve of French Guardsman's coat, and greatly to his surprise, he found it was addressed to himself.

"Major St. Just England."

Then it really had been meant for him. How fortunate that he had happened to be on the spot. He had supposed, naturally, that it concerned Colonel Tremeau, or some friend of his, and that he himself had been intended only as a messenger for its delivery.

He locked it up in his escritoire, and then went to seek his wife.

Later, another surprise awaited him, for, at the inquest, he discovered that the murdered officer was that very Captain Anson who, ten years before, had driven with him, a prisoner, along that same road, when on his way, unknowingly, to Trafalgar.

CHAPTER II

It was late the same night, or, to be precise, at an early hour—long before day-break—on the following morning, before St. Just found an opportunity of examining the packet that had so strangely reached his hands; for Halima was never fond of retiring early for the night. But, at last, she went to bed, and then St. Just betook himself to the room he called his own.

It was a cozy, pleasant room, and, at this time, a cheering fire was blazing in the grate. As he glanced around, his eye fell on the various familiar objects gathered in his journeyings and associated with his profession. Over the mantelpiece was the sword that he had worn in Egypt; while, in a small glass case below it, was the little reddish yellow brick of gold that he and Halima had picked up by the lake, beneath which had lain the subterranean city. In the bookcase on his right were three calf-bound volumes found at Moscow in the ruins of the Kremlin. Two of these were stamped with Napoleon's arms, the third displayed the Imperial arms of Russia.

He glanced at these and other memorials of his travels; then, with a sigh for what he might have done and been, but for his infatuation for the dark-eyed beauty who controlled him, he stepped to the escritoire and took out the packet.

Then a curious hesitation came upon him: a sort of fear of the news it might contain. He turned the packet about in his hands, his fingers trembling, and again carefully scrutinized the address. He did not recognize the writing and tried to think out the writer's personality.

At last he murmured, "Why do I hesitate? Why do I fear, I who have thrice braved Napoleon's wrath, and remained unscathed? Pshaw! I can have nothing to fear, so here goes."

And, with a hand that shook, for all the bravery of his words, he took a pair of scissors from the table and cut the stitches that secured the wrapper.

On removing this, what first met his gaze was a small packet carefully secured in oilskin. It was sealed with a seal that made his heart beat faster, and brought the tears to his eyes; for in the impression he recognized the cipher of the Empress Josephine.

This packet was addressed:

"S. M. I. L'Empereur Napoleon."

St. Just laid it down and took up a second package, heavier and bulkier than the first. This was addressed to himself and was in Josephine's handwriting.

"To Major St. Just, Greeting and Farewell."

This, also, he laid down, but with a sigh. He would open it when he had satisfied himself as to the remaining contents of the parcel. They were two pieces of English newspaper covered with manuscripts in French. Translated, the words ran as follows:

"A word from the lips of Charles Tremeau, formerly Colonel of the Imperial Guard, written with all sincerity at the House at Lewes to Mons. St. Just.

"Sir, knowing that my life, since I was so badly wounded in the fight at Vittoria in Spain, can be but of short duration, I hasten to send to you—if by any chance it can be sent—the enclosed packet, which was handed to me by the Empress Josephine, with instructions to forward it to you, in order that you might warn the Emperor of the dangers threatening him. It was meant to reach you last year, when you were in Paris. I pray you lose no time, when this and the enclosures find you. I have to ask your forgiveness for a breach of trust I now confess.

"Thinking that the papers entrusted to me by the Empress might implicate you and her in the Emperor's estimation, and thus make capital for myself, I opened the packet and made myself master of its contents. Hardly had I done so when I was forced to flee from Paris on account of Fouché, who was seeking me, and into whose clutches I had no mind to fall. Accordingly, I bargained for a passage to England with one Slade, of Brighton, a Sussex fisherman, then in the Port of Havre. Unfortunately for me, when we landed, he was arrested by the Custom House officers as a smuggler, and I with him. We were marched off to Lewes jail, where we have been incarcerated for the past two months. Alas! alas! most bitterly I repent my folly and dishonorable conduct.

"At my wife's instance, I took copies of these papers and sent them to the English Government, hoping they would set me free. This was a month ago, and I have heard nothing. Perhaps they have deposited them among their Archives, labeled as the wanderings of a lunatic! If so, the worse for them, but it is right that you should know what I have done; then you will be on your guard.

"It only remains for me to charge you to deliver the enclosed papers—they are the originals from the Empress—to the Emperor at Elba.

"This is written in the hope that I may find the means for it to reach you.

(Signed) C. Tremeau,

Chef de bataillon."

Below was added later:

"An opportunity for escape presents itself, or so we hope. To-morrow, all being well, I shall deliver these in person. Slade and I have arranged to escape together. We shall separate outside the jail and meet afterwards at his house near the village of Brighton. I give his address below, in case aught should befall me after I have seen you. Should this be so, explain my absence. Use him as you think well. He knows all and may be trusted.

"T."

Then followed Slade's address.

In much bewilderment, St. Just put down the papers; then, carefully, actuated by his affection, he took up the packet addressed to him in Josephine's handwriting. On opening it, the first thing that met his eyes was the sword-hilt he had given her at Fontainebleau, five years before. To it was attached a slip of paper with these words on it:

"In my hour of agony I found you a friend. Again I call on you, by the memory of this sword-hilt, to befriend me. I rely on your fidelity to deliver the accompanying packet to the Emperor, my husband, for so do I always regard him in my heart. So, go to him, my faithful and well-beloved friend, so soon as you receive this, I entreat you. Spare no trouble, lose no time, but go at once. You swore to help me, long ago, if ever you could; and I know you will. And now you can, for I count what you do for the Emperor as done for me. Then start, dear friend, on receipt of this, for the sake of France, for Napoleon's, above all, for the sake of her who signs herself, as she ever will,

"Josephine

"Empress Queen."

This letter from the dead hand of the Empress strongly moved St. Just. The tone of piteous entreaty that rang through it touched his heart, and her unswerving faith in him made a strong appeal alike to honor and affection. She did not know his grievance against Napoleon, when she asked him to assist the Emperor; therefore she was not to blame. And he—well, he would ignore it; for the time, at any rate.

"Adorable woman!" he exclaimed. "Faithful, trusting creature! And to think that I shall never see you more! All that is left me is to execute your behest. And I will; you shall not have trusted me in vain. Yes, this very day I'll start."

He glanced at his watch.

"Three. I can be at Brighton by four, if I ride sharply; and four hours later at Havre, with a favorable wind. I ought to reach the Emperor by the 13th or the 14th, at the latest. Yes, I must set out at once. Now to apprise Halima of my absence."

He seated himself at his writing table and, after pondering for a few moments, scribbled the following words:

"My dearest. Important business, the details of which I have not time to enter into now, calls me immediately to London. I will explain on my return.

"Yours, Henri."

This letter he addressed to her and laid on the table, where it would be sure to catch her eye, when she should come down in the morning. While doing so, a grim smile flitted across his face; he was thinking of Halima's rage when she should find that he had gone without consulting her. How she would stamp about and storm; would vent her spleen on the unhappy servants; they would have but a sorry time of it.

He went to the mantelpiece and took down his sword. "This sword," he murmured, "was first drawn in his service, and, if he require it, it shall be again."

He took up the packet for the Emperor, and placed it in his pocket. Then he picked up the Empress's letter to himself and re-read it. This done, he raised it to his lips and kissed it passionately. "I long to keep it in remembrance of her," he murmured, "but it is not safe."

He stepped up to the fire and threw it on the flames, and followed it with Tremeau's confession. He waited till both were shriveled into blackness; then left the room.

Pausing in the hall outside, he unhooked from a peg a riding cloak and a three-cornered hat. From a cabinet he took a pair of strong warm gloves and a brace of pistols, which he carefully loaded and put into his pocket. Then, as noiselessly as possible, he quitted the house by a side-door in the study, and made his way to the stables, which were close at hand.

Here he selected from a stall a suitable roadster, and saddled him with his own hands, not choosing to wake the grooms, who were sleeping soundly in the loft above. Then, he left the stable and proceeded down the avenue, leading the horse.

He had just mounted and was about to turn into the high road, when he received a check he had not bargained for. Barring his way, was a party of mounted men. There was sufficient light—for it was a clear, starlight night—for him to see that they were soldiers, and, by their uniform, hussars. While he was wondering what their presence could portend, a voice called out in peremptory tones, "Halt."

Clearly the words were addressed to him, for the others were already stationary. Desirous of concealing his identity, on the chance that they might be coming to arrest him—not that he was aware of having done anything to warrant it, but that his experience had made him apprehensive—he decided to pretend to be a groom; so, to the challenge he replied in broad Sussex dialect, "Who be you, Sirs, and what be you adoin' here? This here ain't a public road. If you want Shoreham, it's straight on to the right. Let me pass, please, Masters. I've got to ride for all I know for the doctor. My mistress is lying near on death, and master is watching beside her bed. Let me pass, sirs; it is a case of life and death!"

But the men made no attempt to stir, and the voice that had before challenged him called out, "Is not your master named St. Just?"

"Aye, that be's name," rejoined the pseudo-countryman. "Let me get through. I tell you my mistress is mortal bad, and I cannot stop for naught."

"Harkee, sirrah,"—the words came from a fresh voice—"your master is accused of conspiring against the King, and we have a warrant for his arrest. Lead us to him instantly, or it will be the worse for you." And the speaker moved his horse close up to St. Just.

There was something in the man's tone that seemed familiar to St. Just; he was confident he had heard the voice before. And, now that its owner had come alongside of him, he recognized him in an instant. He was Sir Henry Emerson, the man whose despatches he had purloined in the character of the Comte St. Clair.

Taught by the many perils he had passed through, he was generally prepared for an emergency, and never lost his presence of mind. On the present occasion, while the colloquy had been proceeding, he had been casting about for a plan of escape; and had decided on his course of action. Convinced that it was useless to parley farther—more than ever now that he had recognized Sir Henry Emerson—he slashed, with his riding whip, the King's Messenger across the face; then, suddenly wheeling round, he struck his spurs into his horse and leaped the fence that bordered one side of the avenue.

In making his jump, St. Just had been careful to select his spot. It so happened that, for some distance along the other side of the hedge, right down to the high road, the ground had been excavated for sandstone, for which that part of Sussex was celebrated. It was, therefore, full of pits, and anyone, jumping into them in the dark, must sustain serious injury, if not death. St. Just, however, knew the bearings well, and he had chosen the only spot on which one could alight with safety. It gave on to a grassy track that threaded its way between the various quarries and, after a long detour, came out eventually on to the high road, nearer Brighton.

St. Just's action had been so sudden that his would-be captors were thoroughly bewildered and, at first, could not conceive what had become of him. A moment ago he had been there; now he had disappeared. That was all that they were certain of. Sir Henry Emerson gave a yell of mingled pain and rage, and the officer and his men came round him to learn the cause of it. With a volley of curses, he explained. Meanwhile, the sound of horse's hoofs could be heard upon the turf, gradually growing fainter, until they were no longer audible. They knew nothing of the country, so to pursue the fugitive would be useless. Besides, in their opinion, he was not the man they wanted, and he could be dealt with when he came back with the doctor. So they proceeded slowly up the avenue towards the house, Sir Henry Emerson, with a red wheal across his face, cursing and swearing at every step.

Meanwhile St. Just was cantering along the grassy track, and, in due course, gained the lane which led to the high road. Here he breathed his horse for a minute or two, listening the while with pained intentness for the first sound of approaching horsemen: but not a footfall, either of horse or man, was to be heard. The stillness was almost absolute; not a whisper of animated life, or a breath of wind to stir the leafless trees. Once more he gave his horse the rein and quickly urged him to a gallop. Though, for the moment, he had escaped, his pursuers would quickly discover that the man who had slipped through their fingers was the very one they wanted, and would soon be after him. On he sped, sweeping across Sayre's Common as though the devil were at his heels; then, continuing with unabated speed, he gained the foot of Dale Hill, leading to Rye Coombe. Here he dismounted and once more strained his ears for the slightest sound that should import pursuit; but still the silence was profound. He ascended the hill on foot, walking briskly and leading his horse. At the top of the hill he remounted. It was now a level stretch to Brighton, and he made the most of it, thundering along the road at topmost speed, until within half a mile of Brighton; then he moderated his pace. Slade's house was in the outskirts of the village, as Brighton then was, and he pulled up at the fisherman's door, just when the clock of St. Nicholas' Church, not far distant, was chiming half past four.

A sharp knock, a few hurried words, and a little money, and the business was arranged.

One of John Slade's sons, Tommy, a bright-looking lad of two and twenty, who loved anything that savored of adventure, entered heart and soul into the "lark," as he mentally phrased it, and hailed with delight the proposal that he should ride back St. Just's horse to the Plough Inn at Rye Coombe. He was to don the Frenchman's hat and cloak, and he guaranteed to lead his pursuers a pretty race, if they should sight him.

When this matter had been arranged, St. Just disguised himself as a fisherman, and then he and the elder Slade walked quickly up the hill, at whose foot the cottage stood, and struck out for St. Nicholas' Church. Here they turned to the right and, after continuing for a short distance, knocked at the door of one of an isolated group of cottages, where lived the mate of the John Edward, as Slade's sloop was named—after himself.

Roused from his slumbers, and grumbling considerably thereat, Harry Wingfield was quickly told the reason. The sloop was to start, as rapidly as she could be got off, with the French gentleman for Havre or Fécamp, whichever port would be the easier to make.

They made their way down West Street for the shore.

"How is it the sloop comes to be moored here, instead of at Shoreham?" asked St. Just.

"Well, Sir, since father died, I've lived here. Wingfield here," and he jerked his thumb towards the mate, "know'd I'd be wantin' him middlin' early this morning for I'd sent him word. That's why he was so slippy in comin' down when we knocked. I've only just got from Lewes—given 'em the slip, you know—and, if not off pretty sharp, they'll have me. I meant to sail at five this mornin' just on the turn of the tide; so you're only just in time; a little later and I should have flown."

St. Just made a suitable reply, and, by this time, they had reached the bottom of the street. They shaped their way to the "Blockhouse"—or rather, the remains of it—that had been erected by Henry VIII to defend the coast. Below this lay the sloop. Borrowing a boat, they rowed quickly to her. The crew were on board, so the anchor was weighed instantly, the sails were set and the John Edward was headed for the coast of France.

CHAPTER III

The little sloop John Edward duly made the port of Havre.

Here Fortune smiled upon St. Just, for he learned that a ship was lying in the "roads" on the point of sailing for Naples, and that its captain was an old acquaintance, Captain Brenneau, aforetime commanding the La Flèche. So he started for the owner's office to engage a passage. He parted cordially from the smuggler-fisherman, for they had become very friendly on the passage, and St. Just had told him of his errand to Napoleon. Tremeau had said that Slade was to be trusted, and St. Just thought he would be interested in his movements. He had told him also of Tremeau's tragic end, at which the fisherman had been much affected; he and the French Colonel had seen much of one another in Lewes jail, and had escaped together.

In shaking hands with his late passenger and making him wince with the vigor of his grasp, Slade said heartily, "Good luck go with you, Sir; and, when you return to England, I hope you'll come and see me. No, no, Sir," when St. Just pressed money on him, "I won't take a penny off you. I didn't put to sea on your account, for I was bound to make myself scarce, till things had settled down a bit; and you're a friend of that there Tremeau, a decent chap I will say for a Frenchy."

And, with these farewell words ringing in his ears, and another grip of the honest fellow's hand, St. Just left him and went aboard L'aigle d'or (the Golden Eagle) where he found Captain Brenneau anxiously pacing the quarterdeck, watching the men hoisting in the stores.