The Call of the East: A Romance of Far Formosa - Thurlow Fraser

Cover art

They came over the last bluff (See page [186].)

THE
CALL OF THE EAST

A ROMANCE OF FAR FORMOSA

THURLOW FRASER

Illustrated

TORONTO
WILLIAM BRIGGS

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

FOREWORD

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.

T. F.
OWEN SOUND, ONT.

CONTENTS

[Storm Signals]
[A Lull]
[The Typhoon]
[Parried]
[Introductions]
[On the Defensive]
[Sparring for Advantage]
[Sinclair's Opportunity]
[A Quiet Life]
[Glorious War]
[The Life-Healer Is Come]
[Matutinal Confidences]
[More Confidences]
[The Appeal of the Heroic]
[The Lure Of The East]
[Sergeant Whatisname]
[Wolves and Their Prey]
[To the Rescue]
[Allister]
[The Infallible Experts]
[The Language of Song]
[Halcyon Days]
[Impending Storms]
[The Ball Begins]
[The Ball Proceeds]
[A Game of Ball]
[The Charge of the Tamsui Blues]
[Unholy Confessors]
[Flags of Truce]
[The Mystery of Love]
[Ancestors and Pedigrees]
[A Man and a Woman]
[My Children in the Lord]
[The Soldier of the Legion]
[The Language of Paradise]
[An Apparition]
["My Son! My Son!"]
[Rejected]
[A Realized Dream]
[The Coward]
["Good Will Toward Men"]

ILLUSTRATIONS

[They came over the last bluff] . . . . . . Frontispiece

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

[A yell from one of the Chinese attracted the attention of Sinclair and Gorman]

["I'll be thinking of you, Donald, and you'll be thinking of me"]

STORM SIGNALS

"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.

A LULL

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."

III

THE TYPHOON

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."

* * * * *

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."

PARRIED

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:

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

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

"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."

INTRODUCTIONS

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."

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

"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.

ON THE DEFENSIVE

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.

VII

SPARRING FOR ADVANTAGE

"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.

VIII

SINCLAIR'S OPPORTUNITY

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:

"CHINESE CAMP, LOAN-LOAN, NEAR KEELUNG,

"Aug. 5th, 1884.

"DEAR DR. SINCLAIR:

"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?

"Yours,

"G. L. MACKAY."

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."

* * * * *

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:

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

"DEAR DR. SINCLAIR:

"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.

"Wishing you a safe and speedy return, I am,

"Your obedient servant,

"H. R. L. BEAUCHAMP."

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:

"HER BRITANNIC MAJESTY'S CONSULATE,

"TAMSUI, August 6th, 1884.

"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.

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

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.

A QUIET LIFE

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."

GLORIOUS WAR

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.

THE LIFE-HEALER IS COME

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

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.

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

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.

XII

MATUTINAL CONFIDENCES

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."

XIII

MORE CONFIDENCES

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."

XIV

THE APPEAL OF THE HEROIC

"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."