A Galahad of the Creeks; The Widow Lamport. S. Levett Yeats

country properly. If you won't face them, there are some Havanas--made of cabbage leaves probably."

      "Thanks," said Jackson, "but I am afraid I am not yet blooded sufficiently for a Burman cheroot. I shall move up to the height by easy stages, and, if you will permit me, will stick to the Havanas, which I am sure you libel."

      "They are better for the nerves, at any rate," replied Hawkshawe, and Jackson noted how the flaring, sputtering vesta he lighted trembled in the policeman's hand as he held it to the cheroot. For the true enjoyment of tobacco there must be silence and repose. Although Jackson was utterly unable to attack a yard of poison, such as Hawkshawe was smoking, he knew how to enjoy a cigar, and the Havana was very good. The little incident of the curtain and the silken robe came into his mind again, and he caught himself getting curious about it. Hawkshawe was smoking nervously with quick, short puffs; he continually took the cheroot out of his mouth and rolled it between his fingers, apparently to make the rank leaf draw easier, and assisted his tobacco with short nips of old brandy--a thing which was not good to see. Jackson made no attempt to speak, and they smoked without a word being exchanged until the silence was apparently too much for the policeman, and he suddenly asked, "I suppose you like your new house?"

      "Very much indeed. You were right in saying that Drage did himself well. It is very nearly perfect."

      "Do you know what became of his impedimenta?"

      Jackson understood the question, and flushed with anger. He controlled himself, however, and answered shortly: "No; those are matters about which I am not in the least concerned, nor do I think any one else should be."

      "Don't you?" said Hawkshawe--his potations had evidently loosened his tongue--"don't you? Well, it will force itself on you some day. You shy at it now. We all did--I did--Thomson, Perkins, Drage did--and yet you see we are as we are. We have found that the cycle of Cathay is better than the fifty years of Europe."

      "And you call yourselves rulers of men! Why should you go down to the level of the brute if you happen to live near him?"

      "Don't know, my dear fellow, except that one gets to like, or like the brute after a time. Why, man," and Hawkshawe rose and began to pace the room, "what have we got to live for in this infernal country? You rot here--rot, I say--and your mind and your body both go to ooze and slime. Books! One can't read in this climate. The blue mould covers them up, as it has covered me, and as it will cover you and many a better man yet, and you will be as I am." Hawkshawe filled his glass and drank to the dregs. It seemed as if he were toasting the success of his hideous prophecy. "And you will be as I am!" The words hit Jackson like a life sentence. He looked at the man before him, at the promise in the high aquiline features and still, clear eyes, and then he saw the little crowsfeet round the eyelids, the puffy cheeks and trembling hands, and shuddered. No! It would never come to that with him. But a dread rose in his heart. What, after all, if he was wrong in his thoughts of his strength? Hawkshawe looked to him with a strange light in his eyes. "Come," he said, "let me show you what it is like."

      It was evident that Hawkshawe was determined, with a half-drunken persistence, to continue a subject that was more than unpleasant to his guest, and there was only one course open to Jackson, and that was to get away as quietly as possible. "I don't think I will venture," he replied, "and, at the risk of offending you, I must ask you to excuse me for to-night. One always has a lot to do on first coming to a place, and I am no exception to the rule. No, not any more, thank you, to-night; but I will have another of those cheroots, if I may."

      "I suppose if wilful will, then wilful must, but you are losing a new experience," said Hawkshawe, as he accompanied his guest to the door. He there found that Peregrine was going to walk home. "Let me order my trap for you, or a pony, if you prefer to ride?" he asked.

      "No, thanks, Hawkshawe; there is a bright moon, and I know my way perfectly. I go to plan the suppression of Bah Hmoay. Goodnight!"

      The hard gravel crunched under his firm footsteps as he walked down the drive. Hawkshawe stood looking after him. "He knows his way, he says. I wish I knew mine. Mr. Peregrine Jackson strikes me as rather a cold-blooded prig. I never could stand that sort of fellow--no," and, as if to keep his heart up, he sang:

      "Pass the bowl, the merry, merry bowl,

      Let it brim with good red wine.

      I have pledged my soul

      To the merry, merry bowl,

      And the ruby light of wine."

      He trolled out the verse in a rich baritone as he walked upstairs and entered his drawing-room. Taking up a book, he flung himself into the same long chair he had so hospitably pressed on Jackson earlier in the evening. He glanced over the leaves for a few moments; but the effort to read was beyond him, and putting down the volume he stared moodily into space. He had done this for years. Every evening, except when he was on active service--and he was keen enough then--he had drunk more than was good for him, and sat drearily through an hour or so before going to sleep. Ordinarily he did not think at all on such occasions; but somehow Jackson's attitude had impressed itself on him, and he was feeling nervous and depressed. There was that also which brought a hot flush of shame to his forehead, for he had lied to his guest when he had expressed his inability to bring Bah Hmoay, the dacoit priest, to justice. It would all come out some day, and then he, Hawkshawe, would be cast adrift on the river of shame. "D--n!" he hissed between his teeth, and buried his hot face between his hands.

      The curtain before a door that led to an inner room was lifted, and a figure entered the room. It was that of a woman dressed in the national costume of Burma, which is so adapted to conceal as well as reveal the figure. Taller than ordinary, she had a face and form of imperial beauty, and as she stood there, looking at the bowed head before her, it was possible to understand Hawkshawe when he said that for himself he had chosen the cycle of Cathay. She crossed the room with light steps, and, laying her hand on his shoulder, asked in Burmese, "What is the matter? Are you ill?"

      Jackson had touched a lost chord in Hawkshawe's memory, and the murmurs of the white past were sighing in his ears. He raised his head wearily, and drooped it again. "No, Ma Mie, not ill in body but sick at heart."

      She looked at him, and, untutored savage as she was, she understood, and, stooping suddenly, kissed him with a fierce little pressure. "Hawkshawe," she said, "I have news for you--good news. Look up, my husband!"

CHAPTER III.

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FATHER FRAGRANCE LIMES A TWIG.

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      Ruys.--I care for naught but gold. Gold holds the keys of this strong earth, and I Am earthy, of its mould. That unseen thing, The crown of glory, lies beyond the stars; I know it not. … Give me my gold.

      Maraffa, a Tragedy.

      A broad streak of yellow water is drowsing toward the sea, and lies hedged in to the right and to the left by the most luxuriant vegetation. Here teak and mango, palm and bamboo grow side by side, and are laced together by the octopus arms of the cobweb of creepers that spreads over the forest and tries in vain to bind down its splendid growth. There is hardly any sign of animal life, although the forests teem with it. Occasionally the great woodpecker or a flight of green paroquets flash like emeralds through the patches of sunshine between the leaves, or the melancholy cry of a mule pheasant echoes dismally through the woods. Yet although no beast and hardly a bird may be seen, this void is filled by the ever-present abundance of insects, for here is their paradise. It is true that those grotesque specimens of creation which, like the sons of Belial, wander forth at night, are reserving themselves in a million cracks and crannies for the pleasures of the evening; but the gnat and mosquito are on the alert, and the fly is here on his path of annoyance. Through