FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN.

Evening Star, Issue 11610, 21 June 1902, Page 2

FLOWER-O'-THE-CORN.

BY S. R. CROCKETT.

CHAPTER V. THK ROAD TO IvKLTC XHILIj. “ And now, Billy,” said the waggoner abruptly, dropping the manner and speech of Pierre Dubois and assuming those of Captain Maurice Raith, “ how came you here? I left you a corporal in the Cameronians. I find you a ragged deserter, about to be kidnapped and pressed into the service of the enemy. Pray, explain yourself. Corporal William Marshall. You deserve to be had out and shot, so far as I can sec!” , By this time they had raised the mural front of the Causae de Larzac and could look away across it towards the long lines of .imeslone crags which rose sharp as VauVsyi's fortifications out of the level tableland. The evening was falling swiftly, the rose and orange roues sinking into the V-shaped angles of the valleys they were leaving behind them. It was Maurice's first night in the true Ccvcnnes. Billy Marshall replied in the broad Galloway speech which a dozen years of desultory military service, had not overlaid even with English oaths or the slightest knowledge of the language of any of the countries in which be had campaigned. " Maister Raith.” he said, “ye hae done a giud turn to Billy Marshall this day, jin’ deil tak’ him and hrenn him in reid pit-fire gin he forgets it. Bet, do yc hear that?” “ I hear, William,” said his lady. She was seated hu'ilv preparing a fowl for the pot. which she had found straying upon the road, and had nipped up beneath her apron without permitting the moribund to emit even a cry of surprise K was for this erntt (among other merits) that Billy, her husband, graciou.-ly permitted Bet to accompany him upon his marches and campaigns. "Well, heed, then,” said Billy, soundly, “ye think of might but. your belly. Bet. But Billy Marshall, o' the. guid clrncken toun o’ Kirkcudbright, i- nac mainnerless landlouper, but a wed-kenned man wi’ a trade o’ his aia, whilk is juist the. makkin’ o' horn i panes. Na. na, an honest welldoin’ man is Billy, and as niindfu’ o’ ither fowk’s months as he is o’ his ain!” " »Jot on with your laic. Marshall,” interrupted Maurice Raith, “ 1 have heard nothing yet to prove that you are not the deserter I tliought you at first I” “Ami what for no should I no be oot on juist sic a tree hit qnict job as your ain. Captain,” insinuated tho gipsy, shrewdly. " Ye arc no here for your health, as yin niieht say. I con id guess as miickle a« that by the aid o' the hit, heid piece that the Auldmicbty has gi'en me!" What I am doing here does not immediately concern you," said t,he disguised officer. ” I have saved you from the drill-sergeants of King Louis. I want to be sure before you and [ go further whether I shall have to deliver you to the halter of the Queen's provost marshall” The g'psy gave vent to a low chuckle. “ It's easy seen that ye are no a richt Galloway man, Captain,” he said, “na, na—the grundftither o’ ye cam' frae Nithside wi’ thae wearv Maxwells, that had nae bus ness to meddle wi’ Gallows’ ava’. Or ye wad ken that no for a’ the bangin’ provosts and cornels in the ainnics o’ »’ the Queens and Emperors and siclike in Kirsendon, wad Billy Marshall miss Keltonbill Fair. fsae, said I to Gomel Grier o’ the sax-and-twentieth, says I, ye ken Billy, sir, an’ that if he doesna get leave to gang to Keltonhill Fair, he will tak’ leeve and syne be hancit for his pains! Noo, Cornel, yon an’ me are nae ill friends, gie me the leevc. an’ let Bet an’ me bo gann. I’se be back in time, to fecht the French wi’ the best o’ them ! And the Cornel, him kenrin’ me an’ me kennin’ him, bade me drive aboot my business and taf Bet wi’ me. But he garred me swear on the pros ed born-spune« that I wad bo bock to him in three months’ time. An’ sae •will T gin the soles o’ my feet dirma wear oot on the mad!” “ But,” said Maurice Raith. who knew the Colonel of the Cameronians, and recognised that the tale was worthy of credit, “ in that ca.se what are ye doin’ here on a mountain in the very middle of France, instead of heeding for Antwerp to get a luiat for Leith?” The gipsy looked at him cunningly and laid a broad grimy finger on a broad and grimv nose. “Is it no possible that ye may hae your reasons and that I may hae mv* reasons,” lie said, quickly, “there’s a to the south as wee! as to the north

of France. And the shortest cut is whyles the langest travel.” With which collection of proverbial lore Maurice had for the time to bo perforce content. By this time the horses were tborougldy wearied.* The long ascent of the Causae had tried them severely, and it became necessary to rest them either at the first wayside inn which presented itself, or to make their camp on the open face, of the desert. They were, however, so close to the disturbed regions that the utmost care was necessary. Maurice Raith took out a small case of arms which he had enn- | ningly concealed in the sacking under the fir t waggon. The eyes of the gipsy glittered at the sight. “I hae naething but this gully-knife,” he said, *' an’ faith, a pistol or tw» doesna come wrung whiles in this ootlandlsh country !” He strapped the satchel of powder and shot carefully about his waist, under bis tattered blue blouse with chuckles of unconcealed satisfaction. “ Faith na." he said. “ I hacna carriet as muck’e guid pootber and lead since I wrdcvl Boyne Water at the tail o’ gud King Wullie! And if yer honor liaes the like for Bet there, I’se uphaud that she will rnak’ every hit a# guid a use o’t as cither yon or me.” “Mind,” said Maurice Raith, “none of your caird tricks here! Ye are no on the Corse or Slake-, you and Bet. nor yet on the Engleh drove road ayont Carlisle. Te are to threaten none, take no man’s purse, put no wayfarer in fear. You are to consider yourself under my orders as much as if you were in the camp of My Lord Marlborough himself. And more, in word and deed, ye are to treat me as Pierre Dubois, the waggoner of Roche-a-Bayard and Hoo. who has picked you up on*the way. and is likely to make a monstrous had bargain of you.” Ayi. aye. I’m heatin’ ye!” said Billy the gip-y with the deep * inward sullenntss uf 'he race of Egypt when they feel tin ■meclves coerced without remedy.

“l’av attention then,'* said Maurice Raith. “nr mavbe ye have heard of the C ird o' Gir-phain? That was hangit for a ebucky her. and a dozen eggs, mair nor half o’ (hem eloekitt! Oh tho in-

equity o' it “ A tine heart some able-bodied man, too. at le,i.n so they tell me!” struck in Bet, with a suggestion of the Irish keen in her voice.

"Even -o.“ -aid Maurice Raith. “and His Giveo mF Mnrlh rough standing by to sec that tlie knot ran true up to the left side of bis ear. So take your warning. Billy and Bet 1" With this he strode off to test the halters and heel rops of his horses. For the true r<>ussenenls, Canusard and Cadets of the Cross alike were famous horse stealers, and every stable in the limestone country had two doors, one which opened outward ami the other inward, and that in spite of the drawn bolts and shot, bars. So Maurice Raith, till he should find himself safe in the camp of the Catnisard leaders, preferred to stable his horses at the sign of La Belle Etoile, and guard them himself with his pistols upon his knees »»»*••»• It was a night short and beneficent, that whose shallow swept ho swiftly eastward toward the sun over the middle southlands of the Cevennea. Down in the valley ot the Tarn, fairest of the glens of France, the nightingales had never ceased singing, but the chll spread far up among the fantastic peaks of the Dourbie, and here, out of the hoary scalp of the Lame, the frost bit bone-deep. Maurice wrapped bis cloak closely about bun. and sat sleepless, listening to the voices of the night, sometimes a* ripple and singing rustle as of leaves and distant waters in that -waterless and treeless land, sometimes the cry of the fanvamlered lamb seeking its mother over the waste; or the hawking cry of the small scop? owl. quartering the, ground in quest of field mice and great horned beetles. Rut as he sat there motionless Maurice had time to think and was grateful. It ■was almost the first time he had been able to do so wiflh an easy m ; nd since he left the camp of the allies‘before Namur. He had dealt severoiv with Billy Mar hall, as he told himself, for the good of Iris gipsy soul, but it was an infinite relief to have even his company amid inch dangers. For he knew the good qualities of the sometime corporal of Cameronians. his courage, fidelity, and strength, bis unswerving purpose, and readv resource in time of danger. Maurice resolved that Billy should not see Keltonhill Fan- this year if possible, but bide with him upon the perilous tableland of the Cevennes if money or love conld keep him there. The stars swung silently overhead, describing their longer or shorter circles

around the Pole star, and Maurice continued to look into the grey indefinite waste of nothingness. His mind went l>ack involuntarily to the glowing virion he had seen among the com that day above the Meuse —the light girlish figure, the lips astonishingly red, ‘the eyes hitler than the skies, at once sapphire-dark and diamond-bright Would he ever see her again ? Sometimes it seemed little matter whether or no

reception of him had not been promising. In addition ’to which he, Maurice Raith, at the outset of his career, could ill afford to “taigle” himself with weemen, as his aunt Devargill would have said. At this he smiled, for his quick imagination overpassed in a moment both courtship and marriage, and lo! he was bringing home a bride to the old grey towers of C'stlo Raith on its island in the Raith Water. He saw his aunt arrayed in her Sunday best, snell, intolerant, east-windy, lamb-soft, wag standing on the steps to welcome his wife and himself, a ravpas of rowan berries jelly nr.der her tongue, and all the milk of human kindness unspent in the bosom where no child of her own had ever lain, perhaps that it might cherish all such as were motherless and forlorn and desolate — even as Maurice Raith had been since his own mother’s death. Strangely enough in this Imagination of the heart no thought of his lather crossed his mind.

For i< long time the vision diverted him. He smiled continuously. He could hear his aunt scolding him for “ bringin’ the hit lassie oot- on siccaii a day—-she declared that hj« “deserved to hae his logs dandit!”—and bow for the smallest possible monetary consideration, she, Devargill Ra th, would attend to the matter herself—thv wind was enough to perish the hit thing, bringin’ a bairn that was dootless used to far ither things to an auld breken-doon, dump, rickle-o’-stanes, raair fit to be a den o' cockatrices an? ravenin’ wild bcaits than a decent cumceiled house to bring a young lady intil. Maurice Raith had got so far with his vision when ne laughed aloud. It struck him suddenly that he had overlooked one thing, somewhat essential. He had neglected to provide a bride. Moreover he could imagine none clearly.

As when one tries to recall the features of one very dear newly gone from us, so even as he looked, the face of the bride by his side, always misty, inddenly became dim, and then vanished altogether. His aunt he still saw m vision sharp and clear, as well as the old grey towers of Raith, the deep amber pools of the Raith Water, but the bride whrm he had brought home to her own waxed suddenly dim and vague, end a voice ’seemed to speak from very far away: “Go back and sec that My Lord’.-, letter? are prettily copied or you will be whipped!” Then it was that. Maurice Raith slept. The waking dream had sunk into the clear cool mist* of sleep, blue and buoyant, whereon ho was upborne as sweetly as on pillows of the viewless air. The solid towers of Castle Raith melted like pillars of cloud. Only his aunt Devargill stood imminent above, threatening him with uplifted forefinger not to taigle himscl’ wi weemen.”

Well, Maurice. Raith knew someone who could not be called a woman, with the lea,st regard that is, to the meaning of the words. What then ought this bride to be called ?

Why, Flower-o’-the-Com, of course. And as he slept be dreamedy and as he dreamed he smiled. (To be continued.