THE Novelist

Otago Witness, Issue 4028, 26 May 1931, Page 6

THE Novelist

THE FOREST RANGER

By

BEN BOLT.

(Copybight. —Fob the Otago Witness.)

CHAPTER XVin. For a moment after the girl’s greeting , Grenville was silent with consternation, whilst it flashed through his mind that here was some maid from one of the farms who had stolen forth to meet her soldier-lover. With the girl’s arms — about him the situation was embarrassing, and was made more so when she set her mouth to his in a silent kiss. At any other time he would have laughed and given her kiss for kiss before she discovered her mistake, but now peril marched with confusion, and every | second doubled the danger. He tried to release himself, and whispered in her ear: “ My dear, I am not your ” He ' broke off sharply. ' Steps were coming round the windmill, and someone was whistling the air of “ Malbrouck.” Here, he thought, comes the true lover, and he felt the girl start, then her eyes searched his face. “ Who she began in an amazed whisper, as her arms dropped from him. “ Not your Anton,” he said quickly. “ But we will not let him know that you kissed the wrong man, hey? No! He might not understand. Bon soir, my dear.” He slipped away in the darkness, reached the turn nearest the cliff, and paused to reconnoitre. As he did so he heard a man laugh joyously, and caught the sound of a kiss that was none the less warm for the one that had preceded it. He laughed silently as he thought to himself that the girl had sense, and delivered from the threat of sudden peril, continued on his way, blessing the darkness of the night. He had little difficulty in avoiding the sentry, and none in finding the gap leading down to the water, but he found the descent tricky in the darkness, and thrice, when small stones that he had set rolling made what seemed to him portentous sounds in the night, he stood waiting for the challenge or shot of the sentry, who, he was sure, must have heard. But no challenge came, and in a little time he stood by the water. After resting a moment he searched for the canoe which he and Simon had hidden. He breathed more freely when he found it undisturbed, and without delay he carried it to the water, set it afloat, and, stepping into it, made his way down river, working as well as he could towards the Levis shore, and in something like an hour he made General Monckton’s camp, at Levis Point. There he had great good fortune, for scarcely had the officer of the guard heard his name, when he hurried forward to greet him.

“ We have one here who will be glad to see you, major, for your coming brings him guineas.” “ Who? ” asked Grenville. “ Major Mackellar. He dined here tonight with General Wolfe, and there was talk of your enterprise at the dinner table. Monckton swore that it was a piece of madness, since none could make those cliffs and pass the guard at the windmill of Sillery, and Mackellar wagered him twenty guineas that, barring your being blown up by our guns, you would be back tomorrow night. But I fancy he will be pleased to see you for other reasons than his wager. He is in his tent, a-bed, but he will be glad to be wakened from his dreams. If you will wait a moment.” The officer disappeared, to return a few minutes later. “ Major Mackellar is delighted at your return, Major Grenville. He would like to see you at once.” Grenville followed the officer to the major’s tent. Mackellar had slipped a greatcoat over his night attire, and was already pouring out wine for his guest. “ You will need that, I daresay, Grenville, if you have come from Quebec tonight.” Grenville drank the wine gratefully, and the engineer pushed the bottle towards him. “You made the climb up the cliffs?” he asked eagerly “Yes! And down again.” “ Tell me all about it, what is it like $ the chances of any body of men being able to make the ascent. The truth is, Grenville, we’re stuck here like terriers barking at a hole where the fox “has gone to earth. Montcalm is our fox—and won’t come out, and why the devil he should I don’t know. He won’t move, and we can’t reach him. We can batter the city—and that is all, and here’s winter hurrying on us. In six weeks the fleet will have to go—and -the army too, or we shall be frozen in-—and going means failure, whilst wintering means disaster. . *. . You comprehend? And this goat-track of yours by the Anse du

Foulon is our solitary hope. So give me all particulars, and your honest opinion—I’ll have the opinion first, if you please.”

Grenville did not hurry over his reply, on which, as' he realised, hung the life and death of thousands of men and the fate of an empire. He considered carefully. Once more in imagination he climbed the narrow way that 'was to be made famous; went over each obstacle; each awkward turn; the chances of bging discovered by the guard; then he took a long breath. “By Heaven! ” he said hoarsely. “It could be done. Given a dark night, a feint elsewhere to mislead Montcalm, a swift and quietly-moving advance party to seize the windmill and prevent any alarm being given—it could be done, and the Plains of Maitre Abraham were made for a pitched battle.” Mackellar laughed sharply. “Man, you put guts in one! . . . I’ve talked with Stobo Since you went—you know him! ” “ Slightly. He was a hostage in the city, wasn’t he ? ” . “ Yes. From Fort Dequesne. After Braddock’s defeat the French found in the general’s baggage some plans sent by Stobo. They meant to hang him for that, but he got away. He knows that cursed escarpment over there from Montmorenci right up the river to Cap Rouge, and he vows that the Anse du Foulon is the only practical ascent . . . The general looked at it to-day. I saw his eyes. He has said nothing, but he is more than half-resolved . . . Your word will clinch the business, and he will turn the whole of us into acrobats. . . . Now describe to me this catamountain road.”

He listened carefuly -whilst Grenville gave minute details, and at the end he laughed. “ When you have told that to our general there will be no hope for us. We shall have to climb—Hannibal it over our alps. Take another glass, my friend, and I’ll give you a toast. . . . Our Wolfe! Good hunting when he takes the mountain road. . . And now to bed, for you’ll interview high powers come daylight.” It befell as Major - Pat Mackellar said. Hearing Grenville’s account, the genius of Wolfe decided to attempt the impossible.

“ Nature and that old fox Montcalm have closed all other ways, Major Grenville,” he sais, his hand shaking with I weakness as he traced bn the map the I path up the cliff. “ And there’s but this spider’s road to our heaven. You shall lead us there.” Here there is no need to describe the series of movements that the strategical flair of Wolfe almost instantly set going to deceive Montcalm. There were feints here, feints there, movements of warships up river and down river, sudden cannonading now at this point, now at that, all confusing and perturbing to the great soldier who watched every movement from his aerie at Beauport; and every’hour grew more anxious. So apprehensive indeed did he become, so certain of some great offensive by his young opponent, that whenthe night of fate fell, not having had his clothes off for a whole- fortnight, he remained at' his quarters booted and spurred, his sable charger at the door, saddled ready for the road; and all the time uncertain of the road that he must take when he should mount —to ride hell-for-leather the last far ride on that black horse of death.

Away at Point Levis the British batteries thundered more fiercely than ever in all the siege. In the basin the guns of Adiniral Saunders’ ships made hellish night in Quebec. But up the river, off Cap Rouge, on the ships where a British army was packed like herrings, a great hush prevailed; and officers and men waited with mounting excitement the wopd of a man indomitable in sickness, and with the presage of death within him—the word that w - as to loose one of the great adventures of time. With them on the Sutherland, where the general himself was, John Grenville waited, his eyes turned down river, whence came the rumbling thunder of the distant guns, his thoughts on a girl in that city against which that fierce cannonading was directed. "Heaven shield her,” he prayed, with a thought that on the morrow the thun-

dering peril would end; and in the very moment of his prayer, saw in the ifftcr darkness of the night a single lantern gleam on the mainmast of the wa. . ~ “ The signal! ” he cried whisperingly to a friend near by. “ The signal! ” Sixteen hundred men dropped silently into the rowboats; and there waited. A long time passed; hours as it seemed to Grenville, then a naval lieutenant in

the boat in which he waited whispered hoarsely: “God. . . . The tide has turned! ” Almost on the instant a second lantern flashed like a star at the Sutherland’s truck. “ The starting pistol. . . . By the Mass, we’re off! ” Grenville’s boat cast off, and head of the great flotilla drifted down river with the tide, under the deep shade of the great escarpment which the men in her were to scale. Without sound of rowlock or splash of paddle, that long procession of boats and ships bearing an army drifted shadow-like, no man speaking louder than a whisper; orders passed from boat to boat in the same hushed way. Looking back on the long silent line, visible only by reason of the lightness of the water which had the dull gleam 6f a mirror at night, Grenville had a thought that here -was an army of shades ferrying the Styx on the last adventure. A sharp challenge ashore broke on his reflections. “Qui va la?” It came from a French post, and was half-expeeted. Grenville instantly reponded with the prepared answer. “ Friends of France. Provision-boats for his Excellency, General Montcalm! ” Such boats nightly slipped down the river, and the answer was no doubt a common one in the sentry’s ears. Would he notice that here was a convoy that would have fed a province? Breathlessly Grenville waited for the reply—an age it seemed; a few seconds at most. Then the answer came. “ Pass friends of France.” Lower down by the batteries of Samos there was a second challenge, with the same answer; and they passed on. Oars were out now’ driving the boats with the tide, and soon they swept round a headland, and Grenville’s boat led the way to the narrow beach of the Anse du Foulon. Instantly as they disembarked, their boat, and each emptied boat in turn, hurried away to bring soldiers from the ships and those of the 46th who had been concentrated on the Levis shore. Grenville stood with Captain Howe and the chosen few who were to

lead the way and take the guard at the windmill. He indicated the path in whispers to the men, then Howe and he took the way together. To Grenville the path seemed steeper than when he had last climbed it, the turns in it more awkward; the surface less sure. Ghost-like they climbed up; then a stone moved under some man’s foot and went rattling down the hillside —a noise, as it seemed to the climbers, sufficient to wake the dead. “ Halt! ”

In a whisper the word was passed down the toiling line. Nothing happened. Belike the sentry above was deaf or more likely sound asleep, in either case the rattle had passed him, and Grenville and his companions drew easy breath again. There -were other incidents—a snapping bush; a man who stumbled noisily; but the worst befell halfway up. Pushing on, Grenville came suddenly upon an obstacle which lifted itself as high as his head. He felt with his hands, and found timber, earth, and stones. “ Perdition! ” whispered his companion. “ The path is blocked. We shall have to clear ” “ No! ” said Grenville sharply. “ Pass the word to climb past it. Others can clear it. We must secure the post at the top.” The word was given, and they climbed round the obstacle, followed by the men. There was another block further up which was skirted also, and* since they were now near the top they stood to listen. From below* came hushed sounds of movement made by clambering men, the occasional thud of a musket-butt, the rattlb of bayonet or sabre, a rasp of boots on rock, for in their impatience the gallant soldiers were leaving the crowded path and climbing the face of the cliff. But above was silence-, no hint of movement, nothing visible against the lightening skyline which indicated that morning was at hand. Reassured, they took the last lap. The grey light gleamed on musket and bayonet, and gave sweating, strained faces a haggard look as they cleared the top and saw in front of them a handful of tents and beyond them the windmill. Grenville could have shouted for joy as Captain Howe silently gathered his chosen men on the summit, and then out of one of the tents came a yawning soldier in shirt and breeches. His yawn stopped halfway, and the last slumber went from his eyes as he saw the little

handful of men in front of him. He was a man without valour, and not made for great deeds. He let out a yell and began to run towards the windmill. Others of his comrades came tumbling out of the tents, muskets in hand. They fired a ragged volley and ran, with Howe’s men at their heels. Cheers brpke from the men just mounting the summit, rolled down the escarpment to the shore, and re-echoed there, reached the soldiers on the ships, and from their rolled across the water to the impatient 46th embarking from the Levis shore. And on the summit in the greying light Howe shouted to Grenville : “Glory! . . . We’ve done it! See how - our fellows come! ” The blocks in the path had been cleared, and up it men crowded, eagerly thrusting each other forward. But it was too narrow to accommodate an army, and too strait for their ardour. They came over the rocks, up the cliff face, topping the bastion which had been deemed impregnable, gasping, swearing, laughing—an indomitable host that was not to be denied. Buzzing like swarming wasps they came on. Where one man discovered a new precarious way up the cliffs hundreds followed, and to Grenville watching the heads come over the crest it seemed that the deeps below were belching men. By six o’clock an army stood upon the plateau having mounted by a way that had been deemed impossible. By that also, all the French posts along the escarpment were in English hands, and Montcalm, miles away in his entrenched lines at Beauport, hearing the incredible news, was mounting the horse that had waited saddled through the autumn night, to ride to the city in a desperate attempt to retrieve a lost situation. Three hours later, when the French army had poured through the gates, with a glass that he had borrowed from Pat Mackellar, Grenville saw Montcalm riding along the lines. He watched him for a little time —a brave figure, and an honourable and gallant soldier, who had struggled vainly against inefficiency and gross corruption in high places. Then

others caught his eyes. There was a movement away to the left; and from the bushes and the cornfields opened a galling fire, to which the British lying down in their ranks returned not a shot. Watching closely, Grenville saw Indians there with coureur-de-bois engaged in the old backwoods game of firing from cover upon a foe in the open. Then he beheld a man moving to and fro«, directing these savage skirmishers, and recognised him instantly—Raoul de Terry. He tried to keep the man in sight, with one thought in his mind. When the battle joined he would meet the scoundrel in direct combat and slay him. De Terry, however, disappeared, but the raking fire continued; proof to Grenville’s mind that he was still there, though withdrawn from observation. The slight rain which had been falling ceased. Gleams of a watery sun broke through the clouds, making a flicker on the distant bayonets of New* France. There were signs of movement there—half a mile away. The white lines were in motion. It seemed that they were advancing. Behind him Grenville heard a man cry in hoarse excitement. “By the powers! They’re coming! ” They were. A wave of excitement ran along the triple British line, which, each soldier’s musket with two bullets, had lain so long without firing a shot. At a word the red lines of men rose to their 'feet to meet the onset.

Montcalm’s legions rolled on like a wave, the white uniforms with their coloured facings making a brave sight, their bayonets flickering under the breaking clouds. They fired as they advanced, rapidly, a little wildly; but still with men falling in their ranks, the British stood, returning not a shot. “Curse it! How long?” muttered an officer near Grenville, impatient to be doing. Almost at the moment the word to advance was given, and the triple line of men moved forward to meet the advancing foe. But still they did not fire. Looking down the line, Grenville saw General Wolfe binding his wrist with a , handkerchief and divined that he must, have suffered a wound. He was leading the Louisbourg Grenadiers marching to meet the firing lines of Montcalm, without having so far allowed his men to loose a shot. The distance betwen the lines lessened to seventy paces, Grenville calculated.

Sixty! Fifty! Would the word never be given? Men were dropping in the British ranks. He himself suffered a flesh wound in his left forearm. Had the General forgotten the men had muskets? Were they to take Quebec with claymore and bayonet alone? Forty-five paces! Forty Then the word came.

On the instant four thousand muskets, double-balled, spoke as one. The crash was tremendous, and the smoke blowing in front momentarily hid the foe. Steadily as at a firing-range the muskets were reloaded, and for a few seconds the rattle of thousands of ramrods drowned the sound of firing. A wind swept the smoke aside, revealing the white lines of Montcalm, broken in a hundred places, a ragged, wavering fringe of men, torn horribly by the terrific volley.- The word came again. With the same precision, and with almost the same deadly effect, the muskets were emptied once more, then came the order to charge.

A wild roaring cheer broke from four thousand throats as the triple line, held back so long, thundered forward. Grenville, who had been stationed on the left, and who had a thought of de Terry in his mind, was caught up in a surge of Fraser’s Highlanders, and carried forward, ahead of all the rest, their fierce slogan drowning all other sounds for his ears, the waving claymores, flickering for the bloody reaping, blinding him to all things else. There was room for no selection. It was hand to hand, almost knee to knee, a roaring press of men behind him, a stubborn foe in front. But the rush of the Highlanders broke the opposing ranks as if they had been paper. The claymores hewed terribly. A falling man threw Grenville from his feet. A'Highlander leaped over both of them; and as Grenville picked himself up, sword in hand, he found that Fraser’s men were all ahead of him, hewing, slashing, and roaring a s they slew. An officer in white unifoim ran towards him. They crossed swords and as they did so, away on his left, Grenville glimpsed Indians and coureurs-de-bois, still at their old wilderness game of firing without moving into the open. There was where he wanted to be, seeking one man; and the man before him was scarcely a foe, but a mere hindrance to be swept aside. He was a swordsman, however—and it was a little trouble to dispose of him, but in three minutes he went down, and with his blooded sword in his hand Grenville turned towards his left. Half a company of the Highlanders had swung aside to deal with the Indians and their friends the coureurs-de-bois. He ran to join them, reached them as they made the bushes. There were more Indians there than had appeared, and both they and the wood-«r runners were brave as cornered rats when they were caught. The combat became hand to hand again, clavmore against clubbed rifle or tomahawk, or dirk against scalping-knife when it came to the grapple. A man with a feathered head and painted face leaped from the bushes at Grenville, the clubbed rifle in his hand. He was no Huron as Grenville saw instantly, but a white man turned savage a hateful thing. He swung the rifle, but Grenville dodged it and ran him through.

Close by him a Highlander was fighting with two Indians, whilst a third, unseen of the soldier, crept up, tomahawk in hand. He ran forward, dealt with the stealthy one, and ranged himself with the Highlander. One of the Indians went down cloven almost in two, and the other fled. As he did so, the soldier laughed. "Great work, sir. How I hate these painted devils! ” In' the same moment Grenville glimpsed the man he sought. Sword in hand, he was with a dozen of his fellows who with clubbed muskets were meeting the attack of half that number of Highlanders. Exulting he ran towards him. De Terry saw him, and with a shout broke from the others to meet him, a fury of hate glowing in his eyes. “ Well met, English cur. Now you shall pay the bill.” - “With all the will in the world.” The swords clashed; and again they fought as they had fought in the snow by the fire in the city street months before with desperate purpose, each lusting to slay. Between thrust and stroke, feint and parry the coureur-de-bois voiced his hateful exultation. “ You think your Wolfe will take Quebec, hein ? ” “ I am sure of it! ” “Diable! You are pig-headed—”—• de Terry laughed as he spoke—“ you English! ” He countered a stroke of Grenville's, then gave a wicked laugh, “ But if you take the city, you will not take my wife.” “If you mean Diane ” “ The same sweet lady! ” “Liar! ”

“ You thought you had taken her from me. That was a clever trick of yours . . . at the cathedral.” He leapt back from a thrust and laughed. “I had not thought of it. . . . But you had to leave the lady behind. . . . Perdition* but that was a lucky shot of mine! ” “I shall kill you for it! ” Grenville pressed his attack, but for. bore to try a killing strike. His heart was hot with apprehension, and ha burned to know what had befallen since! he had left Diane at Widow Levin’s, To learn that it was worth while to' defer the moment of vengeance.

“Kill me!” the other laughed malifeiously. “ But that will not bring Diane to your arms. No! ” “ You have found her ? ” “Yes! And now she is beyond your finding.” “ You shall tell me where ”

Paging at the thought that some untoward thing had happened to Diane, Grenville attacked so fiercely that the coureur-de-bois gave ground sharply to save himself. "Doing so he backed into a fallen Indian and fell backward, his sword flying from his hand into the bushes. Grenville leaped forward and menaced him with the point. “Now you shall tell me, dog! ”

De Terry looked up coolly, and feneered. “ Kill me —and you will never know. Grenville glared at him. The man was cool. There was exultation in his eyes. It seemed that he was sincere in liis confidence, and yet “ I shall give you five seconds. Afterwards ” He put his point at the other s throat, and began to count, forgetful of the battle for an empire that was raging about them. ee Ono! . . . Two . x He go no further. A little eddy of conflict thrust itself between him and his purpose. Out of the bushes whirled a couple of roaring Highlanders beset by thrice their number of screeching Indians. They saw neither Grenville nor the coureur-de-bois, and blundered right over the latter. Grenville was forced to meet one of the Indians who threatened him with a broken musket which he was using as a club. For two or three minutes the struggle went on, back and forward over the fallen man, as the whole nine combatants whirled now here, now there. Grenville accounted for his Indian just as other Highlanders came hurrying to the help of their comrades. The Indians hoveled, Broke, and ran like deer, and when Grenville looked round his enemy was gone. Paging, careless of lurking peril, he heat the bushes for him. In vain, lav hm advantage of the opportunity afforded by the advent of the soldiers and Indians, de Terry had fled. Almost beside himself as he thought of the man s iibinrr words, he moved from the bushes to the open, and stared in the direction of the city, wondering if his enemy had gone that way. . The battle had become a headlong rout. In twenty infinites an empire had been lost and 'won. The French, utterly disorganised, wore crowding towards the city—a panic-stricken mob already glutting the gates, with the British in hot pursuit. After one glance he began to hurry forward. There was still a chance. No man not in the first flight of the fugitives could hope to pass, the walls for an hour or two, and it was possible that he might yet come on the man whom he burned to find. He found himself again among fighting men, not far from the bordering woods on the left, and in the confusion of new battle was aware of a hot fire that was being poured from the shelter of the trees. The firing increased, and became

deadly for the pursuers. An officer appeared, with orders that the woods were to be cleared by the Highlanders and Light Infantry. De Terry, he thought, .might have joined those men in the wood —Indians and wood-rangers for a certainty. With a hope that he might stumble on the man anew, he joined with the men who were to sweep the woods —a perilous task, particularly for the Highlanders, who trusted to their claymores only. It was the 1 attest work, the" kind of fighting for which regular soldiers were least fitted. Claymores were little use against men who moved like shadows in the wood, who, invisible, fired from behind trees, against Indians who leaped on stragglers, tomahawked them unawares and then whooped fearfully as they took the bleeding scalp. The Highlanders left a hundred men among those trees; but presently the wood was swept bare, the Indians and coureurs-de-bois being driven out to swell the fear-crazed thousands who were crowding the city gates. Grenville watched them closely, but saw nothing of the man he sought; and with despair mounting within him, he marched back with the others to the open ground. The guns of the city had come into action, thundering against the victors, and English bugles everywhere were sounding the recall. As they returned to the English lines he encountered Shervington, who had been with the Louisbourg Grenadiers and heard the news that saddened an army in the hour of victory. “Our Wolfe is dead! But he knew • —thank God—that the day was his! . . . Montcalm too ... it is rumoured! ” “But Quebec is ours!” cried an enthusiastic youngster. “Not yet!” said Shervington. “It may be a week before that is true. They may decide to hold the city! ” “A week!” echoed Grenville, who had not thought of that contingency. “ But I must make the city to-night.” “Impossible!” said Shervington. “You would be torn limb from limb. Why this urgency?” Grenville explained, and his friend listened sympathetically, then offered consolation. “ Maybe the scoundrel lied.” “ If I could believe that ” “ And you left Simon Lisicux with mademoiselle. He is a host in himself. I will wager that he will beat de Terry every time, in a battle of wits. A man of resource, too. You may still keep' your confidence in him, I’ll swear. . . .

In any case, 'till we enter Quebec as victors, no man of this army may venture there and keep his skin; and little use you will be to your Diane without. Patience, my friend! ” It was a whole four days later when the opportunity came. The body of Wolfe lay in state on the Sutherland; that of Montcalm had been hustled into a deal box and buried as he had requested in a shell-hole made by British guns; Governor Vaudreuil, who had failed and proved himself a poltroon in the great crisis, had slipped from the city with most of the army .and was on his way to Montreal, leaving the great camp at Beauport to be plundered by Indians and countryfolk; and Quebec, threatened by General Townshend with instant storm, had surrendered at discretion. In the deepening dusk of the autumn evening, worn with anxiety and burning with apprehension, John Grenville entered the surrendered city; and half an hour later, with Shervington for companion, hurried through the sheltered streets to the little house behind the ruined cathedral. The houses about it had suffered much in the last few days’ bombardment, and one opposite that had taken fire still burned fitfully, but the cottage itself ■stood uninjured as if preserved by some invisible shield. In the dusk they saw that before they reached it, and Grenville found the fact of good omen, so that something of his apprehension was lifted. But when they came to it, and saw the shutters up and all the house blind to the street, his fears came flooding back. Shervington spoke lightly: “ The widow burns her candles early! ” “Candles! ... If it is only that! ”

With presages of despair wringing his heart, Grenville hammered on the door with the hilt of his sword. There was nd response within.' He hammered again with impatient violence, and then groped for the latch-string. It was not there, and a careful examination told him that it had been cut. most likely by the last person to elose the door. He considered a moment, then looked up and down the darkened street. There was no neighbour in sight who could be questioned, for the citizens, uncertain what was to befall them, kept their houses; and if any observed them none was anxious to conic in contact with men in uniform.

“ We must force an entrance,” he said desperately. There was little difficulty about that with debris everywhere from which to select a battering-ram. They secured a small beam from the wreck of a neighbouring house, and within a few minutes had burst the wooden latch and the door flung open to them. It was settling dark now, and the interior of the cottage was in Cimmerian gloom, and very still. Grenville crossed the threshold and then halted, seeing nothing, but with a premonition of sonichorror that the darkness held.

“ Opep the shutter, Shervington.!’ His friend went outside and threw open the shutter. It served but little, and Grenville began to grope his way forward. He had gone but a couple of steps, when his hand touched something unexpectedly. He jumped at the contact, and almost simultaneously a little wind blowing up the street fanned the burning house opposite into flame. A splash of ruddy light came through the diamond panes of the cottage: and fell on a dead face, lifted a little above the level of his own. The glazed eyes were open, the tongue protruded, the face even in death bore the stamp of agony, and at a glimpse it was clear that the owner had died horribly. “God in heaven!” he whispered hoarsely. “ Who ” The crackling of a beam across the street sent forth an increase of light. Then he saw that the dead person was a woman and that her arms were bound with a rope. A moment later in the twisted, tortured features he recognised those of the owner of the house. Sherrington's voice behind him broke on the thoughts which surged with the recognition. “ What in the name of fortune “Hush! Shervington. It is Madame Levin. She is dead. Some fiend has hanged her here in her own. house. . . s For God’s sake, procure a light, if you can.” (To be continued.) “ If women would only wear more wool the price will go up straight away,” said a witness at the wage inquiry in the Arbitration Court at Wellington during a discussion on the effect of the introduction of artificial silk on the wool-growing industry. “ They used to say it took three bales of wool to clothe a woman,” observed Mr Justice Frazer; “now it takes one silk-worm.” —(Laughter.)