THE SNARE
ip Bafael Sabatini
PUBLISHED BY
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
CAPTAIN BLOOD, HIS ODYSSEY. With frontispiece
In color by N. C. Wyeth.
SCARAMOUCHE.
THE SNARE.
THE BANNER OF THE BULL.
THE SNARE
BY
RAFAEL SABATINI
Author of "Scaramouche "and" Captain Blood: His Odyssey 9
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
fcfje aatbersite |)ress Camfcribse
CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS
PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.
TO
LEON M. LION
WHO TOLD ME THIS STORY
CONTENTS
L THE AFFAIR AT TAVORA I
II. THE ULTIMATUM 27
III. LADY O'Mov 48
IV. COUNT SAMOVAL 61
V. THE FUGITIVE 73
VI. Miss ARMYTAGE'S PEARLS 83
VII. THE ALLY 97
VIII. THE INTELLIGENCE OFFICER 108
IX. THE GENERAL ORDER 119
X. THE STIFLED QUARREL 131
XL THE CHALLENGE 145
XII. THE DUEL 157
XIII. POLICHINELLE 169
XIV. THE CHAMPION 181
XV. THE WALLET 197
XVI. THE EVIDENCE 206
XVII. BITTER WATER 226
XVIII. FOOL'S MATE 246
XIX. THE TRUTH 254
XX. THE RESIGNATION 270
XXL SANCTUARY 282
POSTSCRIPTUM 297
THE SNARE
CHAPTER I
THE AFFAIR AT TAVORA
IT is established beyond doubt that Mr. Butler was
drunk at the time. This rests upon the evidence of
Sergeant Flanagan and the troopers who accompanied
him, and it rests upon Mr. Butler's own word, as we
shall see. And let me add here and now that however
wild and irresponsible a rascal he may have been, yet
by his own lights he was a man of honour, incapable
of falsehood, even though it were calculated to save his
skin. I do not deny that Sir Thomas Picton has de-
scribed him as a " thieving blackguard." But I am
sure that this was merely the downright, rather ex-
travagant manner of censure peculiar to that distin-
guished general, and that those who have taken the
expression at its purely literal value have been lacking
at once in charity and in knowledge of the caustic,
uncompromising terms of speech of General Picton
whom Lord Wellington, you will remember, called a
rough, foul-mouthed devil.
In further extenuation it may truthfully be urged
that the whole hideous and odious affair was the result
of a misapprehension; although I cannot go so far as
one of Lieutenant Butler's apologists and accept the
view that he was the victim of a deliberate plot on the
part of his too-genial host at Regoa. That is a miscon-
ception easily explained. This host's name happened
The Snare
to be Souza, and the apologist in question has very
rashly leapt at the conclusion that he was a member of
that notoriously intriguing family, of which the chief
members were the Principal Souza, of the Council of
Regency at Lisbon, and the Chevalier Souza, Portu-
guese minister to the Court of St. James's. Unac-
quainted with Portugal, our apologist was evidently
in ignorance of the fact that the name of Souza is al-
most as common in that country as the name of Smith
in this. He may also have been misled by the fact that
Principal Souza did not neglect to make the utmost
capital out of the affair, thereby increasing the diffi-
culties with which Lord Wellington was already con-
tending as a result of incompetence and deliberate
malice on the part both of the ministry at home and of
the administration in Lisbon.
Indeed, but for these factors it is unlikely that the
affair could ever have taken place at all. If there had
been more energy on the part of Mr. Perceval and the
members of the Cabinet, if there had been less bad
faith and self-seeking on the part of the Opposition,
Lord Wellington's campaign would not have been
starved as it was; and if there had been less bad faith
and self-seeking of an even more stupid and flagrant
kind on the part of the Portuguese Council of Regency,
the British Expeditionary Force would not have been
left without the stipulated supplies and otherwise hin-
dered at every step.
Lord Wellington might have experienced the mental
agony of Sir John Moore under similar circumstances
fifteen months earlier. That he did suffer, and was to
suffer yet more, his correspondence shows. But his iron
will prevented that suffering from disturbing the equa-
nimity of his mind. The Council of Regency, in its
The Affair at Tavora
concert! to court popularity with the aristocracy of
Portugal, might balk his measures by its deliberate
supineness; echoes might reach him of the voices at
St. Stephen's that loudly dubbed his dispositions rash,
presumptuous and silly; catch-halfpenny journalists
at home and men of the stamp of Lord Grey might
exploit their abysmal military ignorance in reckless
criticism and censure of his operations ; he knew what
a passionate storm of anger and denunciation had
arisen from the Opposition when he had been raised to
the peerage some months earlier, after the glorious vic-
tory of Talavera, and how, that victory notwithstand-
ing, it had been proclaimed that his conduct of the
campaign was so incompetent as to deserve, not reward,
but punishment; and he was aware of the growing un-
popularity of the war in England, knew that the Gov-
ernment ignorant of what he was so laboriously
preparing was chafing at his inactivity of the past
few months, so that a member of the Cabinet wrote
to him exasperatedly, incredibly and fatuously "for
God's sake do something anything so that blood be
spilt."
A heart less stout might have been broken, a genius
less mighty stifled in this evil tangle of stupidity, in-
competence and malignity that sprang up and flour-
ished about him on every hand. A man less single-
minded must have succumbed to exasperation, thrown
up his command and taken ship for home, inviting
some of his innumerable critics to take his place at the
head of the troops, and give free rein to the military
genius that inspired their critical dissertations. Wel-
lington, however, has been rightly termed of iron, and
never did he show himself more of iron than in those
trying days of 1810. Stern, but with a passionless
The Snare
sternness, he pursued his way towards the goal he had
set himself, allowing no criticism, no censure, no in-
vective so much as to give him pause in his majestic
progress.
Unfortunately the lofty calm of the Commander-in-
Chief was not shared by his lieutenants. The Light
Division was quartered along the River Agueda,
watching the Spanish frontier, beyond which Marshal
Ney was demonstrating against Ciudad Rodrigo, and
for lack of funds its fiery-tempered commander, Sir
Robert Craufurd, found himself at last unable to feed
his troops. Exasperated by these circumstances, Sir
Robert was betrayed into an act of rashness. He
seized some church plate at Pinhel that he might con-
vert it into rations. It was an act which, considering the
general state of public feeling in the country at the
time, might have had the gravest consequences, and
Sir Robert was subsequently forced to do penance and
afford redress. That, however, is another story. I but
mention the incident here because the affair of Tavora
with which I am concerned may be taken to have
arisen directly out of it, and Sir Robert's behaviour
may be construed as setting an example and thus as
affording yet another extenuation of Lieutenant But-
ler's offence.
Our lieutenant was sent upon a foraging expedition
into the valley of the Upper Douro, at the head of a
half-troop of the 8th Dragoons, two squadrons of
which were attached at the time to the Light Division.
To be more precise, he was to purchase and bring into
Pinhel a hundred head of cattle, intended some for
slaughter and some for draught. His instructions were
to proceed as far as Regoa and there report himself to
one Bartholomew Bearsley, a prosperous and influen-
The Affair at Tavora
tial English wine-grower, whose father had acquired
considerable vineyards in the Douro. He was reminded
of the almost hostile disposition of the peasantry in
certain districts ; warned to handle them with tact and
to suffer no straggling on the part of his troopers ; and
advised to place himself in the hands of Mr. Bearsley
for all that related to the purchase of the cattle. Let
it be admitted at once that had Sir Robert Craufurd
been acquainted with Mr. Butler's feather-brained,
irresponsible nature, he would have selected any offi-
cer rather than our lieutenant to command that expe-
dition. But the Irish Dragoons had only lately come
to Pinhel, and the general himself was not immediately
concerned.
Lieutenant Butler set out on a blustering day of
March at the head of his troopers, accompanied by
Cornet O'Rourke and two sergeants, and at Pesqueira
he was further reinforced by a Portuguese guide. They
found quarters that night at Ervedoza, and early on
the morrow they were in the saddle again, riding along
the heights above the Cachao da Valleira, through
which the yellow, swollen river swirled and foamed
along its rocky way. The prospect, formidable even
in the full bloom of fruitful and luxuriant summer, was
forbidding and menacing now as some imagined gorge
of the nether regions. The towering granite heights
across the turgid stream were shrouded in mist and
sweeping rain, and from the leaden heavens overhead
the downpour was of a sullen and merciless steadiness,
starting at every step a miniature torrent to go swell
the roaring waters in the gorge, and drenching the
troop alike in body and in spirit. Ahead, swathed to
the chin in his blue cavalry cloak, the water streaming
from his leather helmet, rode Lieutenant Butler, curs-
The Snare
ing the weather, the country, the Light Division, and
everything else that occurred to him as contributing
to his present discomfort. Beside him, astride of a
mule, rode the Portuguese guide in a caped cloak of
thatched straw, which made him look for all the world
like a bottle of his native wine in its straw sheath.
Conversation between the two was out of the question,
for the guide spoke no English and the lieutenant's
knowledge of Portuguese was very far from conversa-
tional.
Presently the ground sloped, and the troop descended
from the heights by a road flanked with dripping
pinewoods, black and melancholy, that for a while
screened them off from the remainder of the sodden
world. Thence they emerged near the head of the
bridge that spanned the swollen river and led them
directly into the town of Regoa. Through the mud
and clay of the deserted, narrow, unpaved streets the
dragoons squelched their way, under a superdeluge,
for the rain was now reinforced by steady and over-
whelming sheets of water descending on either side
from the gutter-shaped tiles that roofed the houses.
Inquisitive faces showed here and there behind
blurred windows ; odd doors were opened that a peas-
ant family might stare in questioning wonder and
perhaps in some concern at the sodden pageant that
was passing. But in the streets themselves the troopers
met no living thing, all the world having scurried to
shelter from the pitiless downpour.
Beyond the town they were brought by their guide
to a walled garden, and halted at a gateway. Beyond
this could be seen a fair white house set in the fore-
ground of the vineyards that rose in terraces up the
hillside until they were lost from sight in the lowering
The Affair at Tavora
veils of mist. Carved on the granite lintel of that gate-
way, the lieutenant beheld the inscription, "BAR-
THOLOMEU BEARSLEY, 1 744,'* anc ^ knew himself at his
destination, at the gates of the son or grandson he
knew not which, nor cared of the original tenant of
that wine farm.
Mr. Bearsley, however, was from home. The lieu-
tenant was informed of this by Mr. Bearsley's steward,
a portly, genial, rather priestly gentleman in smooth
black broadcloth, whose name was Souza a name
which, as I have said, has given rise to some miscon-
ceptions. Mr. Bearsley himself had lately left for
England, there to wait until the disturbed state of
Portugal should be happily repaired. He had been a
considerable sufferer from the French invasion under
Soult, and none may blame him for wishing to avoid
a repetition of what already he had undergone, espe-
cially now that it was rumoured that the Emperor in
person would lead the army gathering for conquest on
the frontiers.
But had Mr. Bearsley been at home the dragoons
could have received no warmer welcome than that
which was extended to them by Fernando Souza.
Greeting the lieutenant in intelligible English, he
implored him, in the florid manner of the Peninsula,
to count the house and all within it his own property,
and to command whatever he might desire.
The troopers found accommodation in the kitchen
and in the spacious hall, where great fires of pine logs
were piled up for their comfort; and for the remainder
of the day they abode there in various states of naked-
ness, relieved by blankets and straw capotes, what
time the house was filled with the steam and stench
of their drying garments. Rations had been short of
8 The Snare
late on the Agueda, and, in addition, their weary ride
through the rain had made the men sharp-set. Abun-
dance of food was placed before them by the solicitude
of Fernando Souza, and they feasted, as they had not
feasted for many months, upon roast kid, boiled rice
and golden maize bread, washed down by a copious
supply of a rough and not too heady wine that the
discreet and discriminating steward judged appropriate
to their palates and capable of supporting some abuse.
Akin to the treatment of the troopers in hall and
kitchen, but on a nobler scale, was the treatment of
Lieutenant Butler and Cornet O'Rourke in the dining-
room. For them a well-roasted turkey took the place
of kid, and Souza went down himself to explore the
cellars for a well-sunned, time-ripened Douro table
wine which he vowed and our dragoons agreed with
him would put the noblest Burgundy to shame ; and
then with the dessert there was a Port the like of which
Mr. Butler who was always of a nice taste in wine,
and who was coming into some knowledge of Port from
his residence in the country had never dreamed
existed.
For four and twenty hours the dragoons abode at
Mr. Bearsley's quinta, thanking God for the discom-
forts that had brought them to such comfort, feasting
in this land of plenty as only those can feast who have
kept a rigid Lent. Nor was this all. The benign Souza
was determined that the sojourn there of these repre-
sentatives of his country's deliverers should be a com-
plete rest and holiday. Not for Mr. Butler to journey
to the uplands in this matter of a herd of bullocks.
Fernando Souza had at command a regiment of la-
bourers, who were idle at this time of year, and whom
his good nature would engage on behalf of his English
The Affair at Tavora
guests. Let the lieutenant do no more than provide the
necessary money for the cattle, and the rest should
happen as by enchantment and Souza himself
would see to it that the price was fair and proper.
The lieutenant asked no better. He had no great
opinion of himself either as cattle dealer or cattle
drover, nor did his ambitions beget in him any desire
to excel as one or the other. So he was well content
that his host should have the bullocks fetched to Regoa
for him. The herd was driven in on the following after-
noon, by when the rain had ceased, and our lieutenant
had every reason to be pleased when he beheld the
solid beasts procured. Having disbursed the amount
demanded an amount more reasonable far than he
had been prepared to pay Mr. Butler would have
set out forthwith to return to Pinhel, knowing how
urgent was the need of the division and with what
impatience the choleric General Craufurd would be
awaiting him.
"Why, so you shall, so you shall," said the priestly,
soothing Souza. " But first you'll dine. There is good
dinner ah, but what good dinner! that I have
order. And there is a wine ah, but you shall give me
news of that wine."
Lieutenant Butler hesitated. Cornet O'Rourke
watched him anxiously, praying that he might suc-
cumb to the temptation, and attempted suasion in the
form of a murmured blessing upon Souza's hospitality.
"Sir Robert will be impatient," demurred the lieu-
tenant.
"But half-hour," protested Souza. "What is half-
hour? And in half-hour you will have dine."
"True," ventured the cornet; "and it's the devil
himself knows when we may dine again."
io The Snare
"And the dinner is ready. It can be serve this in-
stant. It shall," said Souza with finality, and pulled
the bell-rope.
Mr. Butler, never dreaming as indeed how could
he? that Fate was taking a hand in this business,
gave way, and they sat down to dinner. Henceforth
you see him the sport of pitiless circumstance
They dined within the half-hour, as Souza had
promised, and they dined exceedingly well. If yester-
day the steward had been able without warning of their
coming to spread at short notice so excellent a feast,
conceive what had been accomplished now by prepa-
ration. Emptying his fourth and final bumper of rich
red Douro, Mr. Butler paid his host the compliment
of a sigh and pushed back his chair.
But Souza detained him, waving a hand that trem-
bled with anxiety, and with anxiety stamped upon his
benignly rotund and shaven countenance.
"An instant yet," he implored. "Mr. Bearsley
would never pardon me did I let you go without what
he call a stirrup-cup to keep you from the ills that lurk
in the wind of the Serra. A glass but one of that
Port you tasted yesterday. I say but a glass, yet I hope
you will do honour to the bottle. But a glass at least,
at least!" He implored it almost with tears. Mr. But-
ler had reached that state of delicious torpor in which
to take the road is the last agony; but duty was duty,
and Sir Robert Craufurd had the fiend 's own tem-
per. Torn thus between consciousness of duty and
the weakness of the flesh, he looked at O'Rourke.
O'Rourke, a cherubic fellow, who had for his years a
very pretty taste in wine, returned the glance with a
moist eye, and licked his lips.
"In your place I should let myself be tempted,"
The Affair at Tavora II
says he. "It's an elegant wine, and ten minutes more
or less is no great matter. "
The lieutenant discovered a middle way which per-
mitted him to take a prompt decision creditable to his
military instincts, but revealing a disgraceful though
quite characteristic selfishness.
"Very well," he said. "Leave Sergeant Flanagan
and ten men to wait for me, O'Rourke, and do you set
out at once with the rest of the troop. And take the
cattle with you. I shall overtake you before you have
gone very far."
O'Rourke's crestfallen air stirred the sympathetic
Souza's pity.
"But, Captain," he besought, "will you not allow
the lieutenant "
Mr. Butler cut him short. "Duty," said he senten-
tiously, "is duty. Be off, O'Rourke."
And O'Rourke, clicking his heels viciously, saluted
and departed.
Came presently the bottles in a basket not one,
as Souza had said, but three; and when the first was
done Butler reflected that since O'Rourke and the
cattle were already well upon the road there need no
longer be any hurry about his own departure. A herd
of bullocks does not travel very quickly, and even with
a few hours' start in a forty-mile journey is easily over-
taken by a troop of horse travelling without encum-
brance.
You understand, then, how easily our lieutenant
yielded himself to the luxurious circumstances, and
disposed himself to savour the second bottle of that
nectar distilled from the very sunshine of the Douro
the phrase is his own. The steward produced a box
of very choice cigars, and although the lieutenant was
12 The Snare
not an habitual smoker, he permitted himself on this
exceptional occasion to be further tempted. Stretched
in a deep chair beside the roaring fire of pine logs, he
sipped and smoked and drowsed away the greater part
of that wintry afternoon. Soon the third bottle had
gone the way of the second, and Mr. Bearsley's steward
being a man of extremely temperate habit, it follows
that most of the wine had found its way down the
lieutenant's thirsty gullet.
It was perhaps a more potent vintage than he had
at first suspected, and as the torpor produced by the
dinner and the earlier, fuller wine was wearing off, it
was succeeded by an exhilaration that played havoc
with the few wits that Mr. Butler could call his own.
The steward was deeply learned in wines and wine-
growing and in very little besides; consequently the
talk was almost confined to that subject in its many
branches, and he could be interesting enough, like all
enthusiasts. To a fresh burst of praise from Butler of
the ruby vintage to which he had been introduced, the
steward presently responded with a sigh :
" Indeed, as you say, Captain, a great wine. But we
had a greater."
"Impossible, by God," swore Butler, with a hiccup.
"You may say so; but it is the truth. We had a
greater; a wonderful, clear vintage it was, of the year
1798 a famous year on the Douro, the quite most
famous year that we have ever known. Mr. Bearsley
sell some pipes to the monks at Tavora, who have
bottle it and keep it. I beg him at the time not to sell,
knowing the value it must come to have one day. But
he sell all the same. Ah, meu Deus!" The steward
clasped his hands and raised rather prominent eyes to
the ceiling, protesting to his Maker against his master's
The Affair at Tavora 13
folly. "He say we have plenty, and now " he spread
fat hands in a gesture of despair "and now we have
none. Some sons of dogs of French who came with
Marshal Soult happen this way on a forage; they dis-
cover the wine and they guzzle it like pigs." He swore,
and his benignity was eclipsed by wrathful memory.
He heaved himself up in a passion.
"Think of that so priceless vintage drunk like
like hogwash, as Mr. Bearsley say, by those god-
dammed French swine. Not a drop not a spoonful
remain. But the monks at Tavora still have much of
what they buy, I am told. They treasure it, for they
know good wine. All priests know good wine. Ah yes!
Goddam !" He fell into deep reflection.
Lieutenant Butler stirred, and became sympathetic.
" 'San infern'l shame," said he indignantly. "I '11 no
forgerrit when I ... meet the French." Then he too
fell into reflection.
He was a good Catholic, and, moreover, a Catholic
who did not take things for granted. The sloth and
self-indulgence of the clergy in Portugal, being his first
glimpse of conventuals in Latin countries, had deeply
shocked him. The vows of a monastic poverty that
was kept carefully beyond the walls of the monastery
offended his sense of propriety. That men who had
vowed themselves to pauperism, who wore coarse
garments and went barefoot, should batten upon rich
food and store up wines that gold could not purchase,
struck him as a hideous incongruity.
"And the monks drink this nectar?" he said aloud,
and laughed sneeringly. " I know the breed the fair
round belly wi' fat capon lined. Tha's your poverty-
stricken Capuchin."
Souza looked at him in sudden alarm, bethinking
14 The Snare
himself that all Englishmen were heretics, and know-
ing nothing of subtle distinctions between English and
Irish. In silence Butler finished the third and last
bottle, and his thoughts fixed themselves with in-
creasing insistence upon a wine reputed better than
this of which there was great store in the cellars of the
convent of Tavora.
Abruptly he asked: "Where's Tavora? " He was
thinking perhaps of the comfort that such wine would
bring to a company of war-worn soldiers in the valley
of the Agueda.
"Some ten leagues from here," answered Souza, and
pointed to a map that hung upon the wall.
The lieutenant rose, and rolled a thought unsteadily
across the room. He was a tall, loose-limbed fellow,
blue-eyed, fair-complexioned, with a thatch of fiery red
hair excellently suited to his temperament. He halted
before the map, and with legs wide apart, to afford
him the steadying support of a broad basis, he traced
with his finger the course of the Douro, fumbled about
the district of Regoa, and finally hit upon the place he
sought.
"Why," he said, "seems to me 'sif we should ha*
come that way. I *s shorrer road to Pesqueira than by
the river. "
"As the bird fly," said Souza. "But the roads be
bad just mule tracks, while by the river the road is
tolerable good."
"Yet," said the lieutenant, "I think I shall go back
tha' way."
The fumes of the wine were mounting steadily to
addle his indifferent brains. Every moment he was
seeing things in proportions more and more false. His
resentment against priests who, sworn to self-abnega-
The Affair at Tavora 15
tion, hoarded good wine, whilst soldiers sent to keep
harm from priests' fat carcasses were left to suffer cold
and even hunger, was increasing with every moment.
He would sample that wine at Tavora; and he would
bear some of it away that his brother officers at Pinhel
might sample it. He would buy it. Oh yes! There
should be no plundering, no irregularity, no disregard
of general orders. He would buy the wine and pay for
it but himself he would fix the price, and see that
the monks of Tavora made no profit out of their de-
fenders.
Thus he thought as he considered the map. Pres-
ently, when having taken leave of Fernando Souza
that prince of hosts Mr. Butler was riding down
through the town with Sergeant Flanagan and ten
troopers at his heels, his purpose deepened and became
more fierce. I think the change of temperature must
have been to blame. It was a chill, bleak evening.
Overhead, across a background of faded blue, scudded
ragged banks of clouds, the lingering flotsam of the
shattered rainstorm of yesterday : and a cavalry cloak
afforded but indifferent protection against the wind
that blew hard and sharp from the Atlantic.
Coming from the genial warmth of Mr. Souza's par-
lour into this, the evaporation of the wine within him
was quickened, its fumes mounted now overwhelm-
ingly to his brain, and from comfortably intoxicated
that he had been hitherto, the lieutenant now became
furiously drunk; and the transition was a very rapid
one. It was now that he looked upon the business he
had in hand in the light of a crusade ; a sort of religious
fanaticism began to actuate him.
The souls of these wretched monks must be saved;
the temptation to self-indulgence, which spelt perdi-
16 The Snare
tion for them, must be removed from their midst. It
was a Christian duty. He no longer thought of buying
the wine and paying for it. His one aim now was to
obtain possession of it not merely a part of it, but
all of it and carry it off, thereby accomplishing
two equally praiseworthy ends : to rescue a conventf ul
of monks from damnation, and to regale the much-
enduring, half-starved campaigners on the Agueda.
Thus reasoned Mr. Butler with admirable, if drunken,
logic. And reasoning thus he led the way over the
bridge, and kept straight on when he had crossed it,
much to the dismay of Sergeant Flanagan, who, per-
ceiving the lieutenant's condition, conceived that he
was missing his way. This the sergeant ventured to
point out, reminding his officer that they had come by
the road along the river.
"So we did," said Butler shortly. "Bu' we go back
by way of Tavora."
They had no guide. The one who had conducted
them to Regoa had returned with O'Rourke, and al-
though Souza had urged upon the lieutenant at part-
ing that he should take one of the men from the quinta,
Butler, with wit enough to see that this was not de-
sirable under the circumstances, had preferred to find
his way alone.
His confused mind strove now to revisualise the map
which he had consulted in Souza's parlour. He dis-
covered, naturally enough, that the task was alto-
gether beyond his powers. Meanwhile night was
descending. They were, however, upon the mule track,
which went up and round the shoulder of a hill, and by
this they came at dark upon a hamlet.
Sergeant Flanagan was a shrewd fellow and perhaps
the most sober man in the troop for the wine had
The Affair at Tavora 17
run very freely in Souza's kitchen, too, and the men,
whilst awaiting their commander's pleasure, had taken
the fullest advantage of an opportunity that Vas all
too rare upon that campaign. Now Sergeant Flanagan
began to grow anxious. He knew the Peninsula from
the days of Sir John Moore, and he knew as much of
the ways of the peasantry of Portugal as any man. He
knew of the brutal ferocity of which that peasantry
was capable. He had seen evidence more than once
of the unspeakable fate of French stragglers from the
retreating army of Marshal Soult. He knew of cruci-
fixions, mutilations and hideous abominations prac-
tised upon them in these remote hill districts by the
merciless men into whose hands they happened to fall,
and he knew that it was not upon French soldiers
alone that these abominations had been practised.
Some of those fierce peasants had been unable to dis-
criminate between invader and deliverer; to them a
foreigner was a foreigner and no more. Others, who
were capable of discriminating, were in the position of
having come to look upon French and English with
almost equal execration.
It is true that whilst the Emperor's troops made war
on the maxim that an army must support itself upon
the country it traverses, thereby achieving a greater
mobility, since it was thus permitted to travel com-
paratively light, the British law was that all things
requisitioned must be paid for. Wellington maintained
this law in spite of all difficulties at all times with
an unrelaxing rigidity, and punished with the utmost
rigour those who offended against it. Nevertheless
breaches were continual ; men broke out here and there,
often, be it said, under stress of circumstances for
which the Portuguese were themselves responsible;
1 8 The Snare
plunder and outrage took place and provoked indis-
criminating rancour with consequences at times as
terrible to stragglers from the British army of deliv-
erance as to those from the French army of oppres-
sors. Then, too, there was the Portuguese Militia Act
recently enforced by Wellington acting through
the Portuguese Government deeply resented by the
peasantry upon whom it bore, and rendering them
disposed to avenge it upon such stray British soldiers
as might fall into their hands.
Knowing all this, Sergeant Flanagan did not at all
relish this night excursion into the hill fastnesses,
where at any moment, as it seemed to him, they might
miss their way. After all, they were but twelve men
all told, and he accounted it a stupid thing to attempt
to take a short cut across the hills for the purpose of
overtaking an encumbered troop that must of necessity
be moving at a very much slower pace. This was the
way not to overtake but to outdistance. Yet since it
was not for him to remonstrate with the lieutenant, he
kept his peace and hoped anxiously for the best.
At the mean wine-shop of that hamlet Mr. Butler
inquired his way by the simple expedient of shouting
"Tavora?" with a strong interrogative inflexion. The
vintner made it plain by gestures accompanied by
a rattling musketry of incomprehensible speech
that their way lay straight ahead. And straight ahead
they went, following that mule track for some five
or six miles until it began to slope gently towards the
plain again. Below them they presently beheld a clus-
ter of twinkling lights to advertise a township. They
dropped swiftly down, and in the outskirts overtook
a belated bullock-cart, whose ungreased axle was
arousing the hillside echoes with its plangent wail.
The Affair at Tavora . 19
Of the vigorous young woman who marched barefoot
beside it, shouldering her goad as if it were a pikestaff,
Mr. Butler inquired by his usual method if this
were Tavora, to receive an answer which, though
voluble, was unmistakably affirmative.
"Covento Dominicano?" was his next inquiry,
made after they had gone some little way.
The woman pointed with her goad to a massive,
dark building, flanked by a little church, which stood
just across the square they were entering.
A moment later the sergeant, by Mr. Butler's orders,
was knocking upon the iron-studded main door. They
waited awhile in vain. None came to answer the
knock; no light showed anywhere upon the dark face
of the convent. The sergeant knocked again, more
vigorously than before. Presently came timid, shuf-
fling steps; a shutter opened in the door, and the grille
thus disclosed was pierced by a shaft of feeble yellow
light. A quavering, aged voice demanded to know
who knocked.
" English soldiers," answered the lieutenant in Por-
tuguese. "Open!"
A faint exclamation suggestive of dismay was the
answer, the shutter closed again with a snap, the
shuffling steps retreated and unbroken silence followed.
"Now wharra devil may this mean?" growled Mr.
Butler. Drugged wits, like stupid ones, are readily
suspicious. "Wharra they hatching in here that they
are afraid of lerring Bri'ish soldiers see? Knock again,
Flanagan. Louder, man!"
The sergeant beat the door with the butt of his
carbine. The blows gave out a hollow echo, but evoked
no more answer than if they had fallen upon the door
of a mausoleum. Mr. Butler completely lost his temper.
2O The Snare
"Seems to me that we've stumbled upon a hotbed
o' treason. Hotbed o* treason!" he repeated, as if
pleased with the phrase. "That 's wharrit is." And he
added peremptorily: "Break down the door."
"But, sir," began the sergeant in protest, greatly
daring.
"Break down the door," repeated Mr. Butler.
"Lerrus be after seeing wha' these monks are afraid of
showing us. I Ve a notion they 're hiding more 'n their
wine."
Some of the troopers carried axes precisely against
such an emergency as this. Dismounting, they fell
upon the door with a will. But the oak was stout, for-
tified by bands of iron and great iron studs; and it
resisted long. The thud of the axes and the crash of
rending timbers could be heard from one end of Tavora
to the other, yet from the convent it evoked no slight-
est response. But presently, as the door began to yield
to the onslaught, there came another sound to arouse
the town. From the belfry of the little church a bell
suddenly gave tongue upon a frantic, hurried note
that spoke unmistakably of alarm. Ding-ding-ding-
ding it went, a tocsin summoning the assistance of all
true sons of Mother Church.
Mr. Butler, however, paid little heed to it. The door
was down at last, and followed by his troopers he rode
under the massive gateway into the spacious close.
Dismounting there, and leaving the woefully anxious
sergeant and a couple of men to guard the horses, the
lieutenant led the way along the cloisters, faintly re-
vealed by a new-risen moon, towards a gaping doorway
whence a feeble light was gleaming. He stumbled over
the step into a hall dimly lighted by a lantern swinging
from the ceiling. He found a chair, mounted it, and
The Affair at Tavora 21
cut the lantern down, then led the way again along an
endless corridor, stone-flagged and flanked on either
side by rows of cells. Many of the doors stood open,
as if in silent token of the tenants' hurried flight, show-
ing what a panic had been spread by the sudden advent
of this troop.
Mr. Butler became more and more deeply intrigued,
more and more deeply suspicious that here all was not
well. Why should a community of loyal monks take
flight in this fashion from British soldiers?
"Bad luck to them!" he growled, as he stumbled on.
"They may hide as they will, but it's myself '11 run the
shavelings to earth."
They were brought up short at the end of that long,
chill gallery by closed double doors. Beyond these an
organ was pealing, and overhead the clapper of the
alarm bell was beating more furiously than ever. All
realised that they stood upon the threshold of the
chapel and that the conventuals had taken refuge there.
Mr. Butler checked upon a sudden suspicion.
"Maybe, after all, they've taken us for French," said
he.
A trooper ventured to answer him. "Best let them
see we're not before we have the whole village about
our ears."
"Damn that bell," said the lieutenant, and added:
" Put your shoulders to the door."
Its fastenings were but crazy ones, and it yielded
almost instantly to their pressure yielded so sud-
denly that Mr. Butler, who himself had been foremost
in straining against it, shot forward half-a-dozen yards
into the chapel and measured his length upon its cold
flags.
Simultaneously from the chancel came a great cry:
-
22 The Snare
"Libera nos, Domine!" followed by a shuddering
murmur of prayer.
The lieutenant picked himself up, recovered the
lantern that had rolled from his grasp, and lurched
forward round the angle that hid the chancel from his
view. There, huddled before the main altar like a flock
of scared and stupid sheep, he beheld the conventuals
some two score of them perhaps and in the dim
light of the heavy altar lamp above them he could
make out the black and white habit of the order of
St. Dominic.
He came to a halt, raised his lantern aloft, and called
to them peremptorily: '
"Ho, there!"
The organ ceased abruptly, but the bell overhead
went clattering on.
Mr. Butler addressed them in the best French he
could command : "What do you fear? Why do you flee?
We are friends English soldiers, seeking quarters
for the night."
A vague alarm was stirring in him. It began to
penetrate his obfuscated mind that perhaps he had
been rash, that this forcible rape of a convent was a
serious matter. Therefore he attempted this peaceful
explanation.
From that huddled group a figure rose, and ad-
vanced with a solemn, stately grace. There was a faint
swish of robes, the faint rattle of rosary beads. Some-
thing about that figure caught the lieutenant's attention
sharply. He craned forward, half sobered by the sud-
den fear that clutched him, his eyes bulging in his face.
" I had thought," said a gentle, melancholy woman's
voice, "that the seals of a nunnery were sacred to
British soldiers."
The Affair at Tavora 23
For a moment Mr. Butler seemed to be labouring for
breath. Fully sobered now, understanding of his
ghastly error reached him at the gallop.
"My God!" he gasped, and incontinently turned to
flee.
But as he fled in horror of his sacrilege, he still kept
his head turned, staring over his shoulder at the stately
figure of the abbess, either in fascination or with some
lingering doubt of what he had seen and heard. Run-
ning thus, he crashed headlong into a pillar, and,
stunned by the blow, he reeled and sank unconscious
to the ground.
This the troopers had not seen, for they had not
lingered. Understanding on their own part the horrible
blunder, they had turned even as their leader turned,
and they had raced madly back the way they had come,
conceiving that he followed. And there was reason for
their haste other than their anxiety to set a term to the
sacrilege of their presence. From the cloistered garden
of the convent uproar reached them, and the metallic
voice of Sergeant Flanagan calling loudly for help.
The alarm bell of the convent had done its work.
The villagers were up, enraged by the outrage, and
armed with sticks and scythes and bill-hooks, an army
of them was charging to avenge this infamy. The
troopers reached the close no more than in time. Ser-
geant Flanagan, only half understanding the reason
for so much anger, but understanding that this anger
was very real and very dangerous, was desperately
defending the horses with his two companions against
the vanguard of the assailants. There was a swift rush
of the dragoons and in an instant they were in the
saddle, all but the lieutenant, of whose absence they
were suddenly made conscious.
24 The Snare
Flanagan would have gone back for him, and he had
in fact begun to issue an order with that object when a
sudden surge of the swelling, roaring crowd cut off the
dragoons from the door through which they had
emerged. Sitting their horses, the little troop came
together, their sabres drawn, solid as a rock in that
angry human sea that surged about them. The moon
riding now clear overhead irradiated that scene of
impending strife.
Flanagan, standing in his stirrups, attempted to
harangue the mob. But he was at a loss what to say
that would appease them, nor able to speak a language
they could understand. An angry peasant made a
slash at him with a bill-hook. He parried the blow on
his sabre, and with the flat of it knocked his assailant
senseless.
Then the storm burst, and the mob flung itself upon
the dragoons.
"Bad cess to you!" cried Flanagan. "Will ye listen
to me, ye murthering villains?" Then in despair
"Char-r-r-ge!" he roared, and headed for the gateway.
The troopers attempted in vain to reach it. The mob
hemmed them about too closely, and then a horrid
hand-to-hand fight began, under the cold light of the
moon, in that garden consecrated to peace and piety.
Two saddles had been emptied, and the exasperated
troopers were slashing now at their assailants with the
edge, intent upon cutting a way out of that murderous
press. It is doubtful if a man of them would have sur-
vived, for the odds were fully ten to one against them.
To their aid came now the abbess. She stood on a bal-
cony above, and called upon the people to desist, and
hear her. Thence she harangued them for some mo-
ments, commanding them to allow the soldiers to
The Affair at Tavora 25
depart. They obeyed with obvious reluctance, and at
last a lane was opened in that solid, seething mass of
angry clods.
But Flanagan hesitated to pass down this lane and
so depart. Three of his troopers were down by now,
and his lieutenant was missing. He was exercised to
resolve where his duty lay. Behind him the mob was
solid, cutting off the dragoons from their fallen com-
rades. An attempt to go back might be misunderstood
and resisted, leading to a renewal of the combat, and
surely in vain, for he could not doubt but that the fal-
len troopers had been finished outright.
Similarly the mob stood as solid between him and
the door that led to the interior of the convent, where
Mr. Butler was lingering alive or dead. A number of
peasants had already invaded the actual building, so
that in that connection too the sergeant concluded
that there was little reason to hope that the lieutenant
should have escaped the fate his own rashness had in-
voked. He had his remaining seven men to think of,
and he concluded that it was his duty under all the
circumstances to bring these off alive, and not procure
their massacre by attempting fruitless quixotries.
So ' 'Forward!'* roared the voice of Sergeant Flana-
gan, and forward went the seven through the passage
that had opened out before them in that hooting, an-
gry mob.
Beyond the convent walls they found fresh assail-
ants awaiting them, enemies these, who had not been
soothed by the gentle, reassuring voice of the abbess.
But here there was more room to manoeuvre.
"Trot!" the sergeant commanded, and soon that
trot became a gallop. A shower of stones followed them
as they thundered out of Tavora, and the sergeant
26 The Snare
himself had a lump as large as a duck-egg on the mid-
dle of his head when next day he reported himself at
Pesqueira to Cornet O'Rourke, whom he overtook
there.
When eventually Sir Robert Craufurd heard the
story of the affair, he was as angry as only Sir Robert
could be. To have lost four dragoons and to have set
a match to a train that might end in a conflagration
was reason and to spare.
"How came such a mistake to be made?" he in-
quired, a scowl upon his full red countenance.
Mr. O'Rourke had been investigating and was
primed with knowledge.
"It appears, sir, that at Tavora there is a convent
of Dominican nuns as well as a monastery of Do-
minican friars. Mr. Butler will have used the word
'convento,' which more particularly applies to the
nunnery, and so he was directed to the wrong house. "
"And you say the sergeant has reason to believe that
Mr. Butler did not survive his folly ?"
. "I am afraid there can be no hope, sir."
"It's perhaps just as well," said Sir Robert. "For
Lord Wellington would certainly have had him shot."
And there you have the true account of the stupid
affair of Tavora, which was to produce, as we shall
see, such far-reaching effects upon persons nowise con-
cerned in it.
CHAPTER II
THE ULTIMATUM .
NEWS of the affair at Tavora reached Sir Terence
O'Moy, the Adjutant-General at Lisbon, about a week
later in dispatches from headquarters. These informed
him that in the course of the humble apology and ex-
planation of the regrettable occurrence offered by the
Colonel of the 8th Dragoons in person to the Mother-
Abbess, it had transpired that Lieutenant Butler had
left the convent alive, but that nevertheless he con-
tinued absent from his regiment.
Those dispatches contained other unpleasant mat-
ters of a totally different nature, with which Sir Ter-
ence must proceed to deal at once; but their gravity
was completely outweighed in the adjutant's mind by
this deplorable affair of Lieutenant Butler's. Without
wishing to convey an impression that the blunt and
downright O'Moy was gifted with any undue measure
of shrewdness, it must nevertheless be said that he was
quick to perceive what fresh thorns the occurrence was
likely to throw in a path that was already thorny
enough in all conscience, what a semblance of justifi-
cation it must give to the hostility of the intriguers on
the Council of Regency, what a formidable weapon it
must place in the hands of Principal Souza and his
partisans. In itself this was enough to trouble a man
in O'Moy's position. But there was more. Lieutenant
Butler happened to be his brother-in-law, own brother
to O'Moy's lovely, frivolous wife. Irresponsibility
ran strongly in that branch of the Butler family.
For the sake of the young wife whom he loved with
28 The Snare
a passionate and fearful jealousy such as is not uncom-
mon in a man of O'Moy's temperament when at his
age he was approaching his forty-sixth birthday
he marries a girl of half his years, the adjutant had
pulled his brother-in-law out of many a difficulty,
shielded him on many an occasion from the proper con-
sequences of his incurable rashness.
This affair of the convent, however, transcended
anything that had gone before and proved altogether
too much for O'Moy. It angered him as much as it
afflicted him. Yet when he took his head in his hands
and groaned, it was only his sorrow that he was ex-
pressing, and it was a sorrow entirely concerned with
his wife.
The groan attracted the attention of his military
secretary, Captain Tremayne, of Fletcher's Engineers,
who sat at work at a littered writing-table placed in the
window recess. He looked up sharply, sudden concern
in the strong young face and the steady grey eyes he
bent upon his chief. The sight of O'Moy's hunched
attitude brought him instantly to his feet.
"Whatever is the matter, sir?"
"It's that damned fool Richard," growled O'Moy.
"He's broken out again."
The captain looked relieved. "And is that all?"
O'Moy looked at him, white-faced, and in his blue
eyes a blaze of that swift passion that had made his
name a byword in the army.
"All?" he roared. "You'll say it's enough, by God,
when you hear what the fool 's been at this time. Vio-
lation of a nunnery, no less." And he brought his
massive fist down with a crash upon the document
that had conveyed the information. "With a detach-
ment of dragoons he broke into the convent of the Do-
The Ultimatum 29
minican nuns at Tavora one night a week ago. The
alarm bell was sounded, and the village turned out
to avenge the outrage. Consequences: three troopers
killed, five peasants sabred to death and seven other
casualties, Dick himself missing and reported to have
escaped from the convent, but understood to remain
in hiding so that he adds desertion to the other
crime, as if that in itself were not enough to hang him.
That's all, as you say, and I hope you consider it
enough even for Dick Butler bad luck to him."
"My God!" said Captain Tremayne.
"I'm glad that you agree with me."
Captain Tremayne stared at his chief, the utmost
dismay upon his fine young face. "But surely, sir,
surely I mean, sir, if this report is correct some ex-
planation " He broke down, utterly at fault.
"To be sure, there's an explanation. You may
always depend upon a most elegant explanation for
anything that Dick Butler does. His life is made up
of mistakes and explanations." He spoke bitterly,
angrily. "He broke into the nunnery under a misap-
prehension, according to the account of the sergeant
who accompanied him," and Sir Terence read out that
part of the report. "But how is that to help him, and
at such a time as this, with public feeling as it is, and
Wellington in his present temper about it? The pro-
vost's men are beating the country for the blackguard.
When they find him it's a firing party he'll have to
face."
Tremayne turned slowly to the window and looked
down the fair prospect of the hillside over a forest of
cork oaks alive with fresh green shoots to the silver
sheen of the river a mile away. The storms of the pre-
ceding week had spent their fury the travail that
3O The Snare
had attended the birth of Spring and the day was
as fair as a day of June in England. Weaned forth by
the generous sunshine, the burgeoning of vine and fig,
of olive and cork went on apace, and the skeletons of
trees which a fortnight since had stood gaunt and bare
were already fleshed in tender green.
From the window of this fine conventual house on
the heights of Monsanto, above the suburb of Alcan-
tara, where the Adjutant-General had taken up his
quarters, Captain Tremayne stood a moment consid-
ering the panorama spread to his gaze, from the red-
brown roofs of Lisbon on his left that city which
boasted with Rome that it was built upon a cluster of
seven hills to the lines of embarkation that were
building about the fort of St. Julian on his left. Then
he turned, facing again the spacious, handsome room
with its heavy, semi-ecclesiastical furniture, and Sir
Terence, who, hunched in his chair at the ponderously
carved black writing-table, scowled fiercely at nothing.
"What are you going to do, sir?" he inquired.
Sir Terence shrugged impatiently and heaved him-
self up in his chair.
" Nothing," he growled.
" Nothing?"
The interrogation, which seemed almost to cover a
reproach, irritated the adjutant.
"And what the devil can I do?" he rapped.
4 You've pulled Dick out of scrapes before now."
"I have. That seems to have been my principal
occupation ever since I married his sister. But this
time he's gone too far. What can I do?"
/'Lord Wellington is fond of you," suggested Cap-
tain Tremayne. He was your imperturbable young
man, and he remained as calm now as O'Moy was ex-
The Ultimatum 3 1
cited. Although by some twenty years the adjutant's
junior, there was between O'Moy and himself, as well
as between Tremayne and the Butler family, with
which he was remotely connected, a strong friendship,
which was largely responsible for the captain's present
appointment as Sir Terence's military secretary.
O'Moy looked at him, and looked away. "Yes,"
he agreed. "But he's still fonder of law and order
and military discipline, and I should only be imperil-
ling our friendship by pleading with him for this young
blackguard."
"The young blackguard is your brother-in-law,"
Tremayne reminded him.
"Bad luck to you, Tremayne, don't I know it? Be-
sides, what is there I can do?" he asked again, and
ended testily: "Faith, man, I don't know what you're
thinking of."
"I'm thinking of Una," said Captain Tremayne in
that composed way of his, and the words fell like cold
water upon the hot iron of O'Moy 's anger.
The man who can receive with patience a reproach,
implicit or explicit, of being wanting in consideration
towards his wife is comparatively rare, and never a
man of O'Moy 's temperament and circumstances.
Tremayne 's reminder stung him sharply, and the more
sharply because of the strong friendship that existed
between Tremayne and Lady O'Moy. That friendship
had in the past been a thorn in O'Moy's flesh. In the
days of his courtship he had known a fierce jealousy of
Tremayne, beholding in him for a time a rival who,
with the strong advantage of youth, must in the end
prevail. But when O'Moy, putting his fortunes to the
test, had declared himself and been accepted by Una
Butler, there had been an end to the jealousy, and the
32 The Snare
old relations of cordial friendship between the men had
been resumed.
O'Moy had conceived that jealousy of his to have
been slain. But there had been times when from its
faint, uneasy stirrings he should have taken warning
that it did no more than slumber. Like most warm-
hearted, generous, big-natured men, O'Moy was of a
singular humility where women were concerned, and
this humility of his would often breathe a doubt lest
in choosing between himself and Tremayne Una might
have been guided by her head rather than her heart,
by ambition rather than affection, and that in taking
himself she had taken the man who could give her by
far the more assured and affluent position.
He had crushed down such thoughts as disloyal to
his young wife, as ungrateful and unworthy; and at
such times he would fall into self-contempt for having
entertained them. Then Una herself had revived those
doubts three months ago, when she had suggested that
Ned Tremayne, who was then at Torres Vedras with
Colonel Fletcher, was the very man to fill the. vacant
place of military secretary to the adjutant, if he would
accept it. In the reaction of self-contempt, and in a
curious surge of pride almost as perverse as his humil-
ity, O'Moy had adopted her suggestion, and thereafter
in the past three months, that is to say the un-
reasonable devil of O'Moy 's jealousy had slept, almost
forgotten. Now, by a chance remark whose indiscre-
tion Tremayne could not realise, since he did not so
much as suspect the existence of that devil, he had sud-
denly prodded him into wakefulness. That Tremayne
should show himself tender of Lady O'Moy 's feelings
in a matter in which O'Moy himself must seem neg-
lectful of them was gall and wormwood to the adjutant.
The Ultimatum 33
He dissembled it, however, out of a natural disinclina-
tion to appear in the ridiculous role of the jealous hus-
band.
"That," he said, "is a matter that you may safely
leave to me," and his lips closed tightly upon the words
when they were uttered.
"Oh, quite so," said Tremayne, no whit abashed.
He persisted nevertheless. "You know Una's feelings
for Dick."
"When I married Una," the adjutant cut in sharply,
"I did not marry the entire Butler family." It hard-
ened him unreasonably against Dick to have the
family cause pleaded in this way. "It's sick to death
I am of Master Richard and his escapades. He can get
himself out of this mess, or he can stay in it."
"You mean that you'll not lift a hand to help him."
"Devil a finger," said O'Moy.
And Tremayne, looking straight into the adjutant's
faintly smouldering blue eyes, beheld there a fierce and
rancorous determination which he was at a loss to un-
derstand, but which he attributed to something outside
his own knowledge that must lie between O'Moy and
his brother-in-law.
"I am sorry," he said gravely. "Since that is how
you feel, it is to be hoped that Dick Butler may not
survive to be taken. The alternative would weigh so
cruelly upon Una that I do not care to contemplate it."
"And who the devil asks you to contemplate it?"
snapped O'Moy. " I am not aware that it is any con-
cern of yours at all."
"My dear O'Moy!" It was an exclamation of pro-
test, something between pain and indignation, under
the stress of which Tremayne stepped entirely outside
of the official relations that prevailed between himself
34 The Snare
and the adjutant. And the exclamation was accom-
panied by such a look of dismay and wounded sensibil-
ities that O'Moy, meeting this, and noting the honest
manliness of Tremayne's bearing and countenance
was there and then the victim of reaction. His warm-
hearted and impulsive nature made him at once pro-
foundly ashamed of himself. He stood up, a tall, mar-
tial figure, and his ruggedly handsome, shaven coun-
tenance reddened under its tan. He held out a hand to
Tremayne.
"My dear boy, I beg your pardon. It's so utterly
annoyed I am that the savage in me will be breaking
out. Sure, it is n't as if it were only this affair of Dick's.
That is almost the least part of the unpleasantness
contained in this dispatch. Here! In God's name, read
it for yourself, and judge for yourself whether it's in
human nature to be patient under so much."
With a shrug and a smile to show that he was entirely
mollified, Captain Tremayne took the papers to his
desk and sat down to con them. As he did so his face
grew more and more grave. Before he had reached the
end there was a tap at the door. An orderly entered
with the announcement that Dom Miguel Forjas had
just driven up to Monsanto to wait upon the adjutant-
general.
"Ha!" said O'Moy shortly, and exchanged a glance
with his secretary. "Show the gentleman up."
As the orderly withdrew, Tremayne came over and
placed the dispatch on the adjutant's desk. "He
arrives very opportunely," he said.
"So opportunely as to be suspicious, bedad!" said
O'Moy. He had brightened suddenly, his Irish blood
quickening at the immediate prospect of strife which
this visit boded. "May the devil admire me, but
The Ultimatum 35
there's a warm morning in store for Mr. Forjas, Ned."
"Shall I leave you?"
"By no means."
The door opened, and the orderly admitted Miguel
Forjas, the Portuguese Secretary of State. He was a
slight, dapper gentleman, all in black, from his silk
stockings and steel-buckled shoes to his satin stock.
His keen aquiline face was swarthy, and the razor had
left his chin and cheeks blue-black. His sleek hair was
iron-grey. A portentous gravity invested him this
morning as he bowed with profound deference first to
the adjutant and then to the secretary.
"Your Excellencies," he said he spoke an English
that was smooth and fluent for all its foreign accent
"Your Excellencies, this is a terrible affair."
"To what affair will your Excellency be alluding?"
wondered O'Moy.
"Have you not received news of what has happened
at Tavora? Of the violation of a convent by a party
of British soldiers? Of the fight that took place
between these soldiers and the peasants who went to
succour the nuns?"
"Oh, and is that all?" said O'Moy. "For a moment
I imagined your Excellency referred to other matters.
I have news of more terrible affairs than the convent
business with which to entertain you this morning."
"That, if you will pardon me, Sir Terence, is quite
impossible."
"You may think so. But you shall judge, bedad.
A chair, Dom Miguel."
The Secretary of State sat down, crossed his knees
and placed his hat in his lap. The other two resumed
their seats, O'Moy leaning forward, his elbows on the
writing-table, immediately facing Senhor Forjas.
36 The Snare
" First, however," he said, "to deal with this affair
of Tavora. The Council of Regency will, no doubt,
have been informed of all the circumstances. You will
be aware, therefore, that this very deplorable business
was the result of a misapprehension, and that the nuns
of Tavora might very well have avoided all this trouble
had they behaved in a sensible, reasonable manner.
If instead of shutting themselves up in the chapel and
ringing the alarm bell the Mother-Abbess or one of
the sisters had gone to the wicket and answered the
demand of admittance from the officer commanding
the detachment, he would instantly have realised his
mistake and withdrawn. 11
"What does your Excellency suggest was this mis*
take?" inquired the Secretary.
"You have had your report, sir, and surely it was
complete. You must know that he conceived himself
to be knocking at the gates of the monastery of the
Dominican fathers."
" Can your Excellency tell me what was this officer's
business at the monastery of the Dominican fathers?"
quoth the Secretary, his manner frostily hostile.
"I am without information on that point," O'Moy
admitted; "no doubt because the officer in question is
missing, as you will also have been informed. But I
have no reason to doubt that, whatever his business
may have been, it was concerned with the interests
which are common alike to the British and the Por-
tuguese nation."
"That is a charitable assumption, Sir Terence."
"Perhaps you will inform me, Dom Miguel, of the
uncharitable assumption which the Principal Souza
prefers," snapped O'Moy, whose temper began to
simmer.
The Ultimatum 37
A faint colour kindled in the cheeks of the Portu-
guese minister, but his manner remained unruffled.
"I speak, sir, not with the voice of Principal Souza,
but with that of the entire Council of Regency; and
the Council has formed the opinion, which your own
words confirm, that his Excellency Lord Wellington
is skilled in finding excuses for the misdemeanours of
the troops under his command."
''That," said O'Moy, who would never have kept his
temper in control but for the pleasant consciousness
that he held a hand of trumps with which he would
presently overwhelm this representative of the Portu-
guese Government, "that is an opinion for which the
Council may presently like to apologise, admitting its
entire falsehood."
Senhor For j as started as if he had been stung. He
uncrossed his black silk legs and made as if to rise.
"Falsehood, sir?" he cried in a scandalised voice.
"It is as well that we should be plain, so as to
be avoiding all misconceptions," said O'Moy. "You
must know, sir, and your Council must know, that
wherever armies move there must be reason for com*
plaint. The British army does not claim in this respect
to be superior to others although I don't say, mark
me, that it might not claim it with perfect justice.
But we do claim for ourselves that our laws against
plunder and outrage are as strict as they well can be,
and that where these things take place punishment
inevitably follows. Out of your own knowledge, sir,
you must admit that what I say is true."
"True, certainly, where the offenders are men from
the ranks. But in this case, where the offender is an
officer, it does not transpire that justice has been ad-
ministered with the same impartial hand."
38 The Snare
"That, sir," answered O'Moy sharply, testily, "is
because he is missing."
The Secretary's thin lips permitted themselves to
curve into the faintest ghost of a smile. "Precisely,"
he said.
For answer O'Moy, red in the face, thrust forward
the dispatch he had received relating to the affair.
"Read, sir read for yourself, that you may report
exactly to the Council of Regency the terms of the re-
port that has just reached me from headquarters. You
will be able to announce that diligent search is being
made for the offender."
For j as perused the document carefully, and returned
it.
"That is very good," he said, "and the Council
will be glad to hear of it. It will enable us to appease
the popular resentment in some degree. But it does
not say here that when taken this officer will not be
excused upon the grounds which yourself you have
urged to me."
" It does not. But considering that he has since been
guilty of desertion, there can be no doubt all else
apart that the finding of a court martial will result
in his being shot."
"Very well," said Forjas. "I will accept your as-
surance, and the Council will be relieved to hear of it."
He rose to take his leave. " I am desired by the Coun-
cil to express to Lord Wellington the hope that he will
take measures to preserve better order among his
troops and to avoid the recurrence of such extremely
painful incidents."
"A moment," said O'Moy, and rising waved his
guest back into his chair, then resumed his own seat.
Under a more or less calm exterior he was a seething
The Ultimatum 39
cauldron of passion. "The matter is not quite at an
end, as your Excellency supposes. From your last
observation, and from a variety of other evidence, I
infer that the Council is far from satisfied with Lord
Wellington's conduct of the campaign."
"That is an inference which I cannot venture to con-
tradict. You will understand, General, that I do not
speak for myself, but for the Council, when I say that
many of his measures seem to us not merely unneces-
sary, but detrimental. The power having been placed
in the hands of Lord Wellington, the Council hardly
feels itself able to interfere with his dispositions. But
it nevertheless deplores the destruction of the mills and
the devastation of the country recommended and in-
sisted upon by his lordship- It feels that this is not
warfare as the Council understands warfare, and the
people share the feelings of the Council. It is felt
that it would be worthier and more commendable if
Lord Wellington were to measure himself in battle with
the French, making a definite attempt to stem the tide
of invasion on the frontiers."
"Quite so," said O'Moy, his hand clenching and un-
clenching, and Tremayne, who watched him, wondered
how long it would be before the storm burst. "Quite
so. And because the Council disapproves of the very
measures which at Lord Wellington's instigation it has
publicly recommended, it does not trouble to see that
those measures are carried out. As you say, it does not
feel itself able to interfere with his dispositions. But it
does not scruple to mark its disapproval by passively
hindering him at every turn. Magistrates are left to
neglect these enactments, and because," he added with
bitter sarcasm, "Portuguese valour is so red-hot and
so devilish set on battle the Militia Acts calling all
40 The Snare
men to the colours are forgotten as soon as published.
There is no one either to compel the recalcitrant to
take up arms, or to punish the desertions of those who
have been driven into taking them up. Yet you want
battles, you want your frontiers defended. A moment,
sir! there is no need for heat, no need for any words.
The matter may be said to be at an end/' He smiled
a thought viciously, be it confessed and then
played his trump card, hurled his bombshell. " Since
the views of your Council are in such utter opposition
to the views of the Commander-in-Chief, you will no
doubt welcome Lord Wellington's proposal to with-
draw from this country and to advise his Majesty's
Government to withdraw the assistance which it is
affording you."
There followed a long spell of silence, O'Moy sitting
back in his chair, his chin in his hand, to observe the
result of his words. Nor was he in the least disap-
pointed. Dom Miguel's mouth fell open; the colour
slowly ebbed from his cheeks, leaving them an ivory-
yellow; his eyes dilated and protruded. He was conster-
nation incarnate.
"My God!" he contrived to gasp at last, and his
shaking hands clutched at the carved arms of his
chair.
" Ye don't seem as pleased as I expected," ventured
O'Moy.
"But, General, surely . . . surely his Excellency can-
not mean to take so ... so terrible a step?"
"Terrible to whom, sir?" wondered O'Moy.
"Terrible to us all." Forjas rose in his agitation.
He came to lean upon O'Moy 's writing-table, facing
the adjutant. "Surely, sir, our interests England's
interests and Portugal's are one in this."
The Ultimatum 41
"To be sure. But England's interests can be de-
fended elsewhere than in Portugal, and it is Lord
Wellington's view that they shall be. He has already
warned the Council of Regency that, since his Majesty
and the Prince Regent have entrusted him with the
command of the British and Portuguese armies, he
will not suffer the Council or any of its members to
interfere with his conduct of the military operations,
or suffer any criticism or suggestion of theirs to alter
a system formed upon mature consideration. But
when, finding their criticisms fail, the members of the
Council, in their wrongheadedness, in their anxiety to
allow private interest to triumph over public duty, go
the length of thwarting the measures of which they do
not approve, the end of Lord Wellington's patience
has been reached. I am giving your Excellency his own
words. He feels that it is futile to remain in a country
whose Government is determined to undermine his
every endeavour to bring this campaign to a successful
issue.
"Yourself, sir, you appear to be distressed. But the
Council of Regency will no doubt take a different view.
It will rejoice in the departure of a man whose military
operations it finds so detestable. You will no doubt
discover this when you come to lay Lord Welling-
ton's decision before the Council, as I now invite you
to do."
Bewildered and undecided, For j as stood there for a
moment, vainly seeking words. Finally:
"Is this really Lord Wellington's last word?" he
asked in tones of profoundest consternation.
"There is one alternative one only," said O'Moy
slowly.
"And that?" Instantly Forjas was all eagerness.
42 The Snare
O'Moy considered him. " Faith, I hesitate to state
it."
"No, no. Please, please."
" I feel that it is idle."
"Let the Council judge. I implore you, General, let
the Council judge."
"Very well." O'Moy shrugged, and took up a sheet
of the dispatch which lay before him. "You will admit,
sir, I think, that the beginning of these troubles coin-
cided with the advent of the Principal Souza upon the
Council of Regency." He waited in vain for a reply.
Forjas, the diplomat, preserved an uncompromising
silence, in which presently O'Moy proceeded: "From
this, and from other evidence, of which indeed there is
no lack, Lord Wellington has come to the conclusion
that all the resistance, passive and active, which he has
encountered, results from the Principal Souza's influ-
ence upon the Council. You will not, I think, trouble
to deny it, sir."
Forjas spread his hands. "You will remember,
General," he answered, in tones of conciliatory regret,
"that the Principal Souza represents a class upon
whom Lord Wellington's measures bear in a manner
peculiarly hard."
"You mean that he represents the Portuguese no-
bility and landed gentry, who, putting their own in-
terests above those of the State, have determined to
oppose and resist the devastation of the country which
Lord Wellington recommends."
"You put it very bluntly," Forjas admitted.
"You will find Lord Wellington's own words even
more blunt," said O'Moy, with a grim smile, and
turned to the dispatch he held. "Let me read you
exactly what he writes:
The Ultimatum 43
"'As for Principal Souza, I beg you to tell him from
me that as I have had no satisfaction in transacting the
business of this country since he has become a member of
the Government, no power on earth shall induce me to re-
main in the Peninsula if he is either to remain a member
of the Government or to continue in Lisbon. Either he
must quit the country, or I will do so, and this immedi-
ately after I have obtained his Majesty's permission to
resign my charge.' '
The adjutant put down the letter and looked expect-
antly at the Secretary of State, who returned the look
with one of utter dismay. Never in all his career had
the diplomat been so completely dumbfounded as
he was now by the simple directness of the man of
action.
In himself Dom Miguel Forjas was both shrewd and
honest. He was shrewd enough to apprehend to the
full the military genius of the British Commander-in-
Chicf, fruits of which he had already witnessed. He
knew that the withdrawal of Junot's army from Lisbon
two years ago resulted mainly from the operations of
Sir Arthur Wellesley as he was then before his
supersession in the supreme command of that first
expedition, and he more than suspected that but for
that supersession the defeat of the first French army
of invasion might have been even more signal. He had
witnessed the masterly campaign of 1809, the battle
of the Douro and the relentless operations which
had culminated in hurling the shattered fragments of
Soult's magnificent army over the Portuguese frontier,
thus liberating that country for the second time from
the thrall of the mighty French invader. And he knew
that unless this man and the troops under his command
remained in Portugal and enjoyed complete liberty of
44 The Snare
action there could be no hope of stemming the third
invasion for which Massena the ablest of all the
Emperor's marshals was now gathering his divisions
in the north. If Wellington were to execute his threat
and withdraw with his army, For j as beheld nothing
but ruin for his country. The irresistible French would
sweep forward in devastating conquest, and Portu-
guese independence would be ground to dust under
the heel of the terrible Emperor.
All this the clear-sighted Dom Miguel For j as now
perceived. To do him full justice, he had feared for
some time that the unreasonable conduct of his Gov-
ernment might ultimately bring about some such des-
perate situation. But it was not for him to voice those
fears. He was the servant of that Government, the
mere instrument and mouthpiece of the Council of
Regency.
"This," he said at length in a voice that was awed,
"is an ultimatum."
"It is that," O'Moy admitted readily.
For j as sighed, shook his dark head and drew himself
up like a man who has chosen his part. Being shrewd,
he saw the immediate necessity of choosing, and, being
honest, he chose honestly.
" Perhaps it is as well," he said.
"That Lord Wellington should go?" cried O'Moy.
"That Lord Wellington should announce intentions
of going," Forjas explained. And having admitted so
much, he now stripped off the official mask completely.
He spoke with his own voice and not with that of the
Council whose mouthpiece he was. "Of course it will
never be permitted. Lord Wellington has been en-
trusted with the defence of the country by the Prince
Regent; consequently it is the duty of every Portu-
The Ultimatum 45
guese to ensure that at all costs he shall continue in
that office."
O'Moy was mystified. Only a knowledge of the
minister's inmost thoughts could have explained this
oddly sudden change of manner.
"But your Excellency understands the terms the
only terms upon which his lordship will so continue?"
" Perfectly. I shall hasten to convey those terms to
the Council. It is also quite clear is it not? that
I may convey to my Government and indeed publish
your complete assurance that the officer responsible
for the raid on the convent at Tavora will be shot when
taken?"
Looking intently into O'Moy 's face, Dom Miguel
saw the clear blue eyes flicker under his gaze, he be-
held a grey shadow slowly overspreading the adjutants
ruddy cheek. Knowing nothing of the relationship
between O'Moy and the offender, unable to guess the
sources of the hesitation of which he now beheld such
unmistakable signs, the minister naturally misunder-
stood it.
"There must be no flinching in this, General," he
cried. "Let me speak to you for a moment quite frankly
and in confidence, not as the Secretary of State of
the Council of Regency, but as a Portuguese patriot
who places his country and his country's welfare above
every other consideration. You have issued your ulti-
matum. It may be harsh, it may be arbitrary; with
that I have no concern. The interests, the feelings of
Principal Souza or of any other individual, however
high-placed, are without weight when the interests of
the nation hang against them in the balance. Better
that an injustice be done to one man than that the
whole country should suffer. Therefore I do not argue
46 The Snare
with you upon the rights and wrongs of Lord Welling-
ton's ultimatum. That is a matter apart. Lord Wel-
lington demands the removal of Principal Souza from
the Government, or, in the alternative, proposes him-
self to withdraw from Portugal. In the national in-
terest the Government can come to only one decision.
I am frank with you, General. Myself I shall stand
ranged on the side of the national interest, and what
my influence in the Council can do it shall do. But if
you know Principal Souza at all, you must know that
he will not relinquish his position without a fight. He
has friends and influence the Patriarch of Lisbon
and many of the nobility will be on his side. I warn
you solemnly against leaving any weapon in his hands."
He paused impressively. But O'Moy, grey-faced
now and haggard, waited in silence for him to continue.
"From the message I brought you," For j as resumed,
"you will have perceived how Principal Souza has
fastened upon this business at Tavora to support his
general censure of Lord Wellington's conduct of the
campaign. That is the weapon to which my warning
refers. You must if we who place the national in-
terest supreme are to prevail you must disarm him
by the assurance that I ask for. You will perceive that
I am disloyal to a member of my Council so that I may
be loyal to my country. But I repeat, I speak to you
in confidence. This officer has committed a gross out-
rage, which must bring the British army into odium
with the people, unless we have your assurance that
the British army is the first to censure and to punish
the offender with the utmost rigour. Give me now,
that I may publish everywhere, your official assur-
ance that this man will be shot, and on my side I as-
sure you that Principal Souza, thus deprived of his
The Ultimatum 47
stoutest weapon, must succumb in the struggle that
awaits us."
"I hope," said O'Moy slowly, his head bowed, his
voice dull and even unsteady, "I hope that I am not
behind you in placing public duty above private con-
sideration. You may publish my official assurance
that the officer in question will be ... shot when taken."
"General, I thank you. My country thanks you.
You may be confident of this issue." He bowed
gravely to O'Moy and then to Tremayne. "Your Ex-
cellencies, I have the honour to wish you good-day."
He was shown -out by the orderly who had admitted
him, and he departed well satisfied in his patriotic
heart that the crisis which he had always known to be
inevitable should have been reached at last. Yet, as
he went, he wondered why the Adjutant-General had
looked so downcast, why his voice had broken when
he pledged his word that justice should be done upon
the offending British officer. That, however, was no
concern of Dom Miguel's, and there was more than
enough to engage his thoughts when he came to con-
sider the ultimatum to his Government with which he
was charged.
CHAPTER III
LADY O'MOY
ACROSS the frontier in the northwest was gathering
the third army of invasion, some sixty thousand strong,
commanded by Marshal Massena, Prince of Esslingen,
the most skilful and fortunate of all Napoleon's gen-
erals, a leader who, because he had never known de-
feat, had come to be surnamed by his Emperor "the
dear child of Victory."
Wellington, at the head of a British force of little
more than one third of the French host, watched and
waited, maturing his stupendous strategic plan, which
those in whose interests it had been conceived had
done so much to thwart. That plan was inspired by
and based upon the Emperor's maxim that war should
support itself; that an army on the march must not be
hampered and immobilised by its commissariat, but
that it must draw its supplies from the country it is
invading; that it must, in short, live upon that country.
Behind the British army and immediately to the
north of Lisbon, in an arc some thirty miles long, fol-
lowing the inflection of the hills from the sea at the
mouth of the Zizandre to the broad waters of the Tagus
at Alhandra, the lines of Torres Vedras were being
constructed under the direction of Colonel Fletcher
and this so secretly and with such careful measures as
to remain unknown to British and Portuguese alike.
Even those employed upon the works knew of nothing
save the section upon which they happened to be en-
gaged, and had no conception of the stupendous and
impregnable whole that was preparing.
Lady O'Moy 49
To these lines it was the British commander's plan
to effect a slow retreat before the French flood when it
should sweep forward, thus luring the enemy onward
into a country which he had commanded should be
laid relentlessly waste, that there that enemy might
first be starved and afterwards destroyed. To this end
had his proclamations gone forth, commanding that
all the land lying between the rivers Tagus and Mon-
dego, in short, the whole of the country between Beira
and Torres Vedras, should be stripped naked, con-
verted into a desert as stark and empty as the Sahara.
Not a head of cattle, not a grain of corn, not a skin of
wine, not a flask of oil, not a crumb of anything afford-
ing nourishment should be left behind. The very mills
were to be rendered useless, bridges were to be broken
down, the houses emptied of all property, which the
refugees were to carry away with them from the line
of invasion.
Such was his terrible demand upon the country for
its own salvation. But such, as we have seen, was not
war as Principal Souza and some of his adherents un-
derstood it. They had not the foresight to perceive the
inevitable result of this strategic plan if effectively and
thoroughly executed. They did not even realise that
the devastation had better be effected by the British
in this defensive and in its results at the same time
overwhelmingly offensive manner than by the
French in the course of a conquering onslaught. They
did not realise these things partly because they did not
enjoy Wellington's full confidence, and in a greater
measure because they were blinded by self-interest,
because, as O'Moy told Forjas, they placed private
considerations above public duty. The northern
nobles whose lands must suffer opposed the measure
50 The Snare
violently; they even opposed the withdrawal of labour
from those lands which the Militia Act had rendered
necessary. And Antonio de Souza made himself their
champion until he was broken by Wellington's ulti-
matum to the Council. For broken he was. The na-
tion had come to a parting of the ways. It had been
brought to the necessity of choosing, and however
much the Principal, voicing the outcry of his party,
might argue that the British plan was as detestable
and ruinous as a French invasion, the nation preferred
to place its confidence in the conqueror of Vimeiro and
the Douro.
Souza quitted the Government and the capital as
had been demanded. But if Wellington hoped that he
would quit intriguing, he misjudged his man. He was
a fellow of monstrous vanity, pride and self-sufficiency,
of the sort than which there is none more dangerous to
offend. His wounded pride demanded a salve to be
procured at any cost. The wound had been adminis-
tered by Wellington, and must be returned with in-
terest. So that he ruined Wellington it mattered noth-
ing to Antonio de Souza that he should ruin himself
and his own country at the same time. He was like
some blinded, ferocious and unreasoning beast, ready,
even eager, to sacrifice its own life so that in dying it
can destroy its enemy and slake its blood-thirst.
In that mood he passes out of the councils of the
Portuguese Government into a brooding and secretly
active retirement, of which the fruits shall presently
be shown. With his departure the Council of Regency,
rudely shaken by the ultimatum which had driven him
forth, became more docile and active, and for a season
the measures enjoined by the Commander-in-Chief
were pursued with some show of earnestness.
Lady O'Moy 51
As a result of all this life at Monsanto became easier,
and O'Moy was able to breathe more freely, and to
devote more of his time to matters concerning the for-
tifications which Wellington had left largely in his
charge. Then, too, as the weeks passed, the shadow
overhanging him with regard to Richard Butler
gradually lifted. No further word had there been of
the missing lieutenant, and by the end of May both
O'Moy and Tremayne had come to the conclusion that
he must have fallen into the hands of some of the fero-
cious mountaineers to whom a soldier whether his
uniform were British or French was a thing to be
done to death.
For his wife's sake O'Moy came thankfully to that
conclusion. Under the circumstances it was the best
possible termination to the episode. She must be told
of her brother's death presently, when evidence of it
was forthcoming; she would mourn him passionately,
no doubt, for her attachment to him was deep ex-
traordinarily deep for so shallow a woman but at
least she would be spared the pain and shame she must
inevitably have felt had he been taken and shot.
Meanwhile, however, the lack of news from him, in
another sense, would have to be explained to Una
sooner or later for a fitful correspondence was
maintained between brother and sister and O'Moy
dreaded the moment when this explanation must be
made. Lacking invention, he applied to Tremayne for
assistance, and Tremayne glumly supplied him with
the necessary lie that should meet Lady O'Moy's
inquiries when they came.
In the end, however, he was spared the necessity of
falsehood. For the truth itself reached Lady O'Moy
in an unexpected manner. '
52 The Snare
It came about a month after that day when O'Moy
had first received news of the escapade at Tavora. It
was a resplendent morning of early June, and the ad-
jutant was detained a few moments from breakfast by
the arrival of a mail-bag from headquarters, now es-
tablished at Vizeu. Leaving Captain Tremayne to deal
with it, Sir Terence went down to breakfast, bearing
with him only a few letters of a personal character
which had reached him from friends on the frontier.
The architecture of the house at Monsanto was of
a semiclaustral character; three sides of it enclosed a
sheltered luxuriant garden, whilst on the fourth side
a connecting corridor, completing the quadrangle,
spanned bridgewise the spacious archway through
which admittance was gained directly from the park-
lands that sloped gently to Alcantara. This archway,
closed at night by enormous wooden doors, opened
wide during the day upon a grassy terrace bounded
by a baluster of white marble that gleamed now in the
brilliant sunshine. It was O'Moy's practice to break-
fast out-of-doors in that genial climate, and during
April, before the sun had reached its present intensity,
the table had been spread out there upon the terrace.
Now, however, it was wiser, even in the early morning,
to seek the shade, and breakfast was served within the
quadrangle, under a trellis of vine supported in the
Portuguese manner by rough-hewn granite columns.
It was a delicious spot, cool and fragrant, secluded
without being enclosed, since through the broad arch-
way it commanded a view of the Tagus and the hills of
Alemtejo.
Here O'Moy found himself impatiently awaitec
that morning by his wife and her cousin, Sylvia Army-
tage, more recently arrived from England.
Lady O'Moy 53
"You are very late," Lady O'Moy greeted him
petulantly. Since she spent her life in keeping other
people waiting, it naturally fretted her to discover un-
punctuality in others.
Her portrait, by Raeburn, which now adorns the
National Gallery, had been painted in the previous
year. You will have seen it, or at least you will have
seen one of its numerous replicas, and you will have
remarked its singular, delicate, rose-petal loveliness
the gleaming golden head, the flawless outline of
face and feature, the immaculate skin, the dark blue
eyes with their look of innocence awakening.
Thus was she now ki her artfully simple gown of
flowered muslin with its white fichu folded across
her neck that was but a shade less white ; thus was
she, just as Raeburn had painted her, saving, of
course, that her expression, matching her words, was
petulant.
"I was detained by the arrival of a mail-bag from
Vizeu," Sir Terence excused himself, as he took the
chair which Mullins, the elderly, pontifical butler,
drew out for him. "Ned is attending to it, and will be
kept for a few moments yet."
Lady O'Moy 's expression quickened. "Are there
no letters for me?"
"None, my dear, I believe."
"No word from Dick?" Again there was that note
of ever-ready petulance. "It is too provoking. He
should know that he must make me anxious by his
silence. Dick is so thoughtless so careless of other
people's feelings. I shall write to him severely."
The adjutant paused in the act of unfolding his
napkin. The prepared explanation trembled on his
lips; but its falsehood, repellent to him, was not uttered.
54 The Snare
"I should certainly do so, my dear," was all he said,
and addressed himself to his breakfast.
"What news from headquarters?" Miss Armytage
asked him. "Are things going well? "
"Much better now that Principal Souza's influence
is at an end. Cotton reports that the destruction of the
mills in the Mondego valley is being carried out sys-
tematically."
Miss Armytage's dark, thoughtful eyes became
wistful.
"Do you know, Terence," she said, "that I am not
without some sympathy for the Portuguese resistance
to Lord Wellington's decrees. They must bear so ter-
ribly hard upon the people. To be compelled with their
own hands to destroy their homes and lay waste the
lands upon which they have laboured what could be
more cruel?"
"War can never be anything but cruel," he answered
gravely. "God help the people over whose lands it
sweeps. Devastation is often the least of the horrors
marching in its train."
"Why must war be?" she asked him, in intelligent
rebellion against that most monstrous and infamous of
all human madnesses.
O'Moy proceeded to do his best to explain the un-
e.xplainable, and since, himself a professional soldier,
he could not take the sane view of his sane young ques-
tioner, hot argument ensued between them, to the infi-
nite weariness of Lady O'Moy, who out of self-protec-
tion gave herself to the study of the latest fashion
plates from London and the consideration of a gown
for the ball which the Count of Redondo was giving in
the following week.
It was thus in all things, for these cousins repre-
Lady O'Moy 55
sented the two poles of womanhood. Miss Armytage,
without any of Lady O'Moy's insistent and excessive
femininity, was nevertheless feminine to the core. But
hers was the Diana type of womanliness. She was tall
and of a clean-limbed, supple grace, now emphasised
by the riding-habit which she was wearing for she
had been in the saddle during the hour which Lady
O'Moy had consecrated to the rites of toilet and de-
votions done before her mirror. Dark-haired, dark-
eyed, vivacity and intelligence lent her countenance
an attraction very different from the allurement of her
cousin's delicate loveliness. And because her counte-
nance was a true mirror of her mind, she argued
shrewdly now, so shrewdly that she drove O'Moy to
entrench himself behind generalisations.
"My dear Sylvia, war is most merciful where it is
most merciless," he assured her with the Irish gift for
paradox. "At home in the Government itself there are
plenty who argue as you argue, and who are wondering
when we shall embark for England. That is because
they are intellectuals, and war is a thing beyond the
understanding of intellectuals. It is not intellect but
brute instinct and brute force that will help humanity
in such a crisis as the present. Therefore, let me tell
you, my child, that a government of intellectual men
is the worst possible government for a nation engaged
in a war."
This was far from satisfying Miss Armytage. Lord
Wellington himself was an intellectual, she objected.
Nobody could deny it. There was the work^ he had
done as Irish Secretary, and there was the calculating
genius he had displayed at Vimeiro, at Oporto, at
Talavera.
And then, observing her husband to be in distress,
56 The Snare
Lady O'Moy put down her fashion plate and brought
up her heavy artillery to relieve him.
" Sylvia, dear," she interpolated, " I wonder that you
will for ever be arguing about things you don't under-
stand."
Miss Armytage laughed good-humouredly. She was
not easily put out of countenance. "What woman
does n't?" she asked.
"I don't, and I am a woman, surely."
"Ah, but an exceptional woman," her cousin rallied
her affectionately, tapping the shapely white arm that
protruded from a foam of lace. And Lady O'Moy, to
whom words never had any but a literal meaning, set
herself to purr precisely as one would have expected.
Complacently she discoursed upon the perfection of
her own endowments, appealing ever and anon to her
husband for confirmation, and O'Moy, who loved her
with all the passionate reverence which Nature work-
ing inscrutably to her ends so often inspires in just
such strong, essentially masculine men for just such
fragile and excessively feminine women, afforded this
confirmation with all the enthusiasm of sincere con-
viction.
Thus until Mullins broke in upon them with the an-
nouncement of a visit from Count Samoval, an an-
nouncement more welcome to Lady O'Moy than to
either of her companions.
The Portuguese nobleman was introduced. He had
attained to a degree of familiarity in the adjutant's
household that permitted of his being received without
ceremony there at that breakfast-table spread in the
open. He was a slender, handsome, swarthy man of
thirty, scrupulously dressed, as graceful and elegant in
his movements as a fencing master, which indeed he
Lady O'Moy 57
might have been, for his skill with the foils was a mat-
ter of pride to himself and notoriety to all the world.
Nor was it by any means the only skill he might have
boasted, for Jeronymo de Samoval was in many things,
a very subtle, supple gentleman. His friendship with
the O'Moys, now some three months old, had been
considerably strengthened of late by the fact that
he had unexpectedly become one of the most hostile
critics of the Council of Regency as lately constituted,
and one of the most ardent supporters of the Welling-
tonian policy.
He bowed with supremest grace to the ladies, ven-
tured to kiss the fair, smooth hand of his hostess, un-
deterred by the frosty stare of O'Moy's blue eyes
whose approval of all men was in inverse proportion
to their approval of his wife and finally proffered
her the armful of early roses that he brought.
"These poor roses of Portugal to their sister from
England, " said his softly caressing tenor voice.
"Ye 're a poet," said O'Moy tartly.
"Having found Castalia here," said the Count,
"shall I not drink its limpid waters?"
"Not, I hope, while there's an agreeable vintage
of Port on the table. A morning whet, Samoval?"
O'Moy invited him, taking up the decanter.
"Two fingers, then no more. It is not my custom in
the morning. But here to drink your lady's health,
and yours, Miss Armytage." With a graceful flourish of
his glass he pledged them both and sipped delicately,
then took the chair that O'Moy was proffering.
"Good news, I hear, General. Antonio de Souza's
removal from the Government is already bearing fruit.
The mills in the valley of the Mondego are being effec-
tively destroyed at last."
58 The Snare
"Ye 're very well informed, " grunted O'Moy, who
himself had but received the news. "As well informed,
indeed, as I am myself." There was a note almost of
suspicion in the words, and he was vexed that matters
which it was desirable be kept screened as much as pos-
sible from general knowledge should so soon be put
abroad.
"Naturally, and with reason," was the answer, de-
livered with a rueful smile. "Am I not interested? Is
not some of my property in question?" Samoval
sighed. "But I bow to the necessities of war. At least
it cannot be said of me, as was said of those whose
interests Souza represented, that I put private con-
siderations above public duty that is the phrase,
I think. The individual must suffer that the nation
may triumph. A Roman maxim, my dear General."
"And a British one," said O'Moy, to whom Britain
was a second Rome.
"Oh, admitted," replied the amiable Samoval. "You
proved it by your uncompromising firmness in the
affair of Tavora."
"What was that?" inquired Miss Armytage.
"Have you not heard?" cried Samoval in astonish-
ment.
"Of course not," snapped O'Moy, who had broken
into a cold perspiration. "Hardly a subject for the
ladies, Count."
Rebuked for his intention, Samoval submitted in-
stantly.
" Perhaps not; perhaps not," he agreed, as if dismiss-
ing it, whereupon O'Moy recovered from his momen-
tary breathlessness. "But in your own interests, my
dear General, I trust there will be no weakening when
this Lieutenant Butler is caught, and "
Lady O'Moy 59
"Who?"
Sharp and stridently came that single word from her
ladyship.
Desperately O'Moy sought to defend the breach.
"Nothing to do with Dick, my dear. A fellow
named Philip Butler, who "
But the too-well-informed Samoval corrected him-
"Not Philip, General Richard Butler. I had the
name but yesterday from Forjas."
In the scared hush that followed the Count perceived
that he had stumbled headlong into a mystery. He
saw Lady O'Moy 's face turn whiter and whiter, saw
her sapphire eyes dilating as they regarded him.
"Richard Butler!" she echoed. "What of Richard
Butler? Tell me. Tell me at once."
Hesitating before such signs of distress, Samoval
looked at O'Moy, to meet a dejected scowl.
Lady O'Moy turned to her husband. "What is it?"
she demanded. "You know something about Dick
and you are keeping it from me. Dick is in trouble?"
"He is," O'Moy admitted. "In great trouble."
"What has he done? You spoke of an affair at
Evora or Tavora, which is not to be mentioned before
ladies. I demand to know." Her affection and anxiety
for her brother invested her for a moment with a cer-
tain dignity, lent her a force that was but rarely dis-
played by her.
Seeing the men stricken speechless, Samoval from
bewildered astonishment, O'Moy from distress, she
jumped to the conclusion, after what had been said,
that motives of modesty accounted for their silence.
"Leave us, Sylvia, please," she said. "Forgive me,
dear. But you see they will not mention these things
while you are present." She made a piteous little
60 The Snare
figure as she stood trembling there, her fingers tearing
in agitation at one of Samoval's roses.
She waited until the obedient and discreet Miss
Armytage had passed from view into the wing that
contained the adjutant's private quarters, then sink-
ing limp and nerveless to her chair:
"Now," she bade them, "please tell me."
And O'Moy, with a sigh of regret for the lie so labo-
riously concocted which would never now be uttered,
delivered himself huskily of the hideous truth.
CHAPTER IV
COUNT SAMOVAL
Miss ARMYTAGE'S own notions of what might be fit
and proper for her virginal ears were by no means coin-
cident with Lady O'Moy's. Thus, although you have
seen her pass into the private quarters of the adjutant's
establishment, and although, in fact, she did with-
draw to her own room, she found it impossible to abide
there a prey to doubt and misgivings as to what Dick
Butler might have done doubt and misgivings, be it
understood, entertained purely on Una's account and
not at all on Dick's.
By the corridor spanning the archway on the south-
ern side of the quadrangle, and serving as a connecting
bridge between the adjutant's private and official
quarters, Miss Armytage took her way to Sir Terence's
work-room, knowing that she would find Captain
Tremayne there, and assuming that he would be alone.
" May I come in?" she asked him from the doorway.
He sprang to his feet. " Why, certainly, Miss Army-
tage." For so imperturbable a young man he seemed
oddly breathless in his eagerness to welcome her. "Are
you looking for O'Moy? He left me nearly half-an-
hour ago to go to breakfast, and I was just about to
follow."
"I scarcely dare detain you, then."
"On the contrary. I mean . . . not at all. But . . .
were you wanting me?"
She closed the door, and came forward into the
room, moving with that supple grace peculiarly her
own.
62 The Snare
"I want you to tell me something, Captain Tre-
mayne, and I want you to be frank with me."
"I hope I could never be anything else."
" I want you to treat me as you would treat a man,
a friend of your own sex."
Tremayne sighed. He had recovered from the sur-
prise of her coming and was again his imperturbable
self.
"I assure you that is the last way in which I desire
to treat you. But if you insist "
"I do." She had frowned slightly at the earlier part
of his speech, with its subtle, half-jesting gallantry, and
she spoke sharply now.
" I bow to your will," said Captain Tremayne.
"What has Dick Butler been doing?"
He looked into her face with sharply questioning
eyes.
, "What was it that happened at Tavora?"
*He continued to look at her. "What have you
heard?" he asked at last.
"Only that he has done something at Tavora for
which the consequences, I gather, may be grave. I am
anxious for Una's sake to know what it is."
"Does Una know?"
"She is being told now. Count Samoval let slip
just what I have outlined. And she has insisted upon
being told everything."
"Then why did you not remain to hear?"
" Because they sent me away on the plea that oh,
on the silly plea of my youth and innocence, which
were not to be offended."
"But which you expect me to offend?"
"No. Because I can trust you to tell me without
offending."
Count Samoval 63
" Sylvia!*' It was a curious exclamation of satisfac-
tion and of gratitude for the implied confidence. We
must admit that it betrayed a selfish forgetfulness of
Dick Butler and his troubles, but it is by no means
clear that it was upon such grounds that it offended
her.
She stiffened perceptibly. "Really, Captain Tre-
mayne!"
" I beg your pardon," said he. "But you seemed to
imply ' He checked, at a loss.
Her colour rose. "Well, sir? What do you suggest
that I implied or seemed to imply?" But as suddenly
her manner changed. "I think we are too concerned
with trifles where the matter on which I have sought
you is a serious one."
"It is of the utmost seriousness," he admitted
gravely.
"Won't you tell me what it is?"
He told her quite simply the whole story, not for-
getting to give prominence to the circumstances ex-
tenuating it in Butler's favour. She listened with a
deepening frown, rather pale, her head bowed.
"And when he is taken," she asked, "what what
will happen to him?"
"Let us hope that he will not be taken."
"But if he is if he is?" she insisted almost impa-
tiently.
Captain Tremayne turned aside and looked out of
the window. "I should welcome the news that he is
dead," he said softly. "For if he is taken he will find
no mercy at the hands of his own people."
"You mean that he will be shot?" Horror charged
her voice, dilated her eyes.
"Inevitably."
64 The Snare
A shudder ran through her, and she covered her face
with her hands. When she withdrew them Tremayne
beheld the lovely countenance transformed. It was
white and drawn.
"But surely Terence can save him!" she cried pite-
ously.
He shook his head, his lips tight pressed. "There is
no man less able to do so."
"What do you mean? Why do you say that?"
He looked at her, hesitating for a moment, then
answered her: "O'Moy has pledged his word to the
Portuguese Government that Dick Butler shall be shot
when taken."
"Terence did that?"
"He was compelled to it. Honour and duty de-
manded no less of him. I alone, who was present and
witnessed the undertaking, know what it cost him and
what he suffered. But he was forced to sink all private
considerations. It was a sacrifice rendered necessary,
inevitable for the success of this campaign." And he
proceeded to explain to her all the circumstances that
were interwoven with Lieutenant Butler's ill-timed
offence. "Thus you see that from Terence you can
hope for nothing. His honour will not admit of his
wavering in this matter."
"Honour?" She uttered the word almost with con-
tempt. "And what of Una?"
" I was thinking of Una when I said I should welcome
the news of Dick's death somewhere in the hills. It is
the best that can be hoped for."
"I thought you were Dick's friend, Captain Tre-
mayne."
"Why, so I have been; so I am. Perhaps that is
another reason why I should hope that he is dead."
Count Samoval 65
" Is it no reason why you should do what you can to
save him?"
He looked at her steadily for an instant, calm under
the reproach of her eyes.
"Believe me, Miss Armytage, if I saw a way to save
him, to do anything to help him, I should seize it, both
for the sake of my friendship for himself and because of
my affection for Una. Since you yourself are interested
in him, that is an added reason for me. But it is one
thing to admit willingness to help and another thing
actually to afford help. What is there that I can do?
I assure you that I have thought of the matter. Indeed
for days I have thought of little else. But I can see no
light. I await events. Perhaps a chance may come."
Her expression had softened. " I see." She put out a
hand generously to ask forgiveness. "I was presump-
tuous, and I had no right to speak as I did."
He took the hand. "I should never question your
right to speak to me in any way that seemed good to
you," he assured her.
"I had better go to Una. She will be needing me,
poor child. I am grateful to you, Captain Tremayne,
for your confidence and for telling me." And thus she
left him very thoughtful, as concerned for Una as she
was herself.
Now Una O'Moy was the natural product of such
treatment. There had ever been something so appeal-
ing in her lovely helplessness and fragility that all her
life others had been concerned to shelter her from
every wind that blew. Because it was so she was what
she was; and because she was what she was it would
continue to be so.
But Lady O'Moy at the moment did not stand in
such urgent need of Miss Armytage as Miss Armytage
66 The Snare
imagined. She had heard the appalling story of her
brother's escapade, but she had been unable to perceive
in what it was so terrible as it was declared. He had
made a mistake. He had invaded the convent under a
misapprehension, for which it was ridiculous to blame
him. It was a mistake which any man might have
made in a foreign country. Lives had been lost, it is
true; but that was owing to the stupidity of other
people of the nuns who had run for shelter when no
danger threatened save in their own silly imaginations,
and of the peasants who had come blundering to their
assistance where no assistance was required ; the latter
were the people responsible for the bloodshed, since
they had attacked the dragoons. Could it be expected
of the dragoons that they should tamely suffer them-
selves to be massacred?
Thus Lady O'Moy upon the affair of Tavora. The
whole thing appeared to her to be rather silly, and she
refused seriously to consider that it could have any
grave consequences for Dick. His continued absence
made her anxious. But if he should come to be taken,
surely his punishment would be merely a formal mat-
ter; at the worst he might be sent home, which would
be a very good thing, for after all the climate of the
Peninsula had never quite suited him.
In this fashion she nimbly pursued a train of vitiated
logic, passing from inconsequence to inconsequence.
And O'Moy, thankful that she should take such a view
as this mercifully hopeful that the last had been
heard of his peccant and vexatious brother-in-law
was content, more than content, to leave her comforted
by such illusions.
And then, while she was still discussing the matter
in terms of comparative calm, came an orderly to sum-
Count Samoval 67
mon him away, so that he left her in the company of
Samoval.
The Count had been deeply shocked by the discov-
ery that Dick Butler was Lady O'Moy's brother, and
not a little confused that he himself in his ignorance
should have been the means of bringing to her knowl-
edge a painful matter that touched her so closely and
that hitherto had been so carefully concealed from her
by her husband. He was thankful that she should take
so optimistic a view, and quick to perceive O'Moy's
charitable desire to leave her optimism undispelled.
But he was no less quick to perceive the opportunities
which the circumstances afforded him to further a
certain deep intrigue upon which he was engaged.
Therefore he did not take his leave just yet. He
sauntered with Lady O'Moy on the terrace above the
wooded slopes that screened the village of Alcantara,
and there discovered her mind to be even more frivo-
lous and unstable than his perspicuity had hitherto
suspected. Under stress Lady O'Moy could convey
the sense that she felt deeply. She could be almost
theatrical in her displays of emotion. But these were
as transient as they were intense. Nothing that was
not immediately present to her senses was ever capable
of a deep impression upon her spirit, and she had the
facility characteristic of the self-loving and self-indul-
gent of putting aside any matter that was unpleasant.
Thus, easily self -persuaded, as we have seen, that this
escapade of Richard's was not to be regarded too seri-
ously, and that its consequences were not likely to be
grave, she chattered with gay inconsequence of other
things of the dinner-party last week at the house of
the Marquis of Minas, that prominent member of the
Council of Regency, of the forthcoming ball to be given
68 The Snare
by the Count of Redondo, of the latest news from home,
the latest fashion and the latest scandal, the amours
of the Duke -of York and the shortcomings of Mr.
Perceval.
Samoval, however, did not intend that the matter of
her brother should be so entirely forgotten, so lightly
treated. Deliberately at last he revived it.
Considering her as she leant upon the granite balus-
trade, her pink sunshade aslant over her shoulder, her
flimsy lace shawl festooned from the crook of either
arm and floating behind her, a wisp of cloudy vapour,
Samoval permitted himself a sigh.
She flashed him a sidelong glance, arch and rallying.
"You are melancholy, sir a poor compliment, fi
she told him.
But do not misunderstand her. Hers was an almost
childish coquetry, inevitable fruit of her intense fem-
ininity, craving ever the worship of the sterner sex
and the incense of its flattery. And Samoval, after all,
young, noble, handsome, with a half-sinister reputa-
tion, was something of a figure of romance, as a good
many women had discovered to their cost.
He fingered his snowy stock, and bent upon her eyes
of glowing adoration. "Dear Lady O'Moy," his tenor
voice was soft and soothing as a caress, " I sigh to think
that one so adorable, so entirely made for life's sun-
shine and gladness, should have cause for a moment's
uneasiness, perhaps for secret grief, at the thought of
the peril of her brother."
Her glance clouded under this reminder. Then she
pouted and made a little gesture of impatience. " Dick
is not in peril," she answered. " He is foolish to remain
so long in hiding, and of course he will have to face un-
pleasantness when he is found. But to say that he is in
Count Samoval 69
peril is ... just nonsense. Terence said nothing of peril.
He agreed with me that Dick will probably be sent
home. Surely you don't think "
"No, no." He looked down, studying his hessians
for a moment, then his dark eyes returned to meet her
own. "I shall see to it that he is in no danger. You
may depend upon me, who ask but the happy chance
to serve you. Should there be any trouble, let me
know at once, and I will see to it that all is well. Your
brother must not suffer, since he is your brother. He is
very blessed and enviable in that."
She stared at him, her brows knitting. "But I don't
understand."
"Is it not plain? Whatever happens, you must not
suffer, Lady O'Moy. No man of feeling, and I least of
any, could endure it. And since if your brother were
to suffer that must bring suffering to you, you may
count upon me to shield him."
"You are very good, Count. But shield him from
what?'*
"From whatever may threaten. The Portuguese
Government may demand in self-protection, to ap-
pease the clamour of the people stupidly outraged by
this affair, that an example shall be made of the
offender."
"Oh, but how could they? With what reason?"
She displayed a vague alarm, and a less vague impa-
tience of such hypotheses.
He shrugged. "The people are like that a fierce,
vengeful god to whom appeasing sacrifices must be
offered from time to time. If the people demand a
scapegoat, governments usually provide one. But be
comforted." In his eagerness of reassurance he caught
her delicate mittened hand in his own, and her anxiety
70 The Snare
rendering her heedless, she allowed it to lie there gently
imprisoned. "Be comforted. I shall be here to guard
him. There is much that I can do and you may depend
upon me to do it for your sake, dear lady. The
Government will listen to me. I would not have you
imagine me capable of boasting. I have influence with
the Government, that is all; and I give you my word
that so far as the Portuguese Government is concerned
your brother shall take no harm.'*
She looked at him for a long moment with moist
eyes, moved and flattered by his earnestness and inten-
sity of homage. "I take this very kindly in you, sir.
I have no thanks that are worthy," she said, her voice
trembling a little. " I have no means of repaying you.
You have made me very happy, Count."
He bent low over the frail hand he was holding.
"Your assurance that I have made you happy re-
pays me very fully, since your happiness is my tender-
est concern. Believe me, dear lady, you may ever count
Jeronymo de Samoval your most devoted and obedient
slave."
He bore the hand to his lips and held it to them for
a long moment, whilst with heightened colour and eyes
that sparkled, more, be it confessed, from excitement
than from gratitude, she stood passively considering
his bowed dark head.
As he came erect again a movement under the arch-
way caught his eye, and turning he found himself con-
fronting Sir Terence and Miss Armytage, who were
approaching. If it vexed him to have been caught
by a husband notoriously jealous in an attitude not
altogether uncompromising, Samoval betrayed no sign
of it.
With smooth self-possession he hailed O'Moy:
Count Samoval 71
"General, you come in time to enable me to take my
leave of you. I was on the point of going."
"So I perceived," said O'Moy tartly. He had almost
said: "Sol had hoped."
His frosty manner would have imposed constraint
upon any man less master of himself than Samoval.
But the Count ignored it, and ignoring it delayed a
moment to exchange amiabilities politely with Miss
Armytage, before taking at last an unhurried and un-
perturbed departure.
But no sooner was he gone" than O'Moy expressed
himself full frankly to his wife.
" I think Samoval is becoming too attentive and too
assiduous."
"He is a dear," said Lady O'Moy.
"That is what I mean," replied Sir Terence grimly.
"He has undertaken that if there should be any
trouble with the Portuguese Government about Dick's
silly affair he will put it right."
"Oh!" said O'Moy, "that was it?" And out of his
tender consideration for her said no more.
But Sylvia Armytage, knowing what she knew from
Captain Tremayne, was not content to leave the mat-
ter there. She reverted to it presently as she was going
indoors alone with her cousin.
"Una," she said gently, "I should not place too
much faith in Count Samoval and his promises."
"What do you mean? " Lady O'Moy was never very
tolerant of advice, especially from an inexperienced
young girl.
" I do not altogether trust him. Nor does Terence."
"Pooh! Terence mistrusts every man who looks at
me. My dear, never marry a jealous man," she added
with her inevitable inconsequence.
72 The Snare
"He is the last man the Count, I mean to
whom, in your place, I should go for assistance if there
is trouble about Dick." She was thinking of what
Tremayne had told her of the attitude of the Portu-
guese Government, and her clear-sighted mind per-
ceived an obvious peril in permitting Count Samoval
to become aware of Dick's whereabouts should they
ever be discovered.
"What nonsense, Sylvia! You conceive the oddest
and most foolish notions sometimes. But of course you
have no experience of the world." And beyond that
she refused to discuss the matter, nor did the wise
Sylvia insist.
CHAPTER V
THE FUGITIVE
ALTHOUGH Dick Butler might continue missing in the
flesh, in the spirit he and his miserable affair seem to
have been ever present and ubiquitous, and a most
fruitful source of trouble.
It would be at about this time that there befell in
Lisbon the deplorable event that nipped in the bud the
career of that most promising young officer, Major
Berkeley of the famous Die-Hards, the 29th Foot.
Coming into Lisbon on leave from his regiment,
which was stationed at Abrantes, and formed part of
the division under Sir Rowland Hill, the major hap-
pened into a company that contained at least one mem-
ber who was hostile to Lord Wellington's conduct of
the campaign, or rather to the measures which it en-
tailed. As in the case of the Principal Souza, prejudice
drove him to take up any weapon that came to his
hand by means of which he could strike a blow at a
system he deplored.
Since we are concerned only indirectly with the affair,
it may be stated very briefly. The young gentleman
in question was a Portuguese officer and a nephew of
the Patriarch of Lisbon, and the particular criticism
to which Major Berkeley took such just exception
concerned the very troublesome Dick Butler. Our
patrician ventured to comment with sneers and innu-
endoes upon the fact that the lieutenant of dragoons
continued missing, and he went so far as to indulge in
a sarcastic prophecy that he never would be found.
Major Berkeley, stung by the slur thus slyly cast
74 The Snare
upon British honour, invited the young gentleman to
make himself more explicit.
"I had thought that I was explicit enough, " says
young impudence, leering at the stalwart red-coat.
" But if you want it more clearly still, then I mean that
the undertaking to punish this ravisher of nunneries
is one that you English have never intended to carry
out. To save your faces you will take good care that
Lieutenant Butler is never found. Indeed I doubt if he
was ever really missing. "
Major Berkeley was quite uncompromising and
downright. I am afraid he had none of the graces that
can exalt one of these affairs.
"Ye 're just a very foolish liar, sir, and you deserve
a good caning," was all he said, but the way in which
he took his cane from under his arm was so suggestive
of more to follow there and then that several of the
company laid preventive hands upon him instantly.
The Patriarch's nephew, very white and very fierce
to hear himself addressed in terms which out of re-
spect for his august and powerful uncle had never
been used to him before, demanded instant satisfaction.
He got it next morning in the shape of half-an-ounce
of lead through his foolish brain, and a terrible uproar
ensued. To appease it a scapegoat was necessary. As
Samoval so truly said, the mob is a ferocious god to
whom sacrifices must be made. In this instance the
sacrifice, of course, was Major Berkeley. He was bro-
ken and sent home to cut his pigtail (the adornment
still clung to by the 29th) and retire into private life,
whereby the British army was deprived of an officer of
singularly brilliant promise. Thus, you see, the score
against poor Richard Butler that foolish victim of
wine and circumstance went on increasing.
The Fugitive 75
But in my haste to usher Major Berkeley out of a
narrative which he touches merely at a tangent, I am
guilty of violating the chronological order of the events.
The ship in which Major Berkeley went home to Eng-
land and the rural life was the frigate Telemachus, and
the Telemachus had but dropped anchor in the Tagus
at the date with which I am immediately concerned.
She came with certain stores and a heavy load of
mails for the troops, and it would be a full fortnight
before she would sail again for home. Her officers
would be ashore during the time, the welcome guests
of the officers of the garrison, bearing their share in the
gaieties with which the latter strove to kill the time of
waiting for events, and Marcus Glennie, the captain
of the frigate, an old friend of Tremayne's, was by
virtue of that friendship an almost daily visitor at the
adjutant's quarters.
But there again I am anticipating. The Telemachus
came to her moorings in the Tagus, at which for the
present we may leave her, on the morning of the day that
was to close with Count Redondo's semi-official ball.
Lady O'Moy had risen late, taking from one end of
the day what she must relinquish to the other, that
thus fully rested she might look her best that night.
The greater part of the afternoon was devoted to
preparation. It was amazing even to herself what an
amount of detail there was to be considered, and from
Sylvia she received but very indifferent assistance.
There were times when she regretfully suspected in
Sylvia a lack of proper womanliness, a taint almost
of masculinity. There was to Lady O'Moy's mind
something very wrong about a woman who preferred
a canter to a waltz. It was unnatural ; it was suspicious;
she was not quite sure that it was n't vaguely immoraL
76 The Snare
At last there had been dinner to which she came
a full half-hour late, but of so ravishing and angelic
an appearance that the sight of her was sufficient to
mollify Sir Terence's impatience and stifle the wither-
ing sarcasms he had been laboriously preparing. After
dinner which was taken at six o 'clock there was
still an hour to spare before the carriage would come to
take them into Lisbon.
Sir Terence pleaded stress of work, occasioned by
the arrival of the Telemachus that morning, and with-
drew with Tremayne to the official quarters, to spend
that hour in disposing of some of the many matters
awaiting his attention. Sylvia, who to Lady O'Moy's
exasperation seemed now for the first time to give a
thought to what she should wear that night, went off
in haste to gown herself, and so Lady O'Moy was left
to her own resources which I assure you were few
indeed.
The evening being calm and warm, she sauntered
out into the open. She was more or less annoyed with
everybody with Sir Terence and Tremayne for their
assiduity to duty, and with Sylvia for postponing all
thought of dressing until this eleventh hour, when she
might have been better employed in beguiling her lady-
ship's loneliness. In this petulant mood, Lady O'Moy
crossed the quadrangle, loitered a moment by the table
and chairs placed under the trellis, and considered sit-
ting there to await the others. Finally, however, at-
tracted by the glory of the sunset behind the hills
towards Abrantes, she sauntered out on to the terrace,
to the intense thankfulness of a poor wretch who had
waited there for the past ten hours in the almost de-
spairing hope that precisely such a thing might happen.
She was leaning upon the balustrade when a rustle
The Fugitive 77
in the pines below drew her attention. The rustle
worked swiftly upwards and round to the bushes on
her right, and her eyes, faintly startled, followed its
career, what time she stood tense and vaguely fright-
ened.
Then the bushes parted and a limping figure that
leaned heavily upon a stick disclosed itself; a shaggy,
red-bearded man in the garb of a peasant ; and
marvel of marvels ! this figure spoke her name
sharply, warningly almost, before she had time to
think of screaming.
"Una! Una! Don't move!"
The voice was certainly the voice of Mr. Butler.
But how came that voice into the body of this peasant?
Terrified, with drumming pulses, yet obedient to the
injunction, she remained without speech or movement,
whilst crouching so as to keep below the level of the
balustrade the man crept forward until he was imme-
diately before and below her.
She stared into that haggard face, and through the
half-mask of stubbly beard gradually made out the
features of her brother.
" Richard!" The name broke from her in a scream.
" 'Sh ! " He waved his hands in wild alarm to repress
her. "For God's sake, be quiet! It's a ruined man I
am if they find me here. You'll have heard what's
happened to me?"
She nodded, and uttered a half-strangled "Yes."
"Is there anywhere you can hide me? Can you get
me into the house without being seen? I am almost
starving, and my leg is on fire. I was wounded three
days ago to make matters worse than they were al-
ready. I have been lying in the woods there watching
for the chance to find you alone since sunrise this
78 The Snare
morning, and it's devil a bite or sup I've had since
this time yesterday."
"Poor, poor Richard!" She leaned down towards
him in an attitude of compassionate, ministering grace.
44 But why? Why did you not come up to the house and
ask for me? No one would have recognised you."
"Terence would if he had seen me."
"But Terence wouldn't have mattered. Terence
will help you."
"Terence!" He almost laughed from excess of bit-
terness, labouring under an egotistical sense of wrong.
44 He's the last man I should wish to meet, as I have
good reason to know. If it had n't been for that I
should have come to you a month ago immediately
after this trouble of mine. As it is, I kept away until
despair left me no other choice. Una, on no account a
word of my presence to Terence."
"But... he's my husband!"
"Sure, and he's also adjutant-general, and if I know
him at all he 's the very man to place official duty and
honour and all the rest of it above family considera-
tions."
"Oh, Richard, how little you know Terence! How
wrong you are to misjudge him like this!"
44 Right or wrong, I 'd prefer not to take the risk. It
might end in my being shot one fine morning before
long."
44 Richard!"
44 For God's sake, less of your Richard! It's all the
world will be hearing you. Can you hide me, do you
think, for a day or two? If you can't, I '11 be after
shifting for myself as best I can. I 've been playing the
part of an English overseer from Bearsley's wine farm,
and it has brought me all the way from the Douro in
The Fugitive 79
safety. But the strain of it and the eternal fear of dis-
covery are beginning to break me. And now there's
this infernal wound. I was assaulted by a footpad near
Abrantes, as if I was worth robbing. Anyhow I gave
the fellow more than I took. Unless I have rest I think
I shall go mad and give myself up to the provost-
marshal to be shot and done with."
"Why do you talk of being shot? You have done
nothing to deserve that. Why should you fear it?"
Now Mr. Butler was aware having gathered the
information lately on his travels of the undertaking
given by the British to the Council of Regency with
regard to himself. But irresponsible egotist though he
might be, yet in common with others he was actuated
by the desire which his sister's fragile loveliness in-
spired in every one to spare her unnecessary pain or
anxiety.
"It's not myself will take any risks," he said again,
"We are at war, and when men are at war killing be-
comes a sort of habit, and one life more or less is neither
here nor there." And upon that he renewed his plea
that she should hide him if she could and that on no
account should she tell a single soul and Sir Terence
least of any of his presence.
Having driven him to the verge of frenzy by the
waste of precious moments in vain argument, she gave
him at last the promise he required. "Go back to the
bushes there," she bade him, "and wait until I come
for you. I will make sure that the coast is clear."
Contiguous to her dressing-room, which overlooked
the quadrangle, there was a small alcove which had
been converted into a storeroom for the array of trunks
and dress boxes that Lady O'Moy had brought from
England. A door opening directly from her dressing-
8o The Snare
room communicated with this alcove, and of that door
Bridget, her maid, was in possession of the key.
As she hurried now indoors she happened to meet
Bridget on the stairs. The maid announced herself on
her way to supper in the servants* quarters, and apol-
ogised for her presumption in assuming that her lady-
ship would no further require her services that evening.
But since it fell in so admirably with her ladyship's
own wishes, she insisted with quite unusual solicitude,
with vehemence almost, that Bridget should proceed
upon her way.
"Just give me the key of the alcove," she said.
i ' There are one or two things I want to get."
" Can't I get them, your ladyship?"
"Thank you, Bridget. I prefer to get them, myself."
There was no more to be said. Bridget produced a
bunch of keys, which she surrendered to her mistress,
having picked out for her the one required.
Lady O'Moy went up, to come down again the mo-
ment that Bridget had disappeared. The quadrangle
was deserted, the household disposed of, and it wanted
yet half-an-hour to the time for which the carriage was
ordered. No moment could have been more propitious.
But in any case no concealment was attempted since
if detected it must have provoked suspicions hardly
likely to be aroused in any other way.
When Lady O'Moy returned indoors in the gather-
ing dusk she was followed at a respectful distance by
the limping fugitive, who might, had he been seen,
have been supposed some messenger, or perhaps some
person employed about the house or gardens coming
to her ladyship for instructions. No one saw them,
however, and they gained the dressing-room and thence
the alcove in complete safety.
The Fugitive 81
There, whilst Richard, allowing his exhaustion at
last to conquer him, sank heavily down upon one of
his sister's many trunks, recking nothing of the havoc
wrought in its priceless contents, her ladyship all
a-tremble collapsed limply upon another.
But there was no rest for her. Richard's wound re-
quired attention, and he was faint for want of meat
and drink. So having procured him the wherewithal
to wash and dress his hurt a nasty knife-slash which
had penetrated to the bone of his thigh, the very sight
of which turned her ladyship sick and faint she went
to forage for him in a haste increased by the fact that
time was growing short.
On the dining-room sideboard, from the remains of
dinner, she found and furtively abstracted what she
needed best part of a roast chicken, a small loaf and
a half-flask of Collares. Mullins, the butler, would no
doubt be exercised presently when he discovered the
abstraction. Let him blame one of the footmen, Sir
Terence's orderly, or the cat. It mattered nothing to
Lady O'Moy.
Having devoured the food and consumed the wine,
Richard's exhaustion assumed the form of a lethargic
torpor. To sleep was now his overmastering desire.
She fetched him rugs and pillows, and he made him-
self a couch upon the floor. She had demurred, of
course, when he himself had suggested this. She could
not conceive of any one sleeping anywhere but in a
bed. But Dick made short work of that illusion.
"Have n't I been in hiding for the last six weeks?"
he asked her. "And have n't I been thankful to sleep
in a ditch? And was n't I campaigning before that? I
tell you I could n't sleep in a bed. It's a habit I 've lost
mtirely."
82 The Snare
Convinced, she gave way.
"We'll talk to-morrow, Una," he promised her, as
he stretched himself luxuriously upon that hard couch.
"But meanwhile, on your life, not a word to any one.
You understand?'*
"Of course I understand, my poor Dick."
She stooped to kiss him. But he was fast asleep al-
ready.
She went out and locked the door, and when, on the
point of setting out for Count Redondo's, she returned
the bunch of keys to Bridget the key of the alcove was
missing.
"I shall require it again in the morning, Bridget,"
she explained lightly. And then added kindly, as it
seemed : " Don't wait for me, child. Get to bed. I shall
be late in coming home, and I shall not want you/ 1
CHAPTER VI
MISS ARMYTAGE'S PEARLS
LADY O'Mov and Miss Armytage drove alone together
into Lisbon. The adjutant, still occupied, would follow
as soon as he possibly could, whilst Captain Tremayne
would go on directly from the lodgings which he shared
in Alcantara with Major Carruthers also of the ad-
jutant's staff whither he had ridden to dress some
twenty minutes earlier.
"Are you ill, Una?" had been Sylvia's concerned
greeting of her cousin when she came within the range
of the carriage lamps. "You are pale as a ghost." To
this her ladyship had replied mechanically that a slight
headache troubled her.
But now that they sat side by side in the well-
upholstered carriage Miss Armytage became aware
that her companion was trembling.
"Una, dear, whatever is the matter?"
Had it not been for the dominant fear that the shed-
ding of tears would render her countenance unsightly,
Lady O'Moy would have yielded to her feelings and
wept. Heroically in the cause of her own flawless
beauty she conquered the almost overmastering incli-
nation.
"I I have been so troubled about Richard," she
faltered. "It is preying upon my mind."
' ' Poor dear ! " In sheer motherliness Miss Armytage
put an arm about her cousin and drew her close. "We
must hope for the best."
Now if you have understood anything of the charac-
ter of Lady O'Moy you will have understood that the
84 The Snare
burden of a secret was the last burden that such a
nature was capable of carrying. It was because Dick
was fully aware of this that he had so emphatically
and repeatedly impressed upon her the necessity for
saying not a word to any one of his presence. She
realised in her vague way or rather she believed it
since he had assured her that there would be grave
danger to him if he were discovered. But discovery
was one thing, and the sharing of a confidence as to his
presence another. That confidence must certainly be
shared.
Lady O'Moy was in an emotional maelstrom that
swept her towards a cataract. The cataract might in-
spire her with dread, standing as it did for death and
disaster, but the maelstrom was not to be resisted.
She was helpless in it, unequal to breasting such strong
waters, she who in all her futile, charming life had
been borne snugly in safe crafts that were steered by
others.
Remained but to choose her confidant. Nature
suggested Terence. But it was against Terence in
particular that she had been warned. Circumstance
now offered Sylvia Armytage. But pride, or vanity if
you prefer it, denied her here. Sylvia was an inexpe-
rienced young girl, as she herself had so often found
occasion to remind her cousin. Moreover, she fostered
the fond illusion that Sylvia looked to her for precept,
that upon Sylvia's life she exercised a precious guiding
influence. How, then, should the supporting lean upon
the supported? Yet since she must, there and then,
lean upon something or succumb instantly and com-
pletely, she chose a middle course, a sort of temporary
assistance.
"I have been imagining things," she said. "It may
Miss Armytage's Pearls 85
be a premonition, I don't know. Do you believe in pre-
monitions, Sylvia?"
"Sometimes/' Sylvia humoured her.
"I have been imagining that if Dick is hiding, a
fugitive, he might naturally come to me for help. I
am fanciful, perhaps," she added hastily, lest she
should have said too much. "But there it is. All day
the notion has clung to me, and I have been asking my-
self desperately what I should do in such a case."
"Time enough to consider it when it happens,
Una. After all"
"I know," her ladyship interrupted on that ever-
ready note of petulance of hers. "I know, of course.
But I think I should be easier in my mind if I could
find an answer to my doubt. If I knew what to do, to
whom to appeal for assistance, for I am afraid that I
should be very helpless myself. There is Terence, of
course. But I am a little afraid of Terence. He has got
Dick out of so many scrapes, and he is so impatient of
poor Dick. I am afraid he does n't understand him,
and so I should be a little frightened of appealing to
Terence again."
"No," said Sylvia gravely, "I shouldn't go to
Terence. Indeed he is the last man to whom I should
go."
" You say that too!" exclaimed her ladyship.
"Why?" quoth Sylvia sharply. "Who else has said
it?"
There was a brief pause in which Lady O'Moy shud-
dered. She had been so near to betraying herself. How
very quick and shrewd Sylvia was! She made, however,
a good recovery.
"Myself, of course. It is what I have thought my-
self. There is Count Samoval. He promised that if
86 The Snare
ever any such thing happened he would help me. And
he assured me I could count upon him. I think it may
have been his offer that made me fanciful/'
"I should go to Sir Terence before I went to Count
Samoval. By which I mean that I should not go to
Count Samoval at all under any circumstances. I do
not trust him."
"You said so once before, dear," said Lady O'Moy.
"And you assured me that I spoke out of the full-
ness of my ignorance and inexperience."
"Ah, forgive me."
"There is nothing to forgive. No doubt you were
right. But remember that instinct is most alive in the
ignorant and inexperienced, and that instinct is often a
surer guide than reason. Yet if you want reason, I can
supply that too. Count Samoval is the intimate friend
of the Marquis of Minas, who remains a member of the
Government, and who next to the Principal Souza was,
and no doubt is, the most bitter opponent of the British
policy in Portugal. Yet Count Samoval, one of the
largest landowners in the north, and the nobleman who
has perhaps suffered most severely from that policy,
represents himself as its most vigorous supporter."
Lady O'Moy listened in growing amazement. Also
she was a little shocked. It seemed to her almost inde-
cent that a young girl should know so much about pol-
itics so much of which she herself, a married woman,
and the wife of the adjutant-general, was completely
in ignorance.
"Save us, child!" she ejaculated. "You are so
extraordinarily informed."
"I have talked to Captain Tremayne," said Sylvia.
"He has explained all this."
"Extraordinary conversation for a young man to
Miss Armytage's Pearls 87
hold with a young girl," pronounced her ladyship.
"Terence never talked of such things to me."
"Terence was too busy making love to you," said
Sylvia, and there was the least suspicion of regret in
her almost boyish voice.
"That may account for it," her ladyship confessed,
and fell for a moment into consideration of that deli-
cious and rather amusing past, when O'Moy's ferocious
hesitancy and flaming jealousy had delighted her with
the full perception of her beauty's power. With a rush,
however, the present forced itself back upon her notice.
" But I still don't see why Count Samoval should have
offered me assistance if he did not intend to grant it
when the time came."
Sylvia explained that it was from the 'Portuguese
Government that the demand for justice upon the vio-
lator of the nunnery at Tavora emanated, and that
Samoval's offer might be calculated to obtain him in-
formation of Butler's whereabouts when they became
known, so that he might surrender him to the Govern-
ment.
"My dear!" Lady O'Moy was shocked almost be-
yond expression. "How you must dislike the man to
suggest that he could be such a such a Judas."
" I do not suggest that he could be. I warn you never
to run the risk of testing him. He may be as honest in
this matter as he pretends. But if ever Dick were to
come to you for help, you must take no risk."
The phrase was a happier one than Sylvia could
suppose. It was almost the very phrase that Dick him-
self had used ; and its reiteration by another bore con-
viction to her ladyship.
"To whom then should I go?" she demanded plain?
tively.
88 The Snare
And Sylvia, speaking with knowledge, remembering
the promise that Tremayne had given her, answered
readily: " There is but one man whose assistance you
could safely seek. Indeed I wonder you should not
have thought of him in the first instance, since he is
your own, as well as Dick's lifelong friend."
"Ned Tremayne?" Her ladyship fell into thought.
"Do you know, I am a little afraid of Ned. He is so
very sober and cold. You do mean Ned don't you ? "
"Whom else should I mean?"
"But what could he do?"
"My dear, how should I know? But at least I know
for I think I can be sure of this that he will not
lack the will to help you; and to have the will, in a man
like Captain Tremayne, is to find a way."
The confident, almost respectful, tone in which she
spoke arrested her ladyship's attention. It promptly
sent her off at a tangent:
" You like Ned, don't you, dear?"
"I think everybody likes him." Sylvia's voice was
now studiously cold.
"Yes; but I don't mean quite in that way." And
then before the subject could be further pursued the
carriage rolled to a standstill in a flood of light from
gaping portals, scattering a mob of curious sight-seers
intersprinkled with chairmen, footmen, linkmen and
all the valetaille that hovers about the functions of the
great world.
The carriage door was flung open and the steps let
down. A brace of footmen, plump as capons, in gor-
geous liveries, bowed powdered heads and proffered
scarlet arms to assist the ladies to alight.
Above in the crowded, spacious, colonnaded vesti-
bule at the foot of the great staircase they were met by
Miss Army tag e's Pearls 89
Captain Tremayne, who had just arrived with Major
Carruthers, both resplendent in full dress, and Captain
Marcus Glennie of the Telemachus in blue and gold.
Together they ascended the great staircase, lined
with chatting groups, and ablaze with uniforms, mili-
tary, naval and diplomatic, British and Portuguese,
to be welcomed above by the Count and Countess of
Redondo.
Lady O'Moy's entrance of the ballroom produced
the effect to which custom had by now inured her.
Soon she found herself the centre of assiduous atten-
tions. Cavalrymen in blue, riflemen in green, scarlet
officers of the line regiments, winged light-infantrymen,
rakishly pelissed, gold-braided hussars and all the
smaller fry of court and camp fluttered insistently
about her. It was no novelty to her who had been the
recipient of such homage since her first ball five years
ago at Dublin Castle, and yet the wine of it had gone
ever to her head a little. But to-night she was rather
pale and listless, her rose-petal loveliness emphasised
thereby perhaps. An unusual air of indifference hung
about her as she stood there amid this throng of mar-
tial j os tiers who craved the honour of a dance and at
whom she smiled a thought mechanically over the top
of her slowly moving fan.
The first quadrille impended, and the senior service
had carried off the prize from under the noses of the
landsmen. As she was swept away by Captain Glennie,
she came face to face with Tremayne, who was passing
with Sylvia on his arm. She stopped and tapped his
arm with her fan.
"You have n't asked to dance, Ned," she reproached
him.
"With reluctance I abstained."
90 The Snare
"But I don't intend that you shall. I have some-
thing to say to you." He met her glance, and found it
oddly serious most oddly serious for her. Respond-
ing to its entreaty, he murmured a promise in courteous
terms of delight at so much honour.
But either he forgot the promise or did not conceive
its redemption to be an urgent matter, for the quadrille
being done he sauntered through one of the crowded
ante-rooms with Miss Armytage and brought her to
the cool of a deserted balcony above the garden. Be-
yond this was the river, agleam with the lights of the
British fleet that rode at anchor on its placid bosom.
"Una will be waiting for you," Miss Armytage re-
minded him. She was leaning on the sill of the balcony.
Standing erect beside her, he considered the graceful
profile sharply outlined against a background of gloom
by the light from the windows behind them. A heavy
curl of her dark hair lay upon a neck as flawlessly
white as the rope of pearls that swung from it, with
which her fingers were now idly toying. It were diffi-
cult to say which most engaged his thoughts: the
profile; the lovely line of neck; or the rope of pearls.
These latter were of price, such things as it might
seldom and then only by sacrifice lie within the
means of Captain Tremayne to offer to the woman
whom he took to wife.
He so lost himself upon that train of thought that she
was forced to repeat her reminder.
"Una will be waiting for you, Captain Tremayne. "
"Scarcely as eagerly," he answered, "as others will
be waiting for you."
She laughed amusedly, a frank, boyish laugh. "I
thank you for not saying as eagerly as I am waiting for
others."
Miss Armytage's Pearls 91
"Miss Armytage, I have ever cultivated truth."
"But we are dealing with surmise."
"Oh, no surmise at all. I speak of what I know."
"And so do I." And yet again she repeated: "Una
will be waiting for you."
He sighed, and stiffened slightly. "Of course if you
insist," said he, and made ready to reconduct her.
She swung round as if to go, but checked, and looked
him frankly in the eyes.
"Why will you for ever be misunderstanding me?"
she challenged him.
"Perhaps it is the inevitable result of my over-
anxiety to understand."
"Then begin by taking me more literally, and do
not read into my words more meaning than I intend to
give them. When I say Una is waiting for you, I state
a simple fact, not a command that you shall go to her.
Indeed I want first to talk to you."
" If I might take you literally now "
"Should I have suffered you to bring me here if I did
not?"
"I beg your pardon," he said, contrite, and some-
thing shaken out of his imperturbability. "Sylvia,"
he ventured very boldly, and there checked, so terrified
as to be a shame to his brave scarlet, gold-laced uni-
form.
" Yes?" she said. She was leaning upon the balcony
again, and in such a way now that he could no longer
see her profile. But her fingers were busy at the pearls
once more, and this he saw, and seeing, recovered him-
self.
"You have something to say to me?" he questioned
in his smooth, level voice.
Had he not looked away as he spoke he might have
92 The Snare
observed that her fingers tightened their grip of the
pearls almost convulsively, as if to break the rope. It
was a gesture slight and trivial, yet arguing perhaps
vexation. But Tremayne did not see it, and had he
seen it, it is odds it would have conveyed no message
to him.
There fell a long pause, which he did not venture to
break. At last she spoke, her voice quiet and level as
his own had been.
"It is about Una."
" I had hoped," he spoke very softly, "that it was
about yourself/'
She flashed round upon him almost angrily. "Why
do you utter these set speeches to me?" she demanded.
And then before he could recover from his astonish-
ment to make any answer she had resumed a normal
manner, and was talking quickly.
She told him of Una's premonitions about Dick.
Told him, in short, what it was that Una desired to
talk to him about.
"You bade her come to me?" he said.
"Of course. After your promise to me."
He was silent and very thoughtful for a moment.
" I wonder that Una needed to be told that she had in
me a friend," he said slowly. "I wonder to whom she
would have gone on her own impulse?"
"To Count Samoval," Miss Armytage informed
him.
"Samoval!" he rapped the name out sharply. He
was clearly angry. "That man! I can't understand
why O'Moy should suffer him about the house so
much."
"Terence, like everybody else, will suffer anything
that Una wishes."
Miss Armytage 9 s Pearls 93
"Then Terence is more of a fool than I ever sus-
pected."
There was a brief pause. "If you were to fail Una
in this," said Miss Armytage presently, "I mean that
unless you yourself give her the assurance that you are
ready to do what you can for Dick, should the occasion
arise, I am afraid that in her present foolish mood she
may still avail herself of Count Samoval. That would
be to give Samoval a hold upon her; and I tremble to
think what the consequences might be. That man is a
snake a horror."
The frankness with which she spoke was to Tre-
mayne full evidence of her anxiety. He was prompt to
allay it.
"She shall have that assurance this very evening,"
he promised. " I at least have not pledged my word to
anything or to any one. Even so," he added slowly,
"the chances of my services being ever required grow
more slender every day. Una may be full of premoni-
tions about Dick. But between premonition and event
there is something of a gap."
Again a pause, and then: "I am glad," said Miss
Armytage, "to think that Una has a friend, a trust-
worthy friend, upon whom she can depend. She is so
incapable of depending upon herself. All her life there
has been some one at hand to guide her and screen her
from unpleasantness until she has remained just a
sweet, dear child to be taken by the hand in every dark
lane of life."
"But she has you, Miss Armytage."
"Me?" Miss Armytage spoke deprecatingly. "I
don't think I am a very able or experienced guide.
Besides, even such as I am, she may not have me
very long now. I had letters from home this morning.
94 The Snare
Father is not very well, and mother writes that he
misses me. I am thinking of returning soon."
"But but you have only just come!"
She brightened and laughed at the dismay in his
voice. "Indeed, I have been here six weeks." She
looked out over the shimmering moonlit waters of the
Tagus and the shadowy, ghostly ships of the British
fleet that rode at anchor there, and her eyes were wist-
ful. Her fingers, with that little gesture peculiar to her
in moments of constraint, were again entwining them-
selves in her rope of pearls. "Yes," she said almost
musingly, " I think I must be going soon."
He was dismayed. He realised that the moment for
action had come. His heart was sounding the charge
within him. And then that cursed rope of pearls, em-
blem of the wealth and luxury in which she had been nur-
tured, stood like an impassable abattis across his path.
" You you will be glad to go, of course?" he sug-
gested.
"Hardly that. It has been very pleasant here." She
sighed.
"We shall miss you very much," he said gloomily.
"The house at Monsanto will not be the same when you
are gone. Una will be lost and desolate without you."
"It occurs to me sometimes," she said slowly, "that
the people about Una think too much of Una and too
little of themselves."
It was a cryptic speech. In another it might have
signified a spitef ulness unthinkable in Sylvia Armytage ;
therefore it puzzled him very deeply. He stood silent,
wondering what precisely she might mean, and thus
in silence they continued for a spell. Then slowly she
turned and the blaze of light from the windows fell
about her irradiantly. She was rather pale, and her
Miss Armytage's Pearls 95
eyes were of a suspiciously excessive brightness. And
again she made use of the phrase:
"Una will be waiting for you."
Yet, as before, he stood silent and immovable, con-
3idering her, questioning himself, searching her face
and his own soul. All he saw was that rope of shim-
mering pearls.
" And after all, as yourself suggested, it is possible that
others may be waiting for me," she added presently.
Instantly he was crestfallen and contrite. "I sin-
cerely beg your pardon, Miss Armytage," and with a
pang of which his imperturbable exterior gave no hint
he proffered her his arm.
She took it, barely touching it with her finger-tips,
and they re-entered the ante-room.
"When do you think that you will be leaving?" he
asked her gently.
There was a note of harshness in the voice that
answered him. "I don't know yet. But very soon.
The sooner the better, I think."
And then the sleek and courtly Samoval, detaching
from, seeming to materialise out of, the glittering
throng they had entered, was bowing low before her,
claiming her attention. Knowing her feelings, Tre-
mayne would not have relinquished her, but to his
infinite amazement she herself slipped her fingers from
his scarlet sleeve, to place them upon the black one
that Samoval was gracefully proffering, and greeted
Samoval with a gay raillery as oddly in contrast with
her grave demeanour towards the captain as with her
recent avowal of detestation for the Count.
Stricken and half angry, Tremayne stood looking
after them as they receded towards the ballroom. To
increase his chagrin came a laugh from Miss Armytage,
96 The Snare
sharp and rather strident, floating towards him, and
Miss Armytage's laugh was wont to be low and re-
strained. Samoval, no doubt, had resources to amuse
a woman even a woman who instinctively disliked
him resources of which Captain Tremayne himself
knew nothing.
And then some one tapped him on the shoulder.
A very tall, hawk- faced man in a scarlet coat and
tightly strapped blue trousers stood beside him. It
was Colquhoun Grant, the ablest intelligence officer
in Wellington's service.
"Why, Colonel!" cried Tremayne, holding out his
hand. "I did n't know you were in Lisbon."
"I arrived only this afternoon." The keen eyes
flashed after the disappearing figures of Sylvia and her
cavalier. "Tell me, what is the name of the irresistible
gallant who has so lightly ravished you of your quite
delicious companion ? ' '
"Count Samoval," said Tremayne shortly.
Grant's face remained inscrutable. "Really!" he
said softly. "So that is Jeronymo de Samoval, eh?
How very interesting. A great supporter of the British
policy; therefore an altruist, since himself he is a suf-
ferer by it ; and I hear that he has become a great friend
of O'Moy's."
"He is at Monsanto a good deal certainly," Tre-
mayne admitted.
" Most interesting." Grant was slowly nodding, and
a faint smile curled his thin, sensitive lips. "But I'm
keeping you, Tremayne, and no doubt you would be
dancing. I shall perhaps see you to-morrow. I shall
be coming up to Monsanto."
And with a wave of the hand he passed on and was
gone.
CHAPTER VII
THE ALLY
TREMAYNE elbowed his way through the gorgeous
crowd, exchanging greetings here and there as he went,
and so reached the ballroom during a pause in the
dancing. He looked round for Lady O'Moy, but he
could see her nowhere, and would never have found
her had not Carruthers pointed out a knot of officers
and assured him that the lady was in the heart of it and
in imminent peril of being suffocated.
Thither the captain bent his steps, looking neither
to right nor left in his singleness of purpose. Thus it
happened that he saw neither O'Moy, who had just
arrived, nor the massive, decorated bulk of Marshal
Beresford, with whom the adjutant stood in conversa-
tion on the skirts of the throng that so assiduously
worshipped at her ladyship's shrine.
Captain Tremayne went through the group with all
a sapper's skill at piercing obstacles, and so came face
to face with the lady of his quest. Seeing her so radiant
now, with sparkling eyes and ready laugh, it was diffi-
cult to conceive her haunted by any such anxieties as
Miss Armytage had mentioned. Yet the moment she
perceived him, as if his presence acted as a reminder to
lift her out of the delicious present, something of her
gaiety underwent eclipse.
Child of impulse that she was, she gave no thought
to her action and the construction it might possibly
bear in the minds of men chagrined and slighted.
"Why, Ned," she cried, "you have kept me wait-
ing." And with a complete and charming ignoring of
98 The Snare
the claims of all who had been before him, and who
were warring there for precedence of one another, she
took his arm in token that she yielded herself to him
before even the honour was so much as solicited.
With nods and smiles to right and left a queen
dismissing her court she passed on the captain's
arm through the little crowd that gave way before her
dismayed and intrigued, and so away.
O'Moy, who had been awaiting a favourable mo-
ment to present the marshal by the marshal's own
request, attempted to thrust forward now with Beres-
ford at his side. But the bowing line of officers whose
backs were towards him effectively barred his progress,
and before they had broken up that formation her
ladyship and her cavalier were out of sight, lost in the
moving crowd.
The marshal laughed good-humouredly. "The in-
fallible reward of patience," said he. And O'Moy
laughed with him. But the next moment he was scowl-
ing at what he overheard.
"On my sowl, that was impudence!" an Irish in-
fantryman had protested.
"Have you ever heard," quoth a heavy dragoon,
who was also a heavy jester, "that in heaven the last
shall be first? If you pay court to an angel you must
submit to celestial customs."
"And bedad," rejoined the infantryman, "as there's
no marry in' in heaven ye Ve got to make the best of it
with other men's wives. Sure it's a great success that
fellow should be in paradise. Did ye remark the way
she melted to him beauty swooning at the sight of
temptation! Bad luck to him! Who is he at all?"
They dispersed laughing and followed by O'Moy 's
scowling eyes. It annoyed him that his wife's thought-
The Ally 99
less conduct should render her the butt of such jests as
these, and perhaps a subject for lewd gossip. He would
speak to her about it later. Meanwhile the marshal
had linked arms with him.
" Since the privilege must be postponed/' said he,
"suppose that we seek supper. I have always found
that a man can best heal in his stomach the wounds
taken by his heart." His fleshy bulk afforded a certain
prima-facie confirmation of the dictum.
With a roll more suggestive of the quarter-deck than
the saddle, the great man bore off O'Moy in quest of
material consolation. Yet as they went the adjutant's
eyes raked the ballroom in quest of his wife. That
quest, however, was unsuccessful, for his wife was al-
ready in the garden.
"I want to talk to you most urgently, Ned. Take
me somewhere where we can be quite private," she had
begged the captain. "Somewhere where there is no
danger of being overheard."
Her agitation, now uncontrolled, suggested to Tre-
mayne that the matter might be far more serious and
urgent than Miss Armytage had represented it. He
thought first of the balcony where he had lately been.
But then the balcony opened immediately from the
ante-room and was likely at any moment to be invaded.
So, since the night was soft and warm, he preferred the
garden. Her ladyship went to find a wrap, then arm
in arm they passed out, and were lost in the shadows of
an avenue of palm-trees.
"It is about Dick," she said breathlessly.
"I know Miss Armytage told me."
"What did she tell you?"
"That you had a premonition that he might come to
you for assistance."
IOC The Snare
"A premonition ! " Her ladyship laughed nervously.
"It is more than a premonition, Ned. He has come."
The captain stopped in his stride, and stood quite
still. "Come?" he echoed. "Dick?"
"'Sh!" she warned him, and sank her voice from
very instinct. "He came to me this evening, half an
hour before we left home. I have put him in an alcove
adjacent to my dressing-room for the present."
"You have left him there?" He was alarmed.
"Oh, there *s no fear. No one ever goes there except
Bridget. And I have locked the alcove. He's fast
asleep. He was asleep before I left. The poor fellow
was so worn and weary." Followed details of his ap-
pearance and a recital of his wanderings so far as he
had made them known to her. "And he was so insist-
ent that no one should know, not even Terence."
"Terence must not know," he said gravely.
"You think that too!"
" If Terence knows well, you will regret it all the
days of your life, Una."
He was so stern, so impressive, that she begged for
explanation. He afforded it. "You would be doing
Terence the utmost cruelty if you told him. You would
be compelling him to choose between his honour and
his concern for you. And since he is the very soul of
honour, he must sacrifice you and himself, your happi-
ness and his own, everything that makes life good for
you both, to his duty."
She was aghast, for all that she was far from under-
standing. But he went on relentlessly to make his
meaning clear, for the sake of O'Moy as much as for
her own for the sake of the future of these two
people who were perhaps his dearest friends. He saw
in what danger of shipwreck their happiness now stood,
The Ally 101
and he took the determination of clearly pointing out
to her every shoal in the water through which she
must steer her course.
"Since this has happened, Una, you must be told
the whole truth; you must listen, and, above all, be
reasonable. I am Dick's friend, as I am your own and
Terence's. Your father was my best friend, perhaps,
and my gratitude to him is unbounded, as I hope you
know. You and Dick are almost as brother and sister
to me. In spite of this indeed, because of this, I
have prayed for news that Dick was dead/'
Her grasp interrupted him, and he felt the tighten-
ing clutch of her hands upon his arm in the gloom.
"I have prayed this for Dick's sake, and more than
all for the sake of your happiness and Terence's. If
Dick is taken the choice before Terence is a tragic
one. You will realise it when I tell you that duty forced
him to pledge his word to the Portuguese Government
that Dick should be shot when found."
"Oh!" It was a gasp of horror, of incredulity. She
loosed his arm and drew away from him. "It is in-
famous! I can't believe it. I can't."
" It is true. I swear it to you. I was present, and I
heard."
"And you allowed it?"
"What could I do? How could I interfere? Besides,
the minister who demanded that undertaking knew
nothing of the relationship between O'Moy and this
missing officer."
"But but he could have been told."
"That would have made no difference unless it
were to create fresh difficulties."
She stood there ghostly white against the gloom. A
dry sob broke from her. "Terence did that! Terence
IO2 The Snare
did that!" she moaned. And then in a surge of anger:
" I shall never speak to Terence again. I shall not live
with him another day. It was infamous! Infamous!"
"It was not infamous. It was almost noble, almost
heroic," he amazed her. "Listen, Una, and try to un-
derstand." He took her arm again and drew her gently
on down that avenue of moonlight-fretted darkness.
"Oh, I understand," she cried bitterly. "I under-
stand perfectly. He has always been hard on Dick!
He has always made mountains out of molehills where
Dick was concerned. He forgets that Dick is young -
a mere boy. He judges Dick from the standpoint of
his own sober middle age. Why, he 's an old man a
wicked old man!"
Thus her rage, hurling at O'Moy what in the inso-
lence of her youth seemed the last insult.
"You are very unjust, Una. You are even a little
stupid," he said, deeming the punishment necessary
and salutary.
"Stupid! I stupid! I have never been called stupid
before."
"But you have undoubtedly deserved to be," he
assured her with perfect calm.
It took her aback by its directness, and for a moment
left her without an answer. Then: "I think you had
better leave me," she told him frostily. "You forget
yourself."
"Perhaps I do," he admitted. "That is because I
am more concerned to think of Dick and Terence and
yourself. Sit down, Una."
They had reached a little circle by a piece of orna-
mental water, facing which a granite-hewn seat had
been placed. She sank to it obediently, if sulkily.
"It may perhaps help you to understand what
The Ally 103
Terence has done when I tell you that in his place,
loving Dick as I do, I must have pledged myself pre-
cisely as he did or else despised myself for ever. And
being pledged, I must keep my word or go in the same
self-contempt." He elaborated his argument by ex-
plaining the full circumstances under which the pledge
had been exacted. "But be in no doubt about it," he
concluded. "If Terence knows of Dick's presence at
Monsanto he has no choice. He must deliver him up
to a firing party or to a court-martial which will
inevitably sentence him to death, no matter what the
defence that Dick may urge. He is a man prejudged,
foredoomed by the necessities of war. And Terence
will do this although it will break his heart and ruin all
his life. Understand me, then, that in enjoining you
never to allow Terence to suspect that Dick is present,
I am pleading not so much for you or for Dick, but for
Terence himself for it is upon Terence that the hard-
est and most tragic suffering must fall. Now do you
understand?"
"I understand that men are very stupid," was her
way of admitting it.
"And you see that you were wrong in judging
Terence as you did?"
"I I suppose so."
She did n't understand it all. But since Tremayne
was so insistent she supposed there must be something
in his point of view. She had been brought up in the be-
lief that Ned Tremayne was common sense incarnate ;
and although she often doubted it as you may doubt
the dogmas of a religion in which you have been bred
yet she never openly rebelled against that incul-
cated faith. Above all she wanted to cry. She knew
that it would be very good for her. She had often found
IO4 The Snare
a singular relief in tears when vexed by things beyond
her understanding. But she had to think of that flock
of gallants in the ballroom waiting to pay court to her
and of her duty towards them of preserving her beauty
unimpaired by the ravages of a vented sorrow.
Tremayne sat down beside her. "So now that we
understand each other on that score, let us consider
ways and means to dispose of Dick.*'
At once she was uplifted and became all eagerness.
"Yes, yes. You will help me, Ned?"
"You can depend upon me to do all in human
power."
He thought rapidly, and gave voice to some of his
thoughts. " If I could I would take him to my lodgings
at Alcantara. But Carruthers knows him and would
see him there. So that is out of the question. Then
again it is dangerous to move him about. At any mo-
ment he might be seen and recognised."
" Hardly recognised," she said. "His beard disguises
him, and his dress " She shuddered at the very
thought of the figure he had cut, he, the jaunty, dandy
Richard Butler.
"That is something, of course," he agreed. And then
asked: "How long do you think that you could keep
him hidden?"
" I don't know. You see, there 's Bridget. She is the
only danger, as she has charge of my dressing-room."
"It may be desperate, but Can you trust her?"
"Oh, I am sure I can. She is devoted to me; she
would do anything "
"She must be bought as well. Devotion and gain
when linked together will form an unbreakable bond.
Don't let us be stingy, Una. Take her into your con-
fidence boldly, and promise her a hundred guineas for
The Ally 105
her silence payable on the day that Dick leaves the
country."
" But how are we to get him out of the country?"
41 1 think I know a way. I can depend on Marcus
Glennie. I may tell him the whole truth and the iden-
tity of our man, or I may not. I must think about that.
But, whatever I decide, I am sure I can induce Glennie
to take our fugitive home in the Telemachus and land
him safely somewhere in Ireland, where he will have
to lose himself for awhile. Perhaps for Glennie's sake
it will be safer not to disclose Dick's identity. Then if
there should be trouble later, Glennie, having known
nothing of the real facts, will not be held responsible.
I will talk to him to-night."
"Do you think he will consent?" she asked in
strained anxiety anxiety to have her anxieties dis-
pelled.
" I am sure he will. I can almost pledge my word on
it. Marcus would do anything to serve me. Oh, set
your mind at rest. Consider the thing done. Keep
Dick safely hidden for a week or so until the Telema-
chus is ready to sail he must n't go on board until
the last moment, for several reasons and I will see
to the rest."
Under that confident promise her troubles fell from
her, as lightly as they ever did.
"You are very good to me, Ned. Forgive me what
I said just now. And I think I understand about
Terence poor dear old Terence."
"Of course you do." Moved to comfort her as he
might have been moved to comfort a child, he flung
his arm along the seat behind her, and patted her
shoulder soothingly. "I knew you would understand.
And not a word to Terence, not a word that could so
much as awaken his suspicions. Remember that."
106 The Snare
"Oh, I shall."
Fell a step upon the patch behind them crunching
the gravel. Captain Tremayne, his arm still along the
back of the seat, and seeming to envelop her ladyship,
looked over her shoulder. A tall figure was advancing
briskly. He recognised it even in the gloom by its
height and gait and swing for O'Moy's.
" Why, here is Terence," he said easily so easily,
with such frank and obvious honesty of welcome, that
the anger in which O'Moy came wrapped fell from him
on the instant, to be replaced by shame.
"I have been looking for you everywhere, my dear,"
he said to Una. " Marshal Beresford is anxious to pay
you his respects before he leaves, and you have been so
hedged about by gallants all the evening that it's devil
a chance he's had of approaching you. 1 ' There was a
certain constraint in his voice, for a man may not re-
cover instantly from such feelings as those which had
fetched him hot-foot down that path at sight of those
two figures sitting so close and intimate, the young
man's arm so proprietarily about the lady's shoulders
as it seemed.
Lady O'Moy sprang up at once, with a little silvery
laugh that was singularly care-free; for had not Tre-
mayne lifted the burden entirely from her shoulders?
"You should have married a dowd," she mocked
him. "Then you'd have found her more easily acces-
sible."
"Instead of finding her dallying in the moonlight
with my secretary," he rallied back between good and
ill humour. And he turned to Tremayne: "Damned
indiscreet of you, Ned," he added more severely. "Sup-
pose you had been seen by any of the scandal-mon-
gering old wives of the garrison? A nice thing for Una
The Ally 107
and a nice thing for me, begad, to be made the subject
of fly-blown talk over the tea-cups."
Tremayne accepted the rebuke in the friendly spirit
in which it appeared to be conveyed. "Sorry, O'Moy,"
he said. "You 're quite right. We should have thought
of it. Everybody is n't to know what our relations
are." And again he was so manifestly honest and so
completely at his ease that it was impossible to harbour
any thought of evil, and O'Moy felt again the glow of
shame of suspicions so utterly unworthy and dishon-
ouring.
CHAPTER VIII
THE INTELLIGENCE OFFICER
IN a small room of Count Redondo's palace, a room
that had been set apart for cards, sat three men about
a card-table. They were Count Samoval, the elderly
Marquis of Minas, lean, bald and vulturine of aspect,
with a deep-set eye that glared fiercely through a single
eyeglass rimmed in tortoise-shell, and a gentleman
still on the fair side of middle age, with a clear-cut face
and iron-grey hair, who wore the dark green uniform
of a major of Cagadores.
Considering his Portuguese uniform, it is odd that
the low-toned, earnest conversation amongst them
should have been conducted in French.
There were cards on the table ; but there was no pre-
tence of play. You might have conceived them a group
of players who, wearied of their game, had relinquished
it for conversation. They were the only tenants of the
room, which was small, cedar-panelled and lighted by
a girandole of sparkling crystal. Through the closed
door came faintly from the distant ballroom the
strains of the dance music.
With perhaps the single exception of the Principal
Souza, the British policy had no more bitter opponent
in Portugal than the Marquis of Minas. Once a mem-
ber of the Council of Regency before Souza had
been elected to that body he had quitted it in dis-
gust at the British measures. His chief ground of um-
brage had been the appointment of British officers
to the command of the Portuguese regiments which
formed the division under Marshal Beresford. In this
The Intelligence Officer 109
he saw a deliberate insult and slight to his country
and his countrymen. He was a man of burning and
blinded patriotism, to whom Portugal was the most
glorious nation in the world. He lived in his country's
splendid past, refusing to recognise that the days of
Henry the Navigator, of Vasco da Gama, of Manuel
the Fortunate days in which Portugal had been
great indeed among the nations of the Old World
were gone and done with. He respected Britons as
great merchants and industrious traders; but, after all,
merchants and traders are not the peers of fighters on
land and sea, of navigators, conquerors and civilisers,
such as his countrymen had been, such as he believed
them still to be. That the descendants of Gamas,
Cunhas, Magalhaes and Albuquerques men whose
names were indelibly written upon the very face of the
world should be passed over, whilst alien officers
had been brought in to train and command the Portu-
guese legions, was an affront to Portugal which Minas
could never forgive.
It was thus that he had become a rebel, withdrawing
from a government whose supineness he could not con-
done. For a while his rebellion had been passive, until
the Principal Souza had heated him in the fire of his
own rage and fashioned him into an intriguing instal-
ment of the first power. He was listening intently now
to the soft, rapid speech of the gentleman in the ma-
jor's uniform.
"Of course, rumours had reached the Prince of this
policy of devastation," he was saying, "but his High-
ness has been disposed to treat these rumours lightly,
unable to see, as indeed are we all, what useful purpose
such a policy could finally serve. He does not under-
rate the talents of milord Wellington as a commander.
no The Snare
he does not imagine that he would pursue such opera-
tions out of pure wantonness; yet if such operations
are indeed being pursued, what can they be but wan-
ton? A moment, Count," he stayed Samoval, who was
about to interrupt. His mind and manner were au-
thoritative. "We know most positively from the Em-
peror's London agents that the war is unpopular in
England; we know that public opinion is being pre-
pared for a British retreat, for the driving of the Brit-
ish into the sea, as must inevitably happen once
Monsieur le Prince decides to launch his bolt. Here in
the Tagus the British fleet lies ready to embark the
troops, and the British Cabinet itself " (he spoke more
slowly and emphatically) " expects that embarkation
to take place at latest in September, which is just about
the time that the French offensive should be at its
height and the French troops under the very walls of
Lisbon. I admit that by this policy of devastation
if, indeed, it be true added to a stubborn contesting
of every foot of ground, the French advance may be
retarded. But the process will be costly to Britain in
lives and money."
"And more costly still to Portugal," croaked the
Marquis of Minas.
"And, as you say, Monsieur le Marquis, more
costly still to Portugal. Let me for a moment show you
another side of the picture. The French administration,
so sane, so cherishing, animated purely by ideas of prog-
ress, enforcing wise and beneficial laws, making ever
for the prosperity and well-being of conquered nations,
knows how to render itself popular wherever it is
established. This Portugal knows already or at
least some part of it. There was the administration of
Soult in Oporto, so entirely satisfactory to the people
The Intelligence Officer in
that it was no inconsiderable party was prepared, sub-
ject to the Emperor's consent, to offer him the crown
and settle down peacefully under his rule. There was
the administration of Junot in Lisbon. I ask you : when
was Lisbon better governed?
" Contrast, for a moment, with these the present
British administration for it amounts to an admin-
istration. Consider the burning grievances that must
be left behind by this policy of laying the country
waste, of pauperising a million people of all degrees,
driving them homeless from the lands on which they
were born, after compelling them to lend a hand in the
destruction of all that their labour has built up through
long years. If any policy could better serve the pur-
poses of France, I know it not. The people from here
to Beira should be ready to receive the French with
open arms, and to welcome their deliverance from this
most costly and bitter British protection.
"Do you, Messieurs, detect a flaw in these argu-
ments?"
Both shook their heads.
"Bien!" said the major of Portuguese Cagadores.
"Then we reach one or two only possible conclusions:
either these rumours of a policy of devastation which
have reached the Prince of Esslingen are as utterly
false as he believes them to be, or "
"To my cost I know them to be true, as I have al-
ready told you," Samoval interrupted bitterly.
"Or," the major persisted, raising a hand to restrain
the Count, "or there is something further that has not
been yet discovered a mystery the enucleation of
which will shed light upon all the rest. Since you assure
me, Monsieur le Comte, that milord Wellington's
policy is beyond doubt, as reported to Monsieur le
The Snare
Marechal, it but remains to address ourselves to the
discovery of the mystery underlying it. What con-
clusions have you reached? You, Monsieur de Samo-
val, have had exceptional opportunities of observation,
I understand."
"I am afraid my opportunities have been none so
exceptional as you suppose," replied Samoval, with a
dubious shake of his sleek, dark head. "At one time
I founded great hopes in Lady O'Moy. But Lady
O'Moy is a fool, and does not enjoy her husband's
confidence in official matters. What she knows I
know. Unfortunately it does not amount to very
much. One conclusion, however, I have reached:
Wellington is preparing in Portugal a snare for Mas-
sna's army."
"A snare? Hum!" The major pursed his full lips
into a smile of scorn. "There cannot be a trap with
two exits, my friend. Massena enters Portugal at
Almeida and marches to Lisbon and the open sea. He
may be inconvenienced or hampered in his march ; but
its goal is certain. Where, then, can lie the snare? Your
theory presupposes an impassable barrier to arrest
the French when they are deep in the country and an
overwhelming force to cut off their retreat when that
barrier is reached. The overwhelming force does not
exist and cannot be manufactured; as for the barrier,
no barrier that it lies within human power to construct
lies beyond French power to overstride."
"I should not make too sure of that," Samoval
warned him. "And you have overlooked something."
The major glanced at the Count sharply and with-
out satisfaction. He accounted himself trained as
he had been under the very eye of the great Emperor
of some force in strategy and tactics, a player too
The Intelligence Officer 113
well versed in the game to overlook the possible moves
of an opponent.
"Ha! " he said, with the ghost of a sneer. "For in-
stance, Monsieur le Comte?"
"The overwhelming force exists," said Samoval.
"Where is it then? Whence has it been created?
If you refer to the united British and Portuguese
troops, you will be good enough to bear in mind that
they will be retreating before the Prince. They cannot
at once be before and behind him."
The man's cool assurance and cooler contempt of
Samovars views stung the Count into some sharpness.
"Are you seeking information, sir, or are you bestow-
ing it?" he inquired.
"Ah! Your pardon, Monsieur le Comte. I inquire
of course. I put forward arguments to anticipate con-
clusions that may possibly be erroneous."
Samoval waived the point. "There is another force
besides the British and Portuguese troops that you
have left out of your calculations."
"And that?" The major was still faintly incredu-
lous.
"You should remember what Wellington obviously
remembers: that a French army depends for its sus-
tenance upon the country it is invading. That is why
Wellington is stripping the French line of penetration
as bare of sustenance as this card-table. If we assume
the existence of the barrier an impassable line of
fortifications encountered within many marches of the
frontier we may also assume that starvation will
be the overwhelming force that will cut off the French
retreat."
The other's keen eyes flickered. For a moment his
face lost its assurance, and it was Samoval 's turn to
114 The Snare
smile. But the major made a sharp recovery. He
slowly shook his iron-grey head.
"You have no right to assume an impassable bar-
rier. That is an inadmissible hypothesis. There is no
such thing as a line of fortifications impassable to the
French."
"You will pardon me, Major, but it is yourself have
no right to your own assumptions. Again you overlook
something. I will grant that technically what you say
is true. No fortifications can be built that cannot be
destroyed given adequate power, with which it is
yet to prove that Massena, not knowing what may
await him, will be equipped.
"But let us for a moment take so much for granted,
and now consider this: fortifications are unquestion-
ably building in the region of Torres Vedras, and Wel-
lington guards the secret so jealously that not even the
British either here or in England are aware of
their nature. That is why the Cabinet in London takes
for granted an embarkation in September. Wellington
has not even taken his Government into his confidence.
That is the sort of man he is. Now these fortifications
have been building since last October. Best part of
eight months have already gone in their construction.
It may be another two or three months before the
French army reaches them. I do not say that the
French cannot pass them, given time. But how long
will it take the French to pull down what it will have
taken ten or eleven months to construct? And if they
are unable to draw sustenance from a desolate, wasted
country, what time will they have at their disposal?
It will be with them a matter of life or death. Having
come so far they must reach Lisbon or perish; and if
the fortifications can delay them by a single month,
The Intelligence Officer 115
then, granted that all Lord Wellington's other dispo-
sitions have been duly carried out, perish they must.
It remains, Monsieur le Major, for you to determine
whether, with all their energy, with all their genius
and all their valour, the French can in an ill-nour-
ished condition destroy in a few weeks the con-
sidered labour of nearly a year."
The major was aghast. He had changed colour, and
through his eyes, wide and staring, his stupefaction
glared forth at them.
Minas uttered a dry cough under cover of his hand,
and screwed up his eyeglass to regard the major more
attentively. "You do not appear to have considered
all that," he said.
"But, my dear Marquis," was the half-indignant
answer, "why was I not told all this to begin with?
You represented yourself as but indifferently informed,
Monsieur de Samoval. Whereas "
"So I am, my dear Major, as far as information goes.
If I did not use these arguments before, it was because
it seemed to me an impertinence to offer what, after
all, are no more than the conclusions of my own con-
structive and deductive reasoning to one so well versed
in strategy as yourself."
The major was silenced for a moment. " I congratu-
late you, Count," he said. "Monsieur le Mar6chal
shall have your views without delay. Tell me," he
begged. "You say these fortifications lie in the region
of Torres Vedras. Can you be more precise?"
"I think so. But again I warn you that I can tell
you only what I infer. I judge they will run from the
sea, somewhere near the mouth of the Zizandre, in a
semicircle to the Tagus, somewhere to the south of
Santarem. I know that they do not reach as far north
Ii6 The Snare
as Santarem, because the roads there are open, whereas
all roads to the south, where I am assuming that the
fortifications lie, are closed and closely guarded."
"Why do you suggest a semicircle?"
"Because that is the formation of the hills, and pre-
sumably the line of heights would be followed."
"Yes," the major approved slowly. "And the dis-
tance, then, would be some thirty or forty miles?"
"Fully."
The major's face relaxed its gravity. He even smiled.
"You will agree, Count, that in a line of that extent a
uniform strength is out of the question. It must per-
force present many weak, many vulnerable, places."
"Oh, undoubtedly."
"Plans of these lines must be in existence."
"Again undoubtedly. Sir Terence O'Moy will have
plans in his possession showing their projected extent.
Colonel Fletcher, who is in charge of the construction,
is in constant communication with the adjutant, him-
self an engineer, and as I partly imagine, partly in-
fer from odd phrases that I have overheard espe-
cially entrusted by Lord Wellington with the super-
vision of the works."
"Two things, then, are necessary," said the major
promptly. "The first is, that the devastation of the
country should be retarded, and as far as possible hin-
dered altogether."
"That," said Minas, "you may safely leave to my-
self and Souza's other friends, the northern noblemen
who have no intention of becoming the victims of
British disinclination to pitched battles."
"The second and this is more difficult is that
we should obtain by hook or by crook a plan of the for-
tifications." And he looked directly at Samoval.
The Intelligence Officer 1 17
The Count nodded slowly, but his face expressed
doubt.
"I am quite alive to the necessity. I always have
been. But"
"To a man of your resource and intelligence an
intelligence of which you have just given such very
signal proof the matter should be possible. " He
paused a moment. Then: "If I understand you cor-
rectly, Monsieur de Samoval, your fortunes have suf-
fered deeply, and you are almost ruined by this policy
of Wellington's. You are offered the opportunity of
making a magnificent recovery. The Emperor is the
most generous paymaster in the world, and he is be-
yond measure impatient at the manner in which the
campaign in the Peninsula is dragging on. He has
spoken of it as an ulcer that is draining the Empire of
its resources. For the man who could render him the
service of disclosing the weak spot in this armour, the
Achilles heel of the British, there would be a reward
beyond all your possible dreams. Obtain the plans,
then, and "
He checked abruptly. The door had opened, and in
a Venetian mirror facing him upon the wall the major
caught the reflection of a British uniform, the stiff
gold collar surmounted by a bronzed hawk face with
which he was acquainted.
"I beg your pardon, gentlemen," said the officer in
Portuguese, "I was looking for "
His voice became indistinct, so that they never knew
whom it was that he had been seeking when he in-
truded upon their privacy. The door had closed again
and the reflection had vanished from the mirror. But
there were beads of perspiration on the major's brow.
"It is fortunate," he muttered breathlessly, ''that
n8 The Snare
my back was towards him. I would as soon meet the
devil face to face. I did n't dream he was in Lisbon.*'
"Who is he?" asked Minas.
"Colonel Grant, the British Intelligence officer.
Phew! Name of a Name ! What an escape ! " The ma-
jor mopped his brow with a silk handkerchief. "Be-
ware of him, Monsieur de Samoval."
He rose. He was obviously shaken by the meeting.
" If one of you will kindly make quite sure that he is
not about I think that I had better go. If we should
meet everything might be ruined." Then with a change
of manner he stayed Samoval, who was already on his
way to the door. "We understand each other, then?"
he questioned them. " I have my papers, and at dawn
I leave Lisbon. I shall report your conclusions to the
Prince, and in anticipation I may already offer you
the expression of his profoundest gratitude. Mean-
while, you know what is to do. Opposition to the
policy, and the plans of the fortifications above all
the plans."
He shook hands with them, and having waited until
Samoval assured him that the corridor outside was clear,
he took his departure, and was soon afterwards driving
home, congratulating himself upon his most fortunate
escape from the hawk eye of Colquhoun Grant.
But when in the dead of that night he was awakened
to find a British sergeant with a halbert and six red-
coats with fixed bayonets surrounding his bed it oc-
curred to him belatedly that what one man can see in
a mirror is also visible to another, and that Marshal
Massena, Prince of Esslingen, waiting for information
beyond Ciudad Rodrigo, would never enjoy the ad-
vantages of a report of Count Samoval 's masterly
constructive and deductive reasoning.
CHAPTER IX
THE GENERAL ORDER
SIR TERENCE sat alone in his spacious, severely fur-
nished private room in the official quarters at Mon-
santo. On the broad carved writing-table before him
there was a mass of documents relating to the clothing
and accoutrement of the forces, to leaves of absence, to
staff appointments ; there were returns from the various
divisions of the sick and wounded in hospital, from
which a complete list was to be prepared for the
Secretary of State for War at home ; there were plans
of the lines at Torres Vedras just received, indicating
the progress of the works at various points; and there
were documents and communications of all kinds con-
cerned with the adjutant-general's multifarious and ar-
duous duties, including an urgent letter from Colonel
Fletcher suggesting that the Commander-in-Chief
should take an early opportunity of inspecting in per-
son the inner lines of fortification.
Sir Terence, however, sat back in his chair, his work
neglected, his eyes dreamily gazing through the open
window, but seeing nothing of the sun-drenched land-
scape beyond, a heavy frown darkening his bronzed
and rugged face. His mind was very far from his official
duties and the mass of reminders before him this
Augean stable of arrears. He was lost in thought of
his wife and Tremayne.
Five days had elapsed since the ball at Count Re-
dondo's, where Sir Terence had surprised the pair
together in the garden and his suspicions had been
fired by the compromising attitude in which he had
discovered them. Tremayne's frank, easy bearing, so
120 The Snare
unassociable with guilt, had, as we know, gone far to
reassure him, and had even shamed him, so that he had
trampled his suspicions underfoot. But other things
had happened since to revive his bitter doubts.
Daily, constantly, had he been coming upon Tremayne
and Lady O'Moy alone together in intimate, confiden-
tial talk which was ever silenced on his approach. The
two had taken to wandering by themselves in the gar-
dens at all hours, a thing that had never been so before,
and O'Moy detected, or imagined that he detected, a
closer intimacy between them, a greater warmth to-
wards the captain on the part of her ladyship.
Thus matters had reached a pass in which peace of
mind was impossible to him. It was not merely what
he saw, it was his knowledge of what was; it was his
his ever-present consciousness of his own age and his
wife's youth; it was the memory of his ante-nuptial
jealousy of Tremayne which had been awakened by
the gossip of those days a gossip that pronounced
Tremayne Una Butler's poor suitor, too poor either
to declare himself or to be accepted if he did. The old
wound which that gossip had dealt him then was
reopened now. He thought of Tremayne's manifest
concern for Una; he remembered how in that very
room some six weeks ago, when Butler's escapade had
first been heard of, it was from avowed concern for
Una that Tremayne had urged him to befriend and
rescue his rascally brother-in-law. He remembered,
too, with increasing bitterness that it was Una herself
had induced him to appoint Tremayne to his staff.
There were moments when the conviction of Tre-
mayne's honesty, the thought of Tremayne's un-
swerving friendship for himself, would surge up to
combat and abate the fires of his devastating jealousy.
The General Order 121
But evidence would kindle those fires anew until they
flamed up to scorch his soul with shame and anger. He
had been a fool in that he had married a woman of half
his years ; a fool in that he had suffered her former lover
to be thrown into close association with her.
Thus he assured himself. But he would abide by his
folly, and so must she. And he would see to it that
whatever fruits that folly yielded, dishonour should
not be one of them. Through all his darkening rage
there beat the light of reason. To avert, he bethought
him, was better than to avenge. Nor were such stains
to be wiped out by vengeance. A cuckold remains a
cuckold though he take the life of the man who has
reduced him to that ignominy.
Tremayne must go before the evil transcended re-
paration. Let him return to his regiment and do his
work of sapping and mining elsewhere than in O'Moy's
household.
Eased by that resolve he rose, a tall, martial figure,
youth and energy in every line of it for all his six and
forty years. Awhile he paced the room in thought.
Then, suddenly, with hands clenched behind his back,
he checked by the window, checked on a horrible ques-
tion that had flashed upon his tortured mind. What
if already the evil should be irreparable? What proof
had he that it was not so?
The door opened, and Tremayne himself came in
quickly.
"Here's the very devil to pay, sir/' he announced,
with that odd mixture of familiarity towards his friend
and deference to his chief.
O'Moy looked at him in silence with smouldering,
questioning eyes, thinking of anything but the trouble
which the captain's air and manner heralded.
122 The Snare
"Captain Stanhope has just arrived from head-
quarters with messages for you. A terrible thing has
happened, sir. The dispatches from home by the
Thunderbolt which we forwarded from here three weeks
ago reached Lord Wellington only the day before yes-
terday/'
Sir Terence became instantly alert.
"Garfield, who carried them, came into collision at
Penalva with an officer of Anson's Brigade. There was
a meeting, and Garfield was shot through the lung.
He lay between life and death for a fortnight, with the
result that the dispatches were delayed until he re-
covered sufficiently to remember them and to have
them forwarded by other hands. But you had better
see Stanhope himself."
The aide-de-camp came in. He was splashed from
head to foot in witness of the fury with which he had
ridden, his hair was caked with dust and his face hag-
gard. But he carried himself with soldierly upright-
ness, and his speech was brisk. He repeated what
Tremayne had already stated, with some few addi-
tional details.
"This wretched fellow sent Lord Wellington a letter
dictated from his bed, in which he swore that the duel
was forced upon him, and that his honour allowed him
no alternative. I don't think any feature of the case
has so deeply angered Lord Wellington as this stupid
plea. He mentioned that when Sir John Moore was at
Herrerias, in the course of his retreat upon Corunna,
he sent forward instructions for the leading division to
halt at Lugo, where he designed to deliver battle if the
enemy would accept it. That dispatch was carried to
Sir David Baird by one of Sir John's aides, but Sir
David forwarded it by the hand of a trooper who got
The General Order 123
i
drunk and lost it. That, says Lord Wellington, is the
only parallel, so far as he is aware, of the present case,
with this difference, that whilst a common trooper
might so far fail to appreciate the importance of his
mission, no such lack of appreciation can excuse Cap-
tain Garfield."
" I am glad of that/' said Sir Terence, who had been
bristling. "For a moment I imagined that it was to be
implied I had been as indiscreet in my choice of a
messenger as Sir David Baird."
"No, no, Sir Terence. I merely repeated Lord Wel-
lington's words that you may realise how deeply an-
gered he is. If Garfield recovers from his wound he will
be tried by court-martial. He is under open arrest
meanwhile, as is his opponent in the duel a Major
Sykes of the 23rd Dragoons. That they will both be
broke is beyond doubt. But that is not all. This affair,
which might have had such grave consequences, com-
ing so soon upon the heels of Major Berkeley's business,
has driven Lord Wellington to a step regarding which
this letter will instruct you."
Sir Terence broke the seal. The letter, penned by a
secretary, but bearing Wellington's own signature, ran
as follows:
"The bearer, Captain Stanhope, will inform you of
the particulars of this disgraceful business of Captain
Garfield's. The affair following so soon upon that of
Major Berkeley has determined me to make it clearly
understood to the officers in his Majesty's service that
they have been sent to the Peninsula to fight the
French and not each other or members of the civilian
population. While this campaign continues, and as
long as I am in charge of it, I am determined not to
suffer upon any plea whatever the abominable prac-
124 The Snare
tice of duelling among those under my command. I
desire you to publish this immediately in general or-
ders, enjoining upon officers of all ranks without ex-
ception the necessity to postpone the settlement of
private quarrels at least until the close of this cam-
paign. And to add force to this injunction you will
make it known that any infringement of this order
will be considered as a capital offence ; that any officer
hereafter either sending or accepting a challenge will,
if found guilty by a general court-martial, be imme-
diately shot."
Sir Terence nodded slowly.
"Very well," he said. "The measure is most wise,
although I doubt if it will be popular. But, then, un-
popularity is the fate of wise measures. I am glad the
matter has not ended more seriously. The dispatches
in question, so far as I can recollect, were not of great
urgency."
" There is something more," said Captain Stanhope.
"The dispatches bore signs of having been tampered
with."
"Tampered with?" It was a question from Tre-
mayne, charged with incredulity. "But who would
have tampered with them?"
"There were signs, that is all. Garfield was taken to
the house of the parish priest, where he lay lost until
he recovered sufficiently to realise his position for him-
self. No doubt you will have a schedule of the contents
of the dispatch, Sir Terence?"
"Certainly. It is in your possession, I think, Tre-
mayne."
Tremayne turned to his desk, and a brief search in
one of its well-ordered drawers brought to light an
oblong strip of paper folded and endorsed. He un-
The General Order 125
folded and spread it on Sir Terence's table, whilst
Captain Stanhope, producing a note with which he
came equipped, stooped to check off the items. Sud-
denly he stopped, frowned, and finally placed his finger
under one of the lines of Tremayne's schedule, care-
fully studying his own note for a moment.
"Ha!" he said quietly at last. "What's this?"
And he read: " ' Note from Lord Liverpool of reinforce-
ments to be embarked for Lisbon in June or July.' '
He looked at the adjutant and the adjutant's secre-
tary. "That would appear to be the most important
document of all indeed the only document of any
vital importance. And it was not included in the dis-
patch as it reached Lord Wellington."
The three looked gravely at one another in silence.
"Have you a copy of the note, sir?" inquired the
aide-de-camp.
" Not a copy but a summary of its contents, the
figures it contained, are pencilled there on the margin,"
Tremayne answered.
"Allow me, sir," said Stanhope, and taking up a
quill from the adjutant's table he rapidly copied the
figures. "Lord Wellington must have this memoran-
dum as soon as possible. The rest, Sir Terence, is of
course a matter for yourself. You will know what to
do. Meanwhile I shall report to his lordship what has
occurred. I had best set out at once."
"If you will rest for an hour, and give my wife the
pleasure of your company at luncheon, I shall have a
letter ready for Lord Wellington," replied Sir Terence.
"Perhaps you'll see to it, Tremayne," he added, with-
out waiting for Captain Stanhope's answer to an invi-
tation which amounted to a command.
Thus Stanhope was led away, and Sir Terence, all
126 The Snare
other matters forgotten for the moment, sat down to
write his letter.
Later in the day, after Captain Stanhope had taken
his departure, the duty fell to Tremayne of framing
the general order and seeing to the dispatch of a copy
to each division.
"I wonder," he said to Sir Terence, "who will be
the first to break it?"
"Why, the fool who's most anxious to be broke
himself," answered Sir Terence.
There appeared to be reservations about it in Tre-
mayne's mind.
"It's a devilish stringent regulation," he criticised.
"But very salutary and very necessary."
"Oh, quite." Tremayne's agreement was unhesi-
tating. "But I should n't care to feel the restraint of
it, and I thank heaven I have no enemy thirsting for
my blood."
Sir Terence's brow darkened. His face was turned
away from his secretary. "How can a man be confi-
dent of that?" he wondered.
"Oh, a clean conscience, I suppose," laughed Tre-
mayne, and he gave his attention to his papers.
Frankness, honesty and light-heartedness rang so
clear in the words that they sowed in Sir Terence's
mind fresh doubts of the galling suspicion he had been
harbouring.
"Do you boast a clean conscience, eh, Ned?" he
asked, not without a lurking shame at this deliberate
sly searching of the other's mind. Yet he strained his
ears for the answer.
"Almost clean," said Tremayne. "Temptation
does n't stain when it's resisted, does it?"
Sir Terence trembled. But he controlled himself.
The General Order 127
"Nay, now, that's a question for the casuists. They
might answer you that it depends upon the tempta-
tion." And he asked point-blank: "What's tempting
you?"
Tremayne was in a mood for confidences, and Sir
Terence was his friend. But he hesitated. His answer
to the question was an irrelevance.
"It's just hell to be poor, O'Moy," he said.
The adjutant turned to stare at him. Tremayne was
sitting with his head resting on one hand, the fingers
thrusting through the crisp fair hair, and there was
gloom in his clear-cut face, a dullness in the usually
keen grey eyes.
"Is there anything on your mind?" quoth Sir Ter-
ence.
"Temptation," was the answer. " It 's an unpleasant
thing to struggle against."
"But you spoke of poverty?"
"To be sure. If I were n't poor I could put my for-
tunes to the test, and make an end of the matter one
way or the other."
There was a pause. "Sure I hope I am the last man
to force a confidence, Ned," said O'Moy. "But you
certainly seem as if it would do you good to confide."
Tremayne shook himself mentally. " I think we had
better deal with the matter of this dispatch that was
tampered with at Penal va."
"So we will, to be sure. But it can wait a minute."
Sir Terence pushed back his chair, and rose. He
crossed slowly to his secretary's side. "What's on
your mind, Ned?" he asked with abrupt solicitude,
and Ned could not suspect that it was the matter on
Sir Terence's own mind that was urging him but
urging him hopefully.
128 The Snare
Captain Tremayne looked up with a rueful smile. " I
thought you boasted that you never forced a confi-
dence." And then he looked away. "Sylvia Armytage
tells me that she is thinking of returning to England."
For a moment the words seemed to Sir Terence z
fresh irrelevance; another attempt to change the sub
ject. Then quite suddenly a light broke upon hib
mind, shedding a relief so great and joyous that he
sought to check it almost in fear.
"It is more than she has told me," he answered
steadily. "But then, no doubt, you enjoy her confi-
dence."
Tremayne flashed him a wry glance and looked away
again.
"Alas!" he said, and fetched a sigh.
"And is Sylvia the temptation, Ned?"
Tremayne was silent for a while, little dreaming how
Sir Terence hung upon his answer, how impatiently he
awaited it.
"Of course," he said at last. "Is n't it obvious to
any one? " And he grew rhapsodical : " How can a man
be daily in her company without succumbing to her
loveliness, to her matchless grace of body and of mind,
without perceiving that she is incomparable, peerless,
as much above other women as an angel perhaps might
be above herself?"
Before his glum solemnity, and before something
else that Tremayne could not suspect, Sir Terence ex-
ploded into laughter. Of the immense and joyous relief
in it his secretary caught no hint; all he heard was its
sheer amusement, and this galled and shamed him.
For no man cares to be laughed at for such feelings as
Tremayne had been led into betraying.
" You think it something to laugh at? " he said tartly.
The General Order 129
"Laugh, is it?" spluttered Sir Terence. "God grant
I don't burst a blood-vessel.'*
Tremayne reddened. "When you've indulged your
humour, sir," he said stiffly, "perhaps you'll consider
the matter of this dispatch."
But Sir Terence laughed more uproariously than
ever. He came to stand beside Tremayne, and slapped
him heartily on the shoulder.
"Ye '11 kill me, Ned!" he protested. "For God's
sake, not so glum. It 's that makes ye ridiculous."
"I am sorry you find me ridiculous."
" Nay, then, it's glad ye ought to be. By my soul, if
Sylvia tempts you, man, why the devil don't ye just
succumb and have done with it? She's handsome
enough and well set up with her air of an Amazon, and
she rides uncommon straight, begad! Indeed it's a
broth of a girl she is in the hunting-field, the ballroom,
or at the breakfast- table, although riper acquaintance
may discover her not to be quite all that you imagine
her at present. Let your temptation lead you then,
entirely, and good luck to you, my boy."
" Did n 't I tell you, O'Moy," answered the captain,
mollified a little by the sympathy and good feeling peep-
ing 'through the adjutant's boisterousness, "that pov-
erty is just hell. It's my poverty that's in the way."
"And is that all? Then it's thankful you should be
that Sylvia Armytage has got enough for two."
"That's just it."
"Just what?"
"The obstacle. I could marry a poor woman. But
Sylvia "
"Have you spoken to her?"
Tremayne was indignant. "How do you suppose I
could?"
130 The Snare
"It'll not have occurred to you that the lady may
have feelings which having aroused you ought to be
considering?"
A wry smile and a shake of the head was Tremayne's
only answer; and then Carruthers came in fresh from
Lisbon, where he had been upon business connected
with the commissariat, and to Tremayne's relief the
subject was perforce abandoned.
Yet he marvelled several times that day that the
hilarity he should have awakened in Sir Terence con-
tinued to cling to the adjutant, and that despite the
many vexatious matters claiming attention he should
preserve an irrepressible and almost boyish gaiety.
Meanwhile, however, the coming of Carruthers had
brought the adjutant a moment's seriousness, and he
reverted to the business of Captain Garfield. When he
had mentioned the missing note, Carruthers very prop-
erly became grave. He was a short, stiffly built man
with a round, good-humoured, rather florid face.
"The matter must be probed at once, sir," he ven-
tured. "We know that we move in a tangle of intrigues
and espionage. But such a thing as this has never hap-
pened before. Have you anything to go upon?"
"Captain Stanhope gave us nothing," said the ad-
jutant.
" It would be best perhaps to get Grant to look into
it," said Tremayne.
"If he is still in Lisbon," said Sir Terence.
"I passed him in the street an hour ago," replied
Carruthers.
"Then by all means let a note be sent to him asking
him if he will step up to Monsanto as soon as he con-
veniently can. You might see to it, Tremayne."
CHAPTER X
THE STIFLED QUARREL
IT was noon of the next day before Colonel Grant came
to the house at Monsanto from whose balcony floated
the British flag, and before whose portals stood a sen-
try in the tall bearskin of the grenadiers.
He found the adjutant alone in his room, and apol-
ogised for the delay in responding to his invitation,
pleading the urgency of other matters that he had in
hand.
"A wise enactment this of Lord Wellington 's," was
his next comment. "I mean this prohibition of duel-
ling. It may be resented by some of our young bloods
as an unwarrantable interference with their privileges,
but it will do a deal of good, and no one can deny that
there is ample cause for the measure."
"It is on the subject of the cause that I'm wanting
to consult you," said Sir Terence, offering his visitor a
chair. "Have you been informed of the details? No?
Let me give you them." And he related how the dis-
patch bore signs of having been tampered with, and
how the only document of any real importance came
to be missing from it.
Colonel Grant, sitting with his sabre across his
knees, listened gravely and thoughtfully. In the end
he shrugged his shoulders, the keen hawk face un-
moved.
"The harm is done, and cannot very well be re-
paired. The information obtained, no doubt on behalf
of Mass6na, will by now be on its way to him. Let us
be thankful that the matter is not more grave, and
132 The Snare
thankful, too, that you were able to supply a copy of
Lord Liverpool's figures. What do you want me to do?"
"Take steps to discover the spy whose existence is
disclosed by this event."
Colquhoun Grant smiled. "That is precisely the
matter which has brought me to Lisbon."
"How?" Sir Terence was amazed. "You knew?"
"Oh, not that this had happened. But that the spy
or rather a network of espionage existed. We
move here in a web of intrigue wrought by ill-will,
self-interest, vindictiveness and every form of malice.
Whilst the great bulk of the Portuguese people and
their leaders are loyally co-operating with us, there is
a strong party opposing us which would prefer even to
see the French prevail. Of course you are aware of this.
The heart and brain of all this is as I gather the
Principal Souza. Wellington has compelled his retire-
ment from the Government. But if by doing so he has
restricted the man's power for evil, he has certainly
increased his will for evil and his activities.
"You tell me that Garfield was cared for by the par-
ish priest at Penalva. There you are. Half the priest-
hood of the country are on Souza' s side, since the Pa-
triarch of Lisbon himself is little more than a tool of
Souza's. What happens? This priest discovers that
the British officer whom he has so charitably put to bed
in his house is the bearer of dispatches. A loyal man
would instantly have communicated with Marsha)
Beresford at Thomar. This fellow, instead, advises
the intriguers in Lisbon. The captain's dispatches
are examined and the only document of real value
is abstracted. Of course it would be difficult to estab-
lish a case against the priest, and it is always vexa-
tious and troublesome to have dealings with that class,
The Stifled Quarrel 133
as it generally means trouble with the peasantry. But
the case is as clear as crystal."
"But the intriguers here? Can you not deal with
them?"
"I have them under observation," replied the colo-
nel. "I already knew the leaders, Souza's lieutenants
in Lisbon, and I can put my hand upon them at any
moment. If I have not already done so it is because
I find it more profitable to leave them at large; it is
possible, indeed, that I may never proceed to extremes
against them. Conceive that they have enabled me to
seize La Fleche, the most dangerous, insidious and
skilful of all Napoleon's agents. I found him at Re-
dondo's ball last week in the uniform of a Portuguese
major, and through him I was able to track down
Souza's chief instrument I discovered them closeted
with him in one of the card-rooms."
"And you did n't arrest them?"
"Arrest them! I apologised for my intrusion, and
withdrew. La Fleche took his leave of them. He was
to have left Lisbon at dawn equipped with a passport
countersigned by yourself, my dear adjutant."
"What's that?"
"A passport for Major Vieira of the Portuguese
Cagadores. Do you remember it?"
" Major Vieira ! " Sir Terence frowned thoughtfully.
Suddenly he recollected. "But that was countersigned
by me at the request of Count Samoval, who repre-
sented himself a personal friend of the major's."
"So indeed he is. But the major in question was
La Fleche nevertheless."
"And Samoval knew this?"
Sir Terence was incredulous.
Colonel Grant did not immediately answer the ques-
134 The Snare
tion. He preferred to continue his narrative. "That
night I had the false major arrested very quietly. I
have caused him to disappear for the present. His Lis-
bon friends believe him to be on his way to Massena
with the information they no doubt supplied him.
Massena awaits his return at Salamanca, and will con-
*jnue to wait. Thus when he fails to be seen or heard
of there will be a good deal of mystification on all sides,
which is the proper state of mind in which to place
your opponents. Lord Liverpool's figures, let me add,
were not among the interesting notes found upon him
possibly because at that date they had not yet been
obtained. "
" And you say that Samoval was aware of the man's
real identity ?" insisted Sir Terence, still incredulous.
" Aware of it?" Colonel Grant laughed shortly.
44 Samoval is Souza's principal agent the most dan-
gerous man in Lisbon and the most subtle. His sym-
pathies are French through and through."
Sir Terence stared at him in frank amazement, in
utter unbelief. "Oh, impossible!" he ejaculated at
last.
"I saw Samoval for the first time," said Colonel
Grant by way of answer, "in Oporto at the time of
Soult's occupation. He did not call himself Samoval
just then, any more than I called myself Colquhoun
Grant. He was very active there in the French interest ;
I should indeed be more precise and say in Bonaparte's
interest, for he was the man instrumental in disclosing
to Soult the Bourbon conspiracy which was undermin-
ing the marshal's army. You do not know, perhaps,
that French sympathy runs in Samoval 's family. You
may not be aware that the Portuguese Marquis of
Alorna, who holds a command in the Emperor's army,
The Stifled Quarrel 135
and is at present with Massena at Salamanca, is Samo-
val's cousin."
"But," faltered Sir Terence, "Count Samoval has
been a regular visitor here for the past three months."
"So I understand," said Grant coolly. "If I had
known of it before I should have warned you. But, as
you are aware, I have been in Spain on other business.
You realise the danger of having such a man about the
place. Scraps of information
"Oh, as to that," Sir Terence interrupted, "I can
assure you that none have fallen from my official
table."
" Never be too sure, Sir Terence. Matters here must
ever be under discussion. There are your secretaries
and the ladies and Samoval has a great way with
the women. What they know you may wager that he
knows."
"They know nothing."
"That is a great deal to say. Little odds and ends
now; a hint at one time; a word dropped at another;
these things picked up naturally by feminine curiosity
and retailed thoughtlessly under Samoval' s charming
suasion and display of Britannic sympathies. And
Samoval has the devil's own talent for bringing to-
gether the pieces of a puzzle. Take the lines now: you
may have parted with no details. But mention of them
will surely have been made in this household. How-
ever," he broke off abruptly, " that is all past and done
with. I am as sure as you are that any real indiscre-
tions in this household are unimaginable, and so we
may be confident that no harm has yet been done.
But you will gather from what I have now told you
that Samoval' s visits here are not a mere social waste
of time. That he comes, acquires familiarity and
136 The Snare
makes himself the friend of the family with a very
definite aim in view."
"He does not come again," said Sir Terence, rising.
"That is more than I should have ventured to sug-
gest. But it is a very wise resolve. It will need tact to
carry it out, for Samoval is a man to be handled care-
fully."
"I'll handle him carefully, devil a fear," said Sir
Terence. "You can depend upon my tact."
Colonel Grant rose. "In this matter of Penalva, I
will consider further. But I do not think there is any-
thing to be done now. The main thing is to stop up the
outlets through which information reaches the French,
and that is my chief concern. How is the stripping of
the country proceeding now?"
"It was more active immediately after Souza left
the Government. But the last reports announce a
slackening again."
"They are at work in that, too, you see. Souza will
not slumber while there's vengeance and self-interest
to keep him awake." And he held out his hand to take
his leave.
"You '11 stay to luncheon? " said Sir Terence. " It is
about to be served."
"You are very kind, Sir Terence."
They descended, to find luncheon served already in
the open under the trellis vine, and the party consisted
of Lady O'Moy, Miss Armytage, Captain Tremayne,
Major Carruthers, and Count Samoval, of whose pres-
ence this was the adjutant's first intimation.
As a matter of fact the Count had been at Monsanto
for the past hour, the first half of which he had spent
most agreeably on the terrace with the ladies. He had
spoken so eulogistically of the genius of Lord Welling-
The Stifled Quarrel 137
ton and the valour of the British soldier, and particu-
larly of the Irish soldier, that even Sylvia's instinctive
distrust and dislike of him had been lulled a little for
the moment.
"And they must prevail," he had exclaimed in a
glow of enthusiasm, his dark eyes flashing. "It is in-
conceivable that they should ever yield to the French,
although the odds of numbers may lie so heavily against
them."
"Are the odds of numbers so heavy?" said Lady
O'Moy in surprise, opening wide those almost child-
ish eyes of hers.
"Alas! anything from three to five to one. Ah, but
why should we despond on that account?" And his
voice vibrated with renewed confidence. "The coun-
try is a difficult one, easy to defend, and Lord Welling-
ton's genius will have made the best of it. There are,
for example, the fortifications at Torres Vedras."
"Ah yes! I have heard of them. Tell me about
them, Count."
"Tell you about them, dear lady? Shall I carry per-
fumes to the rose? What can I tell you that you do not
know so much better than myself?"
" Indeed, I know nothing. Sir Terence is ridiculously
secretive," she assured him, with a little frown of petu-
lance. She realised that her husband did not treat her
as an intelligent being to be consulted upon these mat-
ters. She was his wife, and he had no right to keep se-
crets from her. In fact she said so.
"Indeed no," Samoval agreed. "And I find it hard
to credit that it should be so."
"Then you forget," said Sylvia, "that these secrets
are not Sir Terence's own. They are the secrets of his
office."
138 The Snare
" Perhaps so," said the unabashed Samoval. " But if
I were Sir Terence I should desire above all to allay
my wife's natural anxiety. For I am sure you must be
anxious, dear Lady O'Moy."
" Naturally, " she agreed, whose anxieties never
transcended the fit of her gowns or the suitability of a
coiffure. "But Terence is like that."
"Incredible!" the Count protested, and raised his
dark eyes to heaven as if invoking its punishment upon
so unnatural a husband. "Do you tell me that you
have never so much as seen the plans of these fortifica-
tions?"
"The plans, Count!" She almost laughed.
"Ah!" he said. " I dare swear then that you do not
even know of their existence." He was jocular now.
" I am sure that she does not," said Sylvia, who in-
stinctively felt that the conversation was following an
undesirable course.
"Then you are wrong," she was assured. "I saw
them once, a week ago, in Sir Terence's room."
"Why, how would you know them if you saw
them?" quoth Sylvia, seeking to cover what might be
an indiscretion.
"Because they bore the name: * Lines of Torres
Vedras.' I remember."
"And this unsympathetic Sir Terence did not ex-
plain them to you?" laughed Samoval.
"Indeed, he did not."
"In fact, I could swear that he locked them away
from you at once?" the Count continued on a jocular
note.
"Not at once. But he certainly locked them away
soon after, and whilst I was still there."
"In your place, then," said Samoval, ever on the
The Stifled Quarrel 139
same note of banter, "I should have been tempted to
steal the key."
"Not so easily done," she assured him. "It never
leaves his person. He wears it on a gold chain round his
neck."
"What, always?"
"Always, I assure you."
"Too bad," protested Samoval. "Too bad, indeed.
What, then, should you have done, Miss Armytage?"
It was difficult to imagine that he was drawing in-
formation from them, so bantering and frivolous was
his manner; more difficult still to conceive that he had
obtained any. Yet you will observe that he had been
placed in possession of two facts : that the plans of the
lines of Torres Vedras were kept locked up in Sir Ter-
ence's own room in the strong-box, no doubt and
that Sir Terence always carried the key on a gold
chain worn round his neck.
Miss Armytage laughed. "Whatever I might do, I
should not be guilty of prying into matters that my
husband kept hidden."
"Then you admit a husband's right to keep matters
hidden from his wife?"
"Why not?"
"Madam," Samoval bowed to her, "your future
husband is to be envied on yet another count."
And thus the conversation drifted, Samoval conceiv-
ing that he had obtained all the information of which
Lady O'Moy was possessed, and satisfied that he had
obtained all that for the moment he required. How to
proceed now was a more difficult matter, to be very
seriously considered how to obtain from Sir Terence
the key in question, and reach the plans so essential to
Marshal Massena.
140 The Snare
He was at table with them, as you know, when Sir
Terence and Colonel Grant arrived. He and the colo-
nel were presented to each other, and bowed with a
gravity quite cordial on the part of Samoval, who was
by far the more subtle dissembler of the two. Each
knew the other perfectly for what he was; yet each was
in complete ignorance of the extent of the other's
knowledge of himself; and certainly neither betrayed
anything by his manner.
At table the conversation was led naturally enough
by Tremayne to Wellington's general order against
duelling. This was inevitable when you consider that
it was a topic of conversation that morning at every
table to which British officers sat down. Tremayne
spoke of the measure in terms of warm commendation,
thereby provoking a sharp disagreement from Samo-
val. The deep and almost instinctive hostility between
these two men, which had often been revealed in mo-
mentary flashes, was such that it must invariably lead
them to take opposing sides in any matter admitting of
contention.
" In my opinion it is a most arbitrary and degrading
enactment," said Samoval. "I say so without hesita-
tion, notwithstanding my profound admiration and re-
spect for Lord Wellington and all his measures."
"Degrading?" echoed Grant, looking across at him.
"In what can it be degrading, Count?"
"In that it reduces a gentleman to the level of the
clod," was the prompt answer. "A gentleman must
have his quarrels, however sweet his disposition, and
a means must be afforded him of settling them."
"Ye can always thrash an impudent fellow," opined
the adjutant.
"Thrash?" echoed Samoval. His sensitive lip curled
The Stifled Quarrel 141
in disdain. "To use your hands upon a man!" He
shuddered in sheer disgust. "To one of my tempera-
ment it would be impossible, and men of my tempera-
ment are plentiful, I think."
"But if you were thrashed yourself?" Tremayne
asked him, and the light in his grey eyes almost hinted
at a dark desire to be himself the executioner.
Samoval's dark, handsome eyes considered the cap-
tain steadily. "To be thrashed myself?" he ques-
tioned. "My dear Captain, the idea of having hands
laid upon me, soiling me, brutalising me, is so nauseat-
ing, so repugnant, that I assure you I should not hesi-
tate to shoot the man who did it just as I should shoot
any other wild beast that attacked me. Indeed the
two instances are exactly parallel, and my country's
courts would uphold in such a case the justice of my
conduct."
"Then you may thank God," said O'Moy, "that
you are not under British jurisdiction."
" I do," snapped Samoval, to make an instant recov-
ery: "at least so far as the matter is concerned." And
he elaborated: "I assure you, sirs, it will be an evil
day for the nobility of any country when its Govern-
ment enacts against the satisfaction that one gentle-
man has the right to demand from another who offends
him."
"Is n't the conversation rather too bloodthirsty for
a luncheon-table ? ' ' wondered Lady O' Moy. And tact-
lessly she added, thinking with flattery to mollify
Samoval and cool his obvious heat: "You are your-
self such a famous swordsman, Count."
And then Tremayne's dislike of the man betrayed
him into his deplorable phrase:
"At the present time Portugal is in urgent need of
142 The Snare
her famous swordsmen to go against the French and
not to increase the disorders at home."
A silence complete and ominous followed the rash
words, and Samoval, white to the lips, pondered the
imperturbable captain with a baleful eye.
" I think," he said at last, speaking slowly and softly,
and picking his words with care, " I think that is innu-
endo. I should be relieved, Captain Tremayne, to hear
you say that it is not."
Tremayne was prompt to give him the assurance.
"No innuendo at all. A plain statement of fact."
"The innuendo I suggested lay in the application
of the phrase. Do you make it personal to myself?"
"Of course not," said Sir Terence, cutting in and
speaking sharply. "What an assumption!"
"I am asking Captain Tremayne," the Count in-
sisted, with grim firmness, notwithstanding his defer-
ential smile to Sir Terence.
"I spoke quite generally, sir," Tremayne assured
him, partly under the suasion of Sir Terence's interpo-
sition, partly out of consideration for the ladies, who
were looking scared. "Of course, if you choose to take
it to yourself, sir, that is a matter for your own dis-
cretion. I think," he added, also with a smile, "that
the ladies find the topic tiresome."
"Perhaps we may have the pleasure of continuing
it when they are no longer present."
"Oh, as you please," was the indifferent answer.
" Carruthers, may I trouble you to pass the salt? Lady
O'Callaghan was complaining the other night of the
abuse of salt in Portuguese cookery. It is an abuse I
have never yet detected."
" I can't conceive Lady O'Callaghan complaining of
too much salt in anything, begad," quoth O'Moy, with
The Stifled Quarrel 143
a laugh. "If you had heard the story she told me
about"
"Terence, my dear!" his wife checked him, her fine
brows raised, her stare frigid.
"Faith, we go from bad to worse," said Carruthers.
"Will you try to improve the tone of the conversation,
Miss Armytage? It stands in urgent need of it."
With a general laugh, breaking the ice of the re-
straint that was in danger of settling about the table, a
semblance of ease was restored, and this was main-
tained until the end of the repast. At last the ladies
rose, and, leaving the men at table, they sauntered off
towards the terrace. But under the archway Sylvia
checked her cousin.
"Una," she said gravely, "you had better call Cap-
tain Tremayne and take him away for the present."
Una's eyes opened wide. "Why?" she inquired.
Miss Armytage was almost impatient with her.
"Did n't you see? Resentment is only slumbering be-
tween those men. It will break out again now that we
have left them unless you can get Captain Tremayne
away."
Una continued to look at her cousin, and then, her
mind fastening ever upon the trivial to the exclusion of
the important, her glance became arch. "For whom
is your concern? For Count Samoval or Ned?" she
inquired, and added with a laugh: "You needn't
answer me. It is Ned you are afraid for."
" I am certainly not afraid for him," was the reply on
a faint note of indignation. She had reddened slightly.
"But I should not like to see Captain Tremayne or any
other British officer embroiled in a duel. You forget
Lord Wellington's order which they were discussing,
and the consequences of infringing it."
144 The Snare
Lady O'Moy became scared.
"You don't imagine "
Sylvia spoke quickly: "I am certain that unless you
take Captain Tremayne away, and at once, there will
be serious trouble/'
And now behold Lady O'Moy thrown into a state of
alarm that bordered upon terror. She had more reason
than Sylvia could dream, more reason she conceived
than Sylvia herself, to wish to keep Captain Tremayna
out of trouble just at present. Instantly, agitatedly,
she turned and called to him.
"Ned!" floated her silvery voice across the enclosed
garden. And again : " Ned ! I want you at once, please."
Captain Tremayne rose. Grant was talking briskly
at the time, his intention being to cover Tremayne's
retreat, which he himself desired. Count Samoval's
smouldering eyes were upon the captain, and full of
menace. But he could not be guilty of the rudeness of
interrupting Grant or of detaining Captain Tremayne
when a lady called him.
CHAPTER XI
THE CHALLENGE
REBUKE awaited Captain Tremayne at the hands of
Lady O'Moy, and it came as soon as they were alone
together sauntering in the thicket of pine and cork-oak
on the slope of the hill below the terrace.
"How thoughtless of you, Ned, to provoke Count
Samoval at such a time as this!"
"Did I provoke him? I thought it was the Count
himself who was provoking." Tremayne spoke lightly.
" But suppose anything were to happen to you? You
know the man's dreadful reputation."
Tremayne looked at her kindly. This apparent con-
cern for himself touched him. "My dear Una, I hope
I can take care of myself, even against so formidable
a fellow ; and after all a man must take his chances
a soldier especially."
" But what of Dick? " she cried. " Do you forget that
he is depending entirely upon you that if you should
fail him he will be lost?" And there was something
akin to indignation in the protesting eyes she turned
upon him.
For a moment Tremayne was so amazed that he was
at a loss for an answer. Then he smiled. Indeed his in-
clination was to laugh outright. The frank admission
that her concern which he had fondly imagined to be
for himself was all for Dick betrayed a state of mind
that was entirely typical of Una. Never had she been
able to command more than one point of view of any
question, and that point of view invariably of her own
interest. All her life she had been accustomed to sacri-
146 The Snare
fices great and small made by others on her own behalf,
until she had come to look upon such sacrifices as her
absolute right.
" I am glad you reminded me," he said with an irony
that never touched her. "You may depend upon me
to be discreetness itself, at least until after Dick has
been safely shipped."
"Thank you, Ned. You are very good to me." They
sauntered a little way in silence. Then: "When does
Captain Glennie sail?" she asked him. "Is it decided
yet?"
"Yes. I have just heard from him that the
Telemachus will put to sea on Sunday morning at two
o'clock."
"At two o'clock in the morning! What an uncom-
fortable hour!"
"Tides, as King Canute discovered, are beyond
mortal control. The Telemachus goes out with the ebb.
And, after all, for our purposes surely no hour could be
more suitable. If I come for Dick at midnight to-mor-
row that will just give us time to get him snugly
aboard before she sails. I have made all arrangements
with Glennie. He believes Dick to be what he has re-
presented himself one of Bearsley's overseers named
Jenkinson, who is a friend of mine and who must be got
out of the country quietly. Dick should thank his luck
for a good deal. My chief anxiety was lest his presence
here should be discovered by any one."
" Beyond Bridget not a soul knows that he is here
not even Sylvia."
"You have been the soul of discreetness."
"Haven't I?" she purred, delighted to have him
discover a virtue so unusual in her.
Thereafter they discussed details; or, rather, Tre-
The Challenge 147
mayne discussed them. He would come up to Monsan-
to at twelve o'clock to-morrow night in a curricle in
which he would drive Dick down to the river at a point
where a boat would be waiting to take him out to the
Telemachus. She must see that Dick was ready in
time. The rest she could safely leave to him. He
would come in through the official wing of the build-
ing. The guard would admit him without question, ac-
customed to seeing him come and go at all hours, nor
would it be remarked that he was accompanied by a
man in civilian dress when he departed. Dick was to be
let down from her ladyship's balcony to the quadrangle
by a rope ladder with which Tremayne would come
equipped, having procured it for the purpose from the
Telemachus.
She hung upon his arm, overwhelming him now with
her gratitude, her parasol sheltering them both from
the rays of the sun as they emerged from the thicket
into the meadow-land in full view of the terrace where
Count Samoval and Sir Terence were at that moment
talking earnestly together.
You will remember that O'Moy had undertaken to
provide that Count Samoval's visits to Monsanto
should be discontinued. About this task he had gone
with all the tact of which he had boasted himself mas-
ter to Colquhoun Grant. You shall judge of the tact
for yourself. No sooner had the colonel left for Lisbon,
and Carruthers to return to his work, than, finding
himself alone with the Count, Sir Terence considered
the moment a choice one in which to broach the mat-
ter.
"I take it ye 're fond of walking, Count," had been
his singular opening move. They had left the table by
now, and were sauntering together on the terrace. '
148 The Snare
" Walking? " said Samoval. "I detest it."
"And is that so? Well, well! Of course it's not so
very far from your place at Bispo."
"Not more than half-a-league, I should say."
"Just so," said O'Moy. "Half-a-league there, and
half-a-league back: a league. It's nothing at all, of
course ; yet for a gentleman who detests walking it 's a
devilish long tramp for nothing."
" For nothing? " Samoval checked and looked at his
host in faint surprise. Then he smiled very affably.
" But you must not say that, Sir Terence. I assure you
that the pleasure of seeing yourself and Lady O'Moy
cannot be spoken of as nothing."
"You are very good." Sir Terence was the very
quintessence of courtliness, of concern for the other.
"But if there were not that pleasure?"
"Then, of course, it would be different." Samoval
was beginning to be slightly intrigued.
"That's it," said Sir Terence. "That's just what
I'm meaning."
"Just what you 're meaning? But, my dear General,
you are assuming circumstances which fortunately do
not exist."
"Not at present, perhaps. But they might."
Again Samoval stood still and looked at O'Moy. He
found something in the bronzed, rugged face that was
unusually sardonic. The blue eyes seemed to have be-
come hard, and yet there were wrinkles about their
corners suggestive of humour that might be mockery.
The Count stiffened ; but beyond that he preserved his
outward calm whilst confessing that he did not under-
stand Sir Terence's meaning.
"It's this way," said Sir Terence. "I've noticed
that ye 're not looking so very well lately, Count."
The Challenge 149
" Really? You think that?" The words were me-
chanical. The dark eyes continued to scrutinise that
bronzed face suspiciously.
" I do, and it 's sorry I am to see it. But I know what
it is. It's this walking backwards and forwards be-
tween here and Bispo that's doing the mischief. Better
give it up, Count. Better not come toiling up here any
more. It's not good for your health. Why, man, ye 're
as white as a ghost this minute."
He was indeed, having perceived at last the insult
intended. To be denied the house at such a time was to
checkmate his designs, to set a term upon his crafty
and subtle espionage, precisely in the season when he
hoped to reap its harvest. But his chagrin sprang not
at all from that. His cold anger was purely personal.
He was a gentleman of the fine flower, as he would
have described himself of the nobility of Portugal ;
and that a probably upstart Irish soldier himself,
from Samoval' s point of view, a guest in that country
should deny him his house, and choose such terms
of ill-considered jocularity in which to do it, was an af-
front beyond all endurance.
For a moment passion blinded him, and it was only
by an effort that he recovered and kept his self-control.
But keep it he did. You may trust your practised duel-
list for that when he comes face to face with the neces-
sity to demand satisfaction. And soon the mist of pas-
sion clearing from his keen wits, he sought swiftly for a
means to fasten the quarrel upon Sir Terence in Sir
Terence's own coin of galling mockery. Instantly he
found it. Indeed it was not very far to seek. O'Moy's
jealousy, which was almost a byword, as we know, had
been apparent more than once to Samoval. Remember-
ing it now, it discovered to him at once Sir Terence's
150 The Snare
most vulnerable spot, and cunningly Samoval pro-
ceeded to gall him there.
A smile spread gradually over his white face a
smile of immeasurable malice.
"I am having a very interesting and instructive
morning in this atmosphere of Irish boorishness," said
he. " First Captain Tremayne "
"Now don't be after blaming old Ireland for Tre-
mayne's shortcomings. Tremayne's just a clumsy
mannered Englishman."
" I am glad to know there is a distinction. Indeed I
might have perceived it for myself. In motives, of
course, that distinction is great indeed, and I hope that
I am not slow to discover it, and in your case to excuse
it. I quite understand and even sympathise with your
feelings, General."
" I am glad of that now," said Sir Terence, who had
understood nothing of all this.
"Naturally," the Count pursued on a smooth, level
note of amiability, "when a man, himself no longer
young, commits the folly of taking a young and charm-
ing wife, he is to be forgiven when a natural anxiety
drives him to lengths which in another might be re-
sented." He bowed before the empurpling Sir Terence.
"Ye're a damned coxcomb, it seems," was the an-
swering roar.
"Of course you would assume it. It was to be ex-
pected. I condone it with the rest. And because I con-
done it, because I sympathise with what in a man of
your age and temperament must amount to an afflic-
tion, I hasten to assure you upon my honour that so
far as I am concerned there are no grounds for your
anxiety."
"And who the devil asks for your assurances? It's
The Challenge 151
stark mad ye are to suppose that I ever needed
them."
"Of course you must say that," Samoval insisted,
with a confident and superior smile. He shook his
head, his expression one of amused sorrow. "Sir Ter-
ence, you have knocked at the wrong door. You are
youthful at least in your impulsiveness, but you are
surely as blind as old Pantaloon in the comedy or you
would see where your industry would be better em-
ployed in shielding your wife's honour and your own."
Goaded to fury, his blue eyes aflame now with pas-
sion, Sir Terence considered the sleek and subtle gen-
tleman before him, and it was in that moment that the
Count's subtlety soared to its finest heights. In a flash
of inspiration he perceived the advantages to be drawn
by himself from conducting this quarrel to extremes.
This is not mere idle speculation. Knowledge of the
real motives actuating him rests upon the evidence of a
letter which Samoval was to write that same evening to
La Fleche afterwards to be discovered wherein
he related what had passed, how deliberately he had
steered the matter, and what he meant to do. His ob-
ject was no longer the punishing of an affront. That
would happen as a mere incident, a thing done, as it
were, in passing. His real aim now was to obtain the
keys of the adjutant's strong-box, which never left Sir
Terence's person, and so become possessed of the plans
of the lines of Torres Vedras. When you consider in
the light of this the manner in which Samoval pro-
ceeded now you will admire with me at once the oppor-
tunism and the subtlety of the man.
"You'll be after telling me exactly what you mean,"
Sir Terence had said.
It was in that moment that Tremayne and Lady
152 The Snare
O'Moy came arm in arm into the open on the hill-side,
half-a-mile away very close and confidential. They
came most opportunely to the Count's need, and he
flung out a hand to indicate them to Sir Terence, a
smile of pity on his lips.
1 'You need but to look to take the answer for your-
self," said he.
Sir Terence looked, and laughed. He knew the secret
of Ned Tremayne's heart and could laugh now with
relish at that which hitherto had left him darkly sus-
picious.
"And who shall blame Lady O'Moy? " Count Sam-
oval pursued. "A lady so charming and so courted
must seek her consolation for the almost unnatural
union Fate has imposed upon her. Captain Tremayne
is of her own age, convenient to her hand, and for an
Englishman not ill-looking."
He smiled at O'Moy with insolent compassion, and
O'Moy, losing all his self-control, struck him
slapped him resoundingly upon the cheek.
"Ye 're a dirty liar, Samoval, a muck-rake," said he.
Samoval stepped back, breathing hard, one cheek
red, the other white. Yet by a miracle he still preserved
his self-control.
"I have proved my courage too often," he said, "to
be under the necessity of killing you for this blow.
Since my honour is safe I will not take advantage of
your overwrought condition."
"Ye '11 take advantage of it whether ye like it or
not," blazed Sir Terence at him. " I mean you to take
advantage of it. D' ye think I '11 suffer any man to cast
a slur upon Lady O'Moy? I '11 be sending my friends
to wait on you to-day, Count ; and by God ! Tre-
mayne himself shall be one of them."
The Challenge 153
Thus did the hot-headed fellow deliver himself into
the hands of his enemy. Nor was he warned when he
saw the sudden gleam in Samoval's dark eyes.
"Ha!" said the Count. It was a little exclamation
of wicked satisfaction. "You are offering me a chal-
lenge, then?"
" If I may make so bold. And as I Ve a mind to shoot
you dead "
"Shoot, did you say?" Samoval interrupted gently.
"I said 'shoot' and it shall be at ten paces, or
across a handkerchief, or any damned distance you
please."
The Count shook his head. He sneered. "I think
not not shoot." And he waved the notion aside with
a^hand white and slender as a woman's. "That is too
English, or too Irish. The pistol, I mean appropri-
ately a fool's weapon." And he explained himself, ex-
plained at last his extraordinary forbearance under a
blow. "If you think I have practised the small-sword
every day of my life for ten years to suffer myself to be
shot at like a rabbit in the end ho, really!" He
laughed aloud. "You have challenged me, I think,
Sir Terence. Because I feared the predilection you
have discovered, I was careful to wait until the chal-
lenge came from you. The choice of weapons lies, I
think, with me. I shall instruct my friends to ask for
swords."
"Sorry a difference will it make to me," said Sir
Terence. "Anything from a horsewhip to a howitzer."
And then recollection descending like a cold hand upon
him chilled his hot rage, struck the fine Irish arrogance
all out of him, and left him suddenly limp. " My God ! "
he said, and it was almost a groan. He detained
Samoval, who had already turned to depart. " A mo-
154 2%0 Snare
ment, Count, " he cried. "I I had forgotten. There
is the general order Lord Wellington's enactment."
"Awkward, of course, " said Samoval, who had never
for a moment been oblivious of that enactment, and
who had been carefully building upon it. "But you
should have considered it before committing yourself
so irrevocably/'
Sir Terence steadied himself. He recovered his
truculence. "Irrevocable or not, it will just have to
be revocable. The meeting's impossible."
" I do not see the impossibility. I am not surprised
you should shelter yourself behind an enactment; but
you will remember this enactment does not apply to
me, who am not a soldier.'*
"But it applies to me, who am not only a soldier,
but the Adjutant-General here, the man chiefly re-
sponsible for seeing the order carried out. It would be
a fine thing if I were the first to disregard it."
" I am afraid it is too late. You have disregarded it
already, sir."
"How so?"
"The letter of the law is against sending or receiving
a challenge, I think."
O'Moy was distracted. "Samoval," he said, drawing
himself up, "I will admit that I have been a fool. I
will apologise to you for the blow and for the word
that accompanied it."
"The apology would imply that my statement was
a true one and that you recognised it. If you mean
that "
" I mean nothing of the kind. Damme! I Ve a mind
to horsewhip you, and leave it at that. D'ye think I
want to face a firing party on your account?"
"I don't think there is the remotest likelihood of
any such contingency," replied Samoval.
The Challenge 155
But O'Moy went headlong on. "And another thing.
Where will I be finding a friend to meet your friends?
Who will dare to act for me in view of that enact-
ment?"
The Count considered. He was grave now. "Of
course that is a difficulty," he admitted, as if he per-
ceived it now for the first time. "Under the circum-
stances, Sir Terence, and entirely to accommodate you,
I might consent to dispense with seconds."
"Dispense with seconds?" Sir Terence was horri-
fied at the suggestion. "You know that that is irregu-
lar that a charge of murder would lie against the
survivor."
"Oh, quite so. But it is for your own convenience
that I suggest it, though I appreciate your considerate
concern on the score of what may happen to me after-
wards should it come to be known that I was your op-
ponent."
"Afterwards? After what?"
"After I have killed you."
"And is it like that?" cried O'Moy, his countenance
inflaming again, his mind casting all prudence to the
winds.
It followed, of course, that without further thought
for anything but the satisfaction of his rage Sir Ter-
ence became as wax in the hands of Samoval's desires.
"Where do you suggest that we meet?" he asked.
"There is my place at Bispo. We should be private
in the gardens there. As for time, the sooner the bet
ter, though for secrecy's sake we had better meet at
night. Shall we say at midnight?"
But Sir Terence would agree to none of this.
"To-night is out of the question for me. I have an
engagement that will keep me until late. To-morrow
156 The Snare
night, if you will, I shall be at your service/' And be-
cause he did not trust Samoval he added, as Samoval
himself had almost reckoned: "But I should prefer not
to come to Bispo. I might be seen going or returning."
41 Since there are no such scruples on my side, I am
ready to come to you here if you prefer it."
"It would suit me better."
"Then expect me promptly at midnight to-morrow,
provided that you can arrange to admit me without
my being seen. You will perceive my reasons."
"Those gates will be closed," said O'Moy, indicat-
ing the now gaping massive doors that closed the arch-
way at night. " But if you knock I shall be waiting for
you, and I will admit you by the wicket. "
"Excellent," said Samoval suavely. "Then until
to-morrow night, General." He bowed with almost
extravagant submission, and turning walked sharply
away, energy and suppleness in every line of his slight
figure, leaving Sir Terence to the unpleasant, almost
desperate, thoughts that reflection must usher in as
his anger faded.
CHAPTER XII
THE DUEL
IT was a time of stress and even of temptation for Sir
Terence. Honour and pride demanded that he should
keep the appointment made with Samoval; common
sense urged him at all costs to avoid it. His frame of
mind, you see, was not at all enviable. At moments
he would consider his position as adjutant-general,
the enactment against duelling, the irregularity of the
meeting arranged, and, consequently, the danger in
which he stood on every score ; at others he could think
of nothing but the unpardonable affront that had been
offered him and the venomously insulting manner in
which it had been offered, and his rage welled up to
blot out every consideration other than that of punish-
ing Samoval.
For two days and a night he was a sort of shuttle-
cock tossed between these alternating moods, and he
was still the same when he paced the quadrangle with
bowed head and hands clasped behind him awaiting
Samoval at a few minutes before twelve of the follow-
ing night. The windows that looked down from the
four sides of that enclosed garden were all in darkness.
The members of the household had withdrawn over an
hour ago and were asleep by now. The official quarters
were closed. The rising moon had just mounted above
the eastern wing and its white light fell upon the upper
half of the fagade of the residential site. The quad-
rangle itself remained plunged in gloom.
Sir Terence, pacing there, was considering the only
definite conclusion he had reached. If there were no
158 The Snare
way even now of avoiding this duel, at least it must
remain secret. Therefore it could not take place here
in the enclosed garden of his own quarters, as he had
so rashly consented. It should be fought upon neutral
ground, where the presence of the body of the slain
would not call for explanations by the survivor.
From distant Lisbon on the still air came softly the
chimes of midnight, and immediately there was a sharp
rap upon the little door set in one of the massive gates
that closed the archway.
Sir Terence went to open the wicket, and Samoval
stepped quickly over the sill. He was wrapped in a
dark cloak, a broad-brimmed hat obscured his face.
Sir Terence closed the door again. The two men bowed
to each other in silence, and as Samoval' s cloak fell
open he produced a pair of duelling-swords swathed
together in a skin of leather.
"You are very punctual, sir," said O'Moy.
" I hope I shall never be so discourteous as to keep
an opponent waiting. It is a thing of which I have
never yet been guilty," replied Samoval, with deadly
smoothness in that reminder of his victorious past.
He stepped forward and looked about the quadrangle.
"I am afraid the moon will occasion us some delay/'
he said. "It were perhaps better to wait some five or
ten minutes, by when the light in here should have
improved."
"We can avoid the delay by stepping out into the
open," said Sir Terence. "Indeed it is what I had to
suggest in any case. There are inconveniences here
which you may have overlooked."
But Samoval, who had purposes to serve of which
this duel was but a preliminary, was of a very different
mind.
The Duel 159
"We are quite private here, your household being
abed," he answered, " whilst outside one can never be
sure even at this hour of avoiding witnesses and inter-
ruption. Then, again, the turf is smooth as a table on
that patch of lawn, and the ground well known to both
of us; that, I can assure you, is a very necessary condi-
tion in the dark and one not to be found haphazard in
the open."
" But there is yet another consideration, sir. I prefer
that we engage on neutral ground, so that the survivor
shall not be called upon for explanations that might be
demanded if we fought here."
Even in the gloom Sir Terence caught the flash of
Samoval' s white teeth as he smiled.
"You trouble yourself unnecessarily on my account,"
was the smoothly ironic answer. " No one has seen me
come, and no one is likely to see me depart.' f
"You may be sure that no one shall, by God,"
snapped O'Moy, stung by the sly insolence of the
other's assurance.
"Shall we get to work, then?" Samoval invited.
"If you're set on dying here, I suppose I must be
after humouring you, and make the best of it. As soon
as you please, then." O'Moy was very fierce.
They stepped to the patch of lawn in the middle of
the quadrangle, and there Samoval threw off altogether
his cloak and hat. He was closely dressed in black,
which in that light rendered him almost invisible. Sir
Terence, less practised and less calculating in these
matters, wore an undress uniform, the red coat of
which showed greyish. Samoval observed this rather
with contempt than with satisfaction in the advantage
it afforded him. Then he removed the swathing from
the swords, and, crossing them, presented the hilts to
160 The Snare
Sir Terence. The adjutant took one and the Count
retained the other, which he tested, thrashing the air
with it so that it hummed like a whip. That done, how-
ever, he did not immediately fall on.
"In a few minutes the moon will be more obliging,"
he suggested. "If you would prefer to wait "
But it occurred to Sir Terence that in the gloom the
advantage might lie slightly with himself, since the
other's superior sword-play would perhaps be partly
neutralised. He cast a last look round at the dark win-
dows.
"I find it light enough," he answered.
Samoval's reply was instantaneous. "On guard,
then," he cried, and on the words, without giving Sir
Terence so much as time to comply with the invitation,
he whirled his point straight and deadly at the greyish
outline of his opponent's body. But a ray of moonlight
caught the blade and its livid flash gave Sir Terence
warning of the thrust so treacherously delivered. He
saved himself by leaping backwards just saved him-
self with not an inch to spare and threw up his
blade to meet the thrust.
" Ye murderous villain," he snarled under his breath,
as steel ground on steel, and he flung forward to the
attack.
But from the gloom came a little laugh to answer
him, and his angry lunge was foiled by an enveloping
movement that ended in a ripost. With that they
settled down to it, Sir Terence in a rage upon which
that assassin stroke had been fresh fuel; the Count
cool and unhurried, delaying until the moonlight
should have crept a little farther, so as to enable him
to make quite sure that his stroke whan delivered
should be final.
The Duel 161
Meanwhile he pressed Sir Terence towards the side
where the moonlight would strike first, until they were
fighting close under the windows of the residential
wing, Sir Terence with his back to them, Samoval
facing them. It was Fate that placed them so, the
Fate that watched over Sir Terence even now when he
felt his strength failing him, his sword arm turning to
lead under the strain of an unwonted exercise. He
knew himself beaten, realised the dexterous ease, the
masterly economy of vigour and the deadly sureness
of his opponent's play. He knew that he was at the
mercy of Samoval ; he was even beginning to wonder
why the Count should delay to make an end of a situa-
tion of which he was so completely master. And then,
quite suddenly, even as he was returning thanks that
he had taken the precaution of putting all his affairs
in order, something happened.
A light showed ; it flared up suddenly, to be as sud-
denly extinguished, and it had its source in the window
of Lady O'Moy's dressing-room, which Samoval was
facing.
That flash drawing off the Count's eyes for one in-
stant, and leaving them blinded for another, had re-
vealed him clearly at the same time to Sir Terence.
Sir Terence's blade darted in, driven by all that was
left of his spent strength, and Samoval, his eyes un-
seeing, in that moment had fumbled widely and failed
to find the other's steel until he felt it sinking through
his body, searing him from breast to back.
His arms sank to his sides quite nervelessly. He
uttered a faint exclamation of astonishment, almost
instantly interrupted by a cough. He swayed there a
moment, the cough increasing until it choked him.
Then, suddenly limp, he pitched forward upon his
1 62 The Snare
face, and lay clawing and twitching at Sir Terence's
feet.
Sir Terence himself, scarcely realising what had
taken place, for the whole thing had happened within
the time of a couple of heart-beats, stood quite still,
amazed and awed, in a half-crouching attitude, looking
down at the body of the fallen man. And then from
above, ringing upon the deathly stillness, he caught a
sibilant whisper:
11 What was that? 'Sh!"
He stepped back softly, and flattened himself in-
stinctively against the wall; thence profoundly in-
trigued and vaguely alarmed on several scores he
peered up at the windows of his wife's room whence
the sound had come, whence the sudden light had come
which as he now realised had given him the vic-
tory in that unequal contest. Looking up at the bal-
cony in whose shadow he stood concealed, he saw two
figures there his wife's and another's and at the
same time he caught sight of something black that
dangled from the narrow balcony, and peered more
closely to discover a rope ladder.
He felt his skin roughening, bristling like a dog's; he
was conscious of being cold from head to foot, as if the
flow of his blood had been suddenly arrested; and a
sense of sickness overcame him. And then to turn that
horrible doubt of his into still more horrible certainty
came a man's voice, subdued, yet not so subdued but
that he recognised it for Ned Tremayne's.
"There 's some one lying there. I can make out the
figure."
41 Don't go down ! For pity's sake, come back. Come
back and wait, Ned. If any one should come and find
you we shall be ruined."
The Duel 163
Thus hoarsely whispering, vibrating with terror, the
voice of his wife reached O'Moy, to confirm him the
unsuspecting blind cuckold that Samoval had dubbed
him to his Jace, for which Samoval warning the
guilty pair with his last breath even as he had earlier
so mockingly warned Sir Terence had coughed up
his soul on the turf of that enclosed garden.
Crouching there for a moment longer, a man bereft
of movement and of reason, stood O'Moy, conscious
only of pain, in an agony of mind and heart that at one
and the same time froze his blood and drew the sweat
from his brow.
Then he was for stepping out into the open, and,
giving flow to the rage and surging violence that fol-
lowed, calling down the man who had dishonoured him
and slaying him there under the eyes of that trull who
had brought him to this shame. But he controlled the
impulse, or else Satan controlled it for him. That way,
whispered the Tempter, was too straight and simple.
He must think. He must have time to readjust his mind
to the horrible circumstances so suddenly revealed.
Very soft and silently, keeping well within the
shadow of the wall, he sidled to the door which he had
left ajar. Soundlessly he pushed it open, passed in and
as soundlessly closed it again. For a moment he stood
leaning heavily against its timbers, his breath coming
in short panting sobs. Then he steadied himself and
turning, made his way down the corridor to the little
study which had been fitted up for him in the residen-
tial wing, and where sometimes he worked at night.
He had been writing there that evening ever since
dinner, and he had quitted the room only to go to his
assignation with Samoval, leaving the lamp burning
on his open desk.
164 The Snare
He opened the door, but before passing in he paused
a moment, straining his ears to listen for sounds over-
head. His eyes, glancing up and down, were arrested
by a thin blade of light under a door at the end of the
corridor. It was the door of the butler's pantry, and
the line of light announced that Mullins had not yet
gone to bed. At once Sir Terence understood that,
knowing him to be at work, the old servant had him-
self remained below in case his master should want
anything before retiring.
Continuing to move without noise, Sir Terence
entered his study, closed the door and crossed to his
desk. Wearily he dropped into the chair that stood
before it, his face drawn and ghastly, his smouldering
eyes staring vacantly ahead. On the desk before him
lay the letters that he had spent the past hours in
writing one to his wife; another to Tremayne;
another to his brother in Ireland; and several others
connected with his official duties, making provision
for their uninterrupted continuance in the event of his
not surviving the encounter.
Now it happened that amongst the latter there was
one that was destined hereafter to play a considerable
part; it was a note for the Commissary-General upon
a matter that demanded immediate attention, and the
only one of all those letters that need now survive. It
was marked " Most Urgent," and had been left by him
for delivery first thing in the morning. He pulled open
a drawer and swept into it all the letters he had written
save that one.
He locked that drawer; then unlocked another, and
took thence a case of pistols. With shaking hands he
lifted out one of the weapons to examine it, and all the
while, of course, his thoughts were upon his wife and
The Duel 165
Tremayne. He was considering how well-founded had
been his every twinge of jealousy; how wasted, how
senseless the reactions of shame that had followed
them; how insensate his trust in Tremayne's honesty,
and, above all, with what crafty, treacherous sublety
Tremayne had drawn a red herring across the trail of
his suspicions by pretending to an unutterable passion
for Sylvia Armytage. It was perhaps that piece of du-
plicity, worthy, he thought, of the Iscariot himself,
that galled Sir Terence now most sorely; that and
the memory of his own silly credulity. He had been
such a ready dupe. How those two together must
have laughed at him! Oh, Tremayne had been very
subtle! He had been the friend, the quasi-brother,
parading his affection for the Butler family to excuse
the familiarities with Lady O'Moy which he had per-
mitted^ himself under Sir Terence's very eyes. O'Moy
though't of them as he had seen them in the garden on
the night of Redondo's ball, remembered the air of
transparent honesty by which that damned hypocrite
when discovered had deflected his just resentment.
Oh, there was no doubt that the treacherous black-
guard had been subtle. But by God ! subtlety
should be repaid with subtlety! He would deal with
Tremayne as cruelly as Tremayne had dealt with him;
and his wanton wife, too, should be repaid in kind. He
beheld the way clear, in a flash of wicked inspiration.
He put back the pistol, slapped down the lid of the box
and replaced it in its drawer.
He rose, took up the letter to the Commissary-
General, stepped briskly to the door and pulled it open.
"Mullins!" he called sharply. "Are you there?
Mullins?"
Came the sound of a scraping chair, and instantly
166 The Snare
that door at the end of the corridor was thrown open,
and Mullins stood silhouetted against the light behind
him. A moment he stood there, then came forward.
"You called, Sir Terence?"
"Yes." Sir Terence's voice was miraculously calm.
His back was to the light and his face in shadow, so
that its drawn, haggard look was not perceptible to
the butler. "I am going to bed. But first I want you
to step across to the sergeant of the guard with this
letter for the Commissary-General. Tell him that it is
of the utmost importance, and ask him to arrange to
have it taken into Lisbon first thing in the morning."
Mullins bowed, venerable as an archdeacon in aspect
and bearing, as he received the letter from his master:
"Certainly, Sir Terence."
As he departed Sir Terence turned and slowly paced
back to his desk, leaving the door open. His eyes had
narrowed; there was a cruel, an almost evil smile on
his lips. Of the generous, good-humoured nature im-
printed upon his face every sign had vanished. His
countenance was a mask of ferocity restrained by in-
telligence, cold and calculating.
Oh, he would pay the score that lay between himself
and those two who had betrayed him. They should
receive treachery for treachery, mockery for mockery,
and for dishonour death. They had deemed him an old
fool ! What was the expression that Samoval had used
Pantaloon in the comedy? Well, well! He had
been Pantaloon in the comedy so far. But now they
should find him Pantaloon in the tragedy nay, not
Pantaloon at all, but Polichinelle, the sinister jester,
the cynical clown, who laughs in murdering. And in
anguished silence should they bear the punishment he
would mete out to them, or else in no less anguished
The Duel 167
speech themselves proclaim their own dastardy to the
world.
His wife he beheld now in a new light. It was out of
vanity and greed that she had married him, because of
the position in the world that he could give her. Hav-
ing dene so, at least she might have kept faith; she
might have been honest, and abided by the bargain. If
she had not done so, it was because honesty was beyond
her shallow nature. He should have seen before what
he now saw so clearly. He should have known her
for a lovely, empty husk; a silly, fluttering butterfly;
a toy; a thing of vanities, emotions, and nothing else.
Thus Sir Terence, cursing the day when he had
mated with a fool. Thus Sir Terence whilst he stood
there waiting for the outcry from Mullins that should
proclaim the discovery of the body, and afford him a
pretext for having the house searched for the slayer.
Nor had he long to wait.
"Sir Terence! Sir Terence! For God's sake, Sir
Terence!" he heard the voice of his old servant. Came
the loud crash of the door thrust back until it struck
the wall and quick steps along the passage.
Sir Terence stepped out to meet him.
4 'Why, what the devil " he was beginning in his
bluff, normal tones, when the servant, showing a white,
scared face, cut him short.
"A terrible thing, Sir Terence! Oh, the saints pro-
tect us, a dreadful thing ! This way, sir! There 's a man
killed Count Samoval, I think it is!"
"What? Where?"
"Out yonder, in the quadrangle, sir."
"But- ' Sir Terence checked. "Count Samoval,
did ye say? Impossible!" and he went out quickly,
followed by the butler.
1 68 The Snare
In the quadrangle he checked. In the few minutes
that were sped since he had left the place the moon had
overtopped the roof of the opposite wing, so that full
upon the enclosed garden fell now its white light, illu-
mining and revealing.
There lay the black still form of Samoval supine,
his white face staring up into the heavens, and beside
him knelt Tremayne, whilst in the balcony above
leaned her ladyship. The rope ladder, Sir Terence's
swift glance observed, had disappeared.
He halted in his advance, standing at gaze a moment.
He had hardly expected so much. He had conceived
the plan of causing the house to be searched immedi-
ately upon Mullins's discovery of the body. But Tre-
mayne's rashness in adventuring down in this fashion
spared him even that necessity. True, it set up other
difficulties. But he was not sure that the matter would
not be infinitely more interesting thus.
He stepped forward, and came to a standstill beside
the two his dead enemy and his living one.
CHAPTER XIII
POLICHINELLE
"WHY, Ned," he asked gravely, "what has hap-
pened?"
4 4 It is Samoval , ' ' was Tremayne's quiet answer. ' ' He
is quite dead."
He stood up as he spoke, and Sir Terence observed
with terrible inward mirth that his tone had the frank
and honest ring, his bearing the imperturbable ease
which more than once before had imposed upon him as
the outward signs of an easy conscience. This secretary
of his was a cool scoundrel.
"Samoval, is it?" said Sir Terence, and went down
on one knee beside the body to make a perfunctory
examination. Then he looked up at the captain.
"And how did this happen?"
"Happen?" echoed Tremayne, realising that the
question was being addressed particularly to himself.
"That is what I am wondering. I found him here in
this condition."
"You found him here? Oh, you found him here in
this condition ! Curious ! " Over his shoulder he spoke
to the butler: " Mullins, you had better call the guard."
He picked up the slender weapon that lay beside Sa-
moval. "A duelling sword!" Then he looked search-
ingly about him until his eyes caught the gleam of
the other blade near the wall, where himself he had
dropped it. "Ah!" he said, and went to pick it up.
"Very odd!" He looked up at the balcony, over the
parapet of which his wife was leaning. "Did you see
anything, my dear?" he asked, and neither Tremayne
170 The Snare
nor she detected the faint note of wicked mockery in
the question.
There was a moment's pause before she answered
him, faltering:
" N-no. I saw nothing." Sir Terence's straining ears
caught no faintest sound of the voice that had
prompted her urgently from behind the curtained win-
dows.
"How long have you been there?" he asked her.
"A a moment only," she replied, again after a
pause. "I I thought I heard a cry, and and I
came to see what had happened." Her voice shook
with terror; but what she beheld would have been
quite enough to account for that.
The guard filed in through the doors from the official
quarters, a sergeant with a halbert in one hand and a
lantern in the other, followed by four men, and lastly
by Mullins. They halted and came to attention before
Sir Terence. And almost at the same moment there
was a sharp rattling knock on the wicket in the great
closed gates through which Samoval had entered.
Startled, but without showing any signs of it, Sir Ter-
ence bade Mullins go open, and in a general silence all
waited to see who it was that came.
A tall man, bowing his shoulders to pass under the
low lintel of that narrow door, stepped over the sill and
into the courtyard. He wore a cocked hat, and as his
great cavalry cloak fell open the yellow rays of the
sergeant's lantern gleamed faintly on a British uni-
form. Presently, as he advanced into the quadrangle,
he disclosed the aquiline features of Colquhoun Grant.
"Good-evening, General. Good-evening, Tremayne,"
he greeted one and the other. Then his eyes fell
upon the body lying between them. "Samoval, eh?
Polichinelle 171
So I am not mistaken in seeking him here. I have had
him under very close observation during the past day
or two, and when one of my men brought me word to-
night that he had left his place at Bispo on foot and
alone, going along the upper Alcantara road, I had a
notion that he might be coming to Monsanto, and I
followed. But I hardly expected to find this. How has
it happened?"
"That is what I was just asking Tremayne," replied
Sir Terence. "Mullins discovered him here quite by
chance with the body."
"Oh!" said Grant, and turned to the captain.
"Was it you then "
"I?" interrupted Tremayne with sudden violence.
He seemed now to become aware for the first time of
the gravity of his position. "Certainly not, Colonel
Grant. I heard a cry, and I came out to see what it
Was. I found Samoval here, already dead."
"I see," said Grant. "You were with Sir Terence,
then, when this "
"Nay," Sir Terence interrupted. "I have been
alone since dinner, clearing up some arrears of work. I
was in my study there when Mullins called me to tell
me what he had discovered. It looks as if there had
been a duel. Look at these swords." Then he turned
to his secretary. "I think, Captain Tremayne," he
said gravely, "that you had better report yourself un-
der arrest to your colonel."
Tremayne stiffened suddenly. "Report myself un-
der arrest?" he cried. "My God, Sir ^Terence, you
don't believe that I "
Sir Terence interrupted him. The voice in which he
spoke was stern, almost sad; but his eyes gleamed with
fiendish mockery the while. It was Polichinelle that
172 The Snare
spoke Polichinelle that mocks what time he slays.
"What were you doing here?" he asked, and it was
like moving the checkmating piece.
Tremayne stood stricken and silent. He cast a des-
perate upward glance at the balcony overhead. The
answer was so easy, but it would entail delivering
Richard Butler to his death. Colonel Grant, following
his upward glance, beheld Lady O'Moy for the first
time. He bowed, swept off his cocked hat, and
"Perhaps her ladyship," he suggested to Sir Terence,
"may have seen something."
"I have already asked her," replied O'Moy.
And then she herself was feverishly assuring Colonel
Grant that she had seen nothing at all, that she had
heard a cry and had come out on to the balcony to see
what was happening.
"And was Captain Tremayne here when you came
out?" asked O'Moy, the deadly jester.
"Ye-es," she faltered. "I was only a moment or
two before yourself."
"You see?" said Sir Terence heavily to Grant, and
Grant, with pursed lips, nodded, his eyes moving from
O'Moy to Tremayne.
"But, Sir Terence," cried Tremayne, "I give you
my word I swear to you that I know absolutely
nothing of how Samoval met his death."
"What were you doing here?" O'Moy asked again,
and this time the sinister, menacing note of derision
vibrated clearly in the question.
Tremayne for the first time in his honest, upright
life found himself deliberately choosing between truth
and falsehood. The truth would clear him since
with that truth he would produce witnesses to it, es-
tablishing his movements completely. But the truth
Polichinelle 173
would send a man to his death ; and so for the sake of
that man's life he was driven into falsehood.
"I was on my way to see you," he said.
1 'At midnight?" cried Sir Terence on a note of grim
doubt. "To what purpose?"
"Really, Sir Terence, if my word is not sufficient, I
refuse to submit to cross-examination."
Sir Terence turned to the sergeant of the guard,
"How long is it since Captain Tremayne arrived?" he
asked.
The sergeant stood to attention. "Captain Tre-
mayne, sir, arrived rather more than half-an-hour ago.
He came in a curricle, which is still waiting at the
gates."
"Half-an-hour ago, eh?" said Sir Terence, and from
Colquhoun Grant there was a sharp and audible intake
of breath, expressive either of understanding, or sur-
prise, or both. The adjutant looked at Tremayne
again. "As my questions seem only to entangle you
further," he said, " I think you had better do as I sug-
gest without more protests: report yourself under ar-
rest to Colonel Fletcher in the morning, sir."
Still Tremayne hesitated for a moment. Then draw-
ing himself up, he saluted curtly. "Very well, sir," he
replied.
"But, Terence " cried her ladyship from above.
"Ah?" said Sir Terence, and he looked up. "You
would say ?" he encouraged her, for she had broken
off abruptly, checked again although none below
could guess it by the one behind who prompted her.
"Could n't you could n't you wait?" she was fal-
tering, compelled to it by his question.
"Certainly. But for what?" quoth he, grimly sar-
donic.
174 The Snare
"Wait until you have some explanation/' she con-
cluded lamely.
"That will be the business of the court-martial," he
answered. "My duty is quite clear and simple, I
think. You need n't wait, Captain Tremayne."
And so, without another word, Tremayne turned
and departed. The soldiers, in compliance with the
short command issued by Sir Terence, took up the
body and bore it away to a room in the official quar-
ters; and in their wake went Colonel Grant, after taking
his leave of Sir Terence. Her ladyship vanished from
the balcony and closed her windows, and finally Sir
Terence, followed by Mullins, slowly, with bowed head
and dragging steps, re-entered the house. In the quad-
rangle, flooded now by the cold, white light of the
moon, all was peace once more. Sir Terence turned
into his study, sank into the chair by his desk and sat
there awhile staring into vacancy, a diabolical smile
upon his handsome, mobile mouth. Gradually the
smile faded and horror overspread his face. Finally he
flung himself forward and buried his head in his arms.
There were steps in the hall outside, a quick mutter
of voices, and then the door of his study was flung open,
and Miss Armytage came sharply to rouse him.
"Terence! What has happened to Captain Tre-
mayne?"
He sat up stiffly, as she sped across the room to him.
She was wrapped in a blue quilted bedgown, her dark
hair hung in two heavy plaits, and her bare feet had
been hastily thrust into slippers.
Sir Terence looked at her with eyes that were dull
and heavy and that yet seemed to search her white,
startled face.
She set a hand on his shoulder, and looked down
Polichinelle 175
into his ravaged, haggard countenance. He seemed
suddenly to have been stricken into an old man.
"Mullins has just told me that Captain Tremayne
has been ordered under arrest for for killing Count
Samoval. Is it true? Is it true? " she demanded wildly.
" It is true," he answered her, and there was a heavy,
sneering curl on his upper lip.
"But " She stopped, and put a hand to her
throat; she looked as if she would stifle. She sank to
her knees beside him, and caught his hand in both her
own that were trembling. "Oh, you can't believe it!
Captain Tremayne is not the man to do a murder."
"The evidence points to a duel," he answered dully.
"A duel!" She looked at him, and then, remember-
ing what had passed that morning between Tremayne
and Samoval, remembering, too, Lord Wellington's
edict, " Oh, God ! " she gasped. " Why did you let them
take him?"
"They did n't take him. I ordered him under arrest.
He will report himself to Colonel Fletcher in the morn-
ing."
"You ordered him? You! You, his friend!" Anger,
scorn, reproach and sorrow all blending in her voice
bore him a clear message.
He looked down at her most closely, and gradually
compassion crept into his face. He set his hands on
her shoulders, she suffering it passively, insensibly.
"You care for him, Sylvia?" he said, between in-
quiry and wonder. "Well, well! We are both fools
together, child. The man is a dastard, a blackguard,
a Judas, to be repaid with betrayal for betrayal. For-
get him, girl. Believe me, he is n't worth a thought."
"Terence!" She looked in her turn into that dis-
torted face. "Are you mad?" she asked him.
176 The Snare
"Very nearly," he answered, with a laugh that was
horrible to hear.
She drew back and away from him, bewildered and
horrified. Slowly she rose to her feet. She controlled
with difficulty the deep emotion swaying her. "Tell
me," she said slowly, speaking with obvious effort,
11 what will they do to Captain Tremayne?"
4 'What will they do to him?" He looked at her. He
was smiling. "They will shoot him, of course."
"And you wish it!" she denounced him in a whisper
of horror.
"Above all things," he answered. "A more poetic
justice never overtook a blackguard."
"Why do you call him that? What do you mean?"
41 1 will tell you afterwards, after they have shot
him; unless the truth comes out before."
"What truth do you mean? The truth of how Samo-
val came by his death?"
"Oh, no. That matter is quite clear, the evidence
complete. I mean oh, I will tell you afterwards
what I mean. It may help you to bear your trouble,
thankfully."
She approached him again. "Won't you tell me
now?" she begged him.
"No," he answered, rising, and speaking with final-
ity. "Afterwards if necessary, afterwards. And now
get back to bed, child, and forget the fellow. I swear
to you that he is n 't worth a thought. Later I shall
hope to prove it to you."
"That you never will," she told him fiercely.
He laughed, and again his laugh was harsh and ter-
rible in its bitter mockery. "Yet another trusting
fool," he cried. "The world is full of them it is made
up of them, with just a sprinkling of knaves to batten
Polichinelle 177
on their folly. Go to bed, Sylvia, and pray for under-
standing of men. It is a possession beyond riches."
"I think you are more in need of it than I am," she
told him, standing by the door.
"Of course you do. You trust, which is why you are
a fool. Trust," he said, speaking the very language of
Polichinelle, "is the livery of fools."
She went without answering him and toiled upstairs
with dragging feet. She paused a moment in the corri-
dor above, outside Una's door. She was in such need
of communion with some one that for a moment she
thought of going in. But she knew beforehand the
greeting that would await her; the empty platitudes,
the obvious small change of verbiage which her lady-
ship would dole out. The very thought of it restrained
her, and so she passed on to her own room and a sleep-
less night in which to piece together the puzzle which
the situation offered her, the amazing enigma of Sir
Terence's seeming access of insanity.
And the only conclusion that she reached was that
intertwined with the death of Samoval there was some
other circumstance which had aroused in the adjutant
an unreasoning hatred of his friend, converting him into
Tremayne's bitterest enemy, intent as he had con-
fessed upon seeing him shot for that night's work.
And because she knew them both for men of honour
above all, the enigma was immeasurably deepened.
Had she but obeyed the transient impulse to seek
Lady O'Moy she might have discovered all the truth
at once. For she would have come upon her ladyship
in a frame of mind almost as distraught as her own;
and she might had she penetrated to the dressing-
room where her ladyship was have come upon
Richard Butler at the same time.
178 The Snare
Now, in view of what had happened, her ladyship,
ever impulsive, was all for going there and then to her
husband to confess the whole truth, without pausing
to reflect upon the consequences to others than Ned
Tremayne. As you know, it was beyond her to see a
thing from two points of view at one and the same time.
It was also beyond her brother the failing, as I
think I have told you, was a family one and her
brother saw this matter only from the point of view of
his own safety.
"A single word to Terence," he had told her, putting
his back to the door of the dressing-room to bar her
intended egress, "and you realise that it will be a
court-martial and a firing party for me."
That warning effectively checked her. Yet certain
stirrings of conscience made her think of the man who
l\ad imperilled himself for her sake and her brother's.
"But, Dick, what is to become of Ned?" she had
asked him.
"Oh, Ned will be all right. What is the evidence
against him after all? Men are not shot for things they
have n't done. Justice will out, you know. Leave Ned
to shift for himself for the present. Anyhow his danger
is n't grave, nor is it immediate, and mine is."
Helplessly distraught, she sank to an ottoman. The
night had been a very trying one for her ladyship. She
gave way to tears.
"It is all your fault, Dick," she reproached him.
"Naturally you would blame me," he said with
resignation the complete martyr.
"If only you had been ready at the time, as he told
you to be, there would have been no delays, and you
would have got away before any of this happened."
"Was it my fault that I should have reopened my
Polichinelle 179
wound bad luck to it ! in attempting to get down
that damned ladder?" he asked her. "Is it my fault
that I am neither an ape nor an acrobat? Tremayne
should have come up at once to assist me, instead of
waiting until he had to come up to help me bandage
my leg again. Then time would not have been lost,
and very likely my life with it." He came to a gloomy
conclusion.
4 ' Your life? What do you mean, Dick?"
"Just that. What are my chances of getting away
now?" he asked her. "Was there ever such infernal
luck as mine? The Telemachus will sail without me,
and the only man who could and would have helped
me to get out of this damned country is under arrest.
It's clear I shall have to shift for myself again, and I
can't even do that for a day or two with my leg in this
state. I shall have to go back into that stuffy store-
cupboard of yours till God knows when." He lost all
self-control at the prospect and broke into imprecations
of his luck.
She attempted to soothe him. But he was n't easy to
soothe.
"And then," he grumbled on, "you have so little
sense that you want to run straight off to Terence and
explain to him what Tremayne was doing here. You
might at least have the grace to wait until I am off the
premises, and give me the mercy of a start before you
set the dogs on my trail."
"Oh, Dick, Dick, you are so cruel!" she protested.
"How can you say such things to me, whose only
thought is for you, to save you."
"Then don't talk any more about telling Terence,"
he replied.
"I won't, Dick. I won't." She drew him down be-
l8o The Snare
side her on the ottoman and her fingers smoothed his
rather tumbled red hair, just as her words attempted
to smooth the ruffles in his spirit. " You know I did n't
realise, or I should not have thought of it even. I was
so concerned for Ned for the moment/'
"Don't I tell you there's not the need?" he assured
her. "Ned will be safe enough, devil a doubt. It's for
you to keep to what you told them from the balcony;
that you heard a cry, went out to see what was happen-
ing and saw Tremayne there bending over the body.
Not a word more, and not a word less, or it will be all
over with me." "
CHAPTER XIV
THE CHAMPION
WITH the possible exception of her ladyship, I do not
think that there was much sleep that night at Mon-
santo for any of the four chief actors in this tragi- com-
edy. Each had his own preoccupations. Sylvia's we
know. Mr. Butler found his leg troubling him again,
and the pain of the reopened wound must have pre-
vented him from sleeping even had his anxieties about
his immediate future not sufficed to do so. As for Sir
Terence, his was the most deplorable case of all. This
man who had lived a life of simple and downright
honesty in great things and in small, a man who had
never stooped to the slightest prevarication, found
himself suddenly launched upon the most horrible and
infamous course of duplicity to encompass the ruin of
another. The offence of that other against himself
might be of the most foul and hideous, a piece of
treachery that only treachery could adequately avenge ;
yet this consideration was not enough to appease the
clamours of Sir Terence's self-respect.
In the end, however, the primary desire for ven-
geance and vengeance of the bitterest kind
proved master of his mind. Captain Tremayne had
been led by his villainy into a coil that should presently
crush him, and Sir Terence promised himself an infinite
balm for his outraged honour in the entertainment
which the futile struggles of the victim should provide.
With Captain Tremayne lay the cruel choice of sub-
mitting in tortured silence to his fate, or of turning
craven and saving his miserable life by proclaiming
1 82 The Snare
himself a seducer and a betrayer. It should be inter-
esting to observe how the captain would decide, and
his punishment was certain whatever the decision that
he took.
Sir Terence came to breakfast in the open, grey-
faced and haggard, but miraculously composed for a
man who had so little studied the art of concealing his
emotions. Voice and glance were calm as he gave a
good-morning to his wife and to Miss Armytage.
"What are you going to do about Ned?" was one of
his wife's first questions.
It took him aback. He looked askance at her, mar-
velling at the steadiness with which she bore his glance,
until it occurred to him that effrontery was an essential
part of the equipment of all harlots.
"What am I going to do?" he echoed. "Why,
nothing. The matter is out of my hands. I may be
asked to give evidence; I may even be called to sit
upon the court-martial that will try him. My evidence
can hardly assist him. My conclusions will naturally
be based upon the evidence that is laid before the
court."
Her teaspoon rattled in her saucer. "I don't under-
stand you, Terence. Ned has always been your best
friend."
"He has certainly shared everything that was mine."
"And you know," she went on, "that he did not kill
Samoval."
"Indeed?" His glance quickened a little. "How
should I know that?"
"Well ... I know it, anyway."
He seemed moved by that statement. He leaned
forward with an odd eagerness, behind which there was
something terrible that went unperceived by her.
The Champion 183
11 Why did you not say so before? How do you
know? What do you know?"
"I am sure that he did not."
"Yes, yes. But what makes you so sure? Do you
possess some knowledge that you have not revealed?"
He saw the colour slowly shrinking from her cheeks
under his burning gaze. So she was not quite shame-
less then, after all. There were limits to her effrontery.
"What knowledge should I possess?" she faltered.
"That is what I am asking."
She made a good recovery. "I possess the knowl-
edge that you should possess yourself," she told him.
"I know Ned for a man incapable of such a thing. 1
am ready to swear that he could not have done it."
"I see: evidence as to character." He sank back
into his chair and thoughtfully stirred his chocolate.
" It may weigh with the court. But I am not the court,
and my mere opinions can do nothing for Ned Tre-
mayne."
Her ladyship looked at him wildly. "The court?"
she cried. "Do you mean that I shall have to give
evidence?"
"Naturally," he answered. "You will have to say
what you saw."
"But but I saw nothing."
"Something, I think."
"Yes; but nothing that can matter."
"Still the court will wish to hear it and perhaps to
examine you upon it."
"Oh no, no!" In her alarm she half rose, then
sank again to her chair. "You must keep me out of
this, Terence. I could n't I really could n't."
He laughed with an affectation of indulgence, mask-
ing something else.
1 84 The Snare
"Why," he said, "you would not deprive Tremayne
of any of the advantages to be derived from your testi-
mony? Are you not ready to bear witness as to his
character? To swear that from your knowledge of the
man you are sure he could not have done such a thing?
That he is the very soul of honour, a man incapable of
anything base or treacherous or sly?"
And then at last Sylvia, who had been watching
them, and seeking to apply to what she heard the wild
expressions that Sir Terence had used to herself last
night, broke into the conversation.
"Why do you apply these words to Captain Tre-
mayne?" she asked.
He turned sharply to meet the opposition he de-
tected in her. " I don't apply them. On the contrary,
I say that, as Una knows, they are not applicable."
"Then you make an unnecessary statement, a state-
ment that has nothing to do with the case. Captain
Tremayne has been arrested for killing Count Samo-
val in a duel. A duel may be a violation of the law as
recently enacted by Lord Wellington, but it is not an
offence against honour; and to say that a man cannot
have fought a duel because a man is incapable of any-
thing base or treacherous or sly is just to say a very
foolish and meaningless thing."
"Oh, quite so," the adjutant admitted. "But if
Tremayne denies having fought, if he shelters himself
behind a falsehood, and says that he has not killed
Samoval, then I think the statement assumes some
meaning."
"Does Captain Tremayne say that?" she asked him
sharply.
"It is what I understood him to say last night when
I ordered him under arrest."
The Champion 185
"Then," said Sylvia, with full conviction, " Captain
Tremayne did not do it."
"Perhaps he did n't," Sir Terence admitted. "The
court will no doubt discover the truth. The truth, you
know, must prevail," and he looked at his wife again,
marking the fresh signs of agitation she betrayed.
Mullins coming to set fresh covers, the conversation
was allowed to lapse. Nor was it ever resumed, for at
that moment, with no other announcement save such
as was afforded by his quick step and the click-click of
his spurs, a short, slight man entered the quadrangle
from the doorway of the official wing.
The adjutant, turning to look, caught his breath
suddenly in an exclamation of astonishment.
"Lord Wellington!" he cried, and was immediately
on his feet.
At the exclamation the new-comer checked and
turned. He wore a plain grey undress frock and white
stock, buckskin breeches and lacquered boots, and he
carried a riding-crop tucked under his left arm. His
features were bold and sternly handsome ; his fine eyes
singularly piercing and keen in their glance; and the
sweep of those eyes now took in not merely the adju-
tant, but the spread table and the ladies seated before
it. He halted a moment, then advanced quickly, swept
his cocked hat from a brown head that was but very
slightly touched with grey, and bowed with a mixture
of stiffness and courtliness to the ladies.
"Since I have intruded so unwittingly, I had best
remain to make my apologies," he said. " I was on my
way to your residential quarters, O'Moy, not imagin-
ing that I should break in upon your privacy in this
fashion."
O'Moy with a great deference made haste to reassure
186 The Snare
him on the score of the intrusion, whilst the ladies
themselves rose to greet him. He bore her ladyship's
hand to his lips with perfunctory courtesy, then in-
sisted upon her resuming her chair. Then he bowed
ever with that mixture of stiffness and deference to
Miss Armytage upon her being presented to him by
the adjutant.
" Do not suffer me to disturb you," he begged them.
"Sit down, O'Moy. I am not pressed, and I shall be
monstrous glad of a few moments' rest. You are very
pleasant here," and he looked about the luxuriant
garden with approving eyes.
Sir Terence placed the hospitality of his table at his
lordship's disposal. But the latter declined graciously.
"A glass of wine and water, if you will. No more. I
breakfasted at Torres Vedras with Fletcher." Then to
the look of astonishment on the faces of the ladies he
smiled. "Oh yes," he assured them, " I was early astir,
for time is very precious just at present, which is why
I drop unannounced upon you from the skies, O'Moy."
He took the glass that Mullins proffered on a salver,
sipped from it, and set it down. "There is so much
vexation, so much hindrance from these pestilential
intriguers here in Lisbon, that I have thought it as
well to come in person and speak plainly to the gentle-
men of the Council of Regency." He was peeling off
his stout riding-gloves as he spoke. "If this campaign
is to go forward at all, it will go forward as I dispose.
Then, too, I wanted to see Fletcher and the works.
By gad, O'Moy, he has performed miracles, and I am
very pleased with him oh, and with you too. He
told me how ably you have seconded him and coun-
selled him where necessary. You must have worked
night and day, O'Moy." He sighed. "I wish that I
The Champion 187
were as well served in every direction." And then he
broke off abruptly. "But this is monstrous tedious
for your ladyship, and for you, Miss Armytage. For-
give me."
Her ladyship protested the contrary, professing a
deep interest in military matters, and inviting his
lordship to continue. Lord Wellington, however, ig-
noring the invitation, turned the conversation upon
life in Lisbon, inquiring hopefully whether they found
the place afforded them adequate entertainment.
"Indeed yes," Lady O'Moy assured him. "We are
very gay at times. There are private theatricals and
dances, occasionally an official ball, and we are prom-
ised picnics and water-parties now that the summer
is here."
"And in the autumn, ma'am, we may find you a
little hunting," his lordship promised them. "Plenty
of foxes; a rough country, though; but what's that to
an Irishwoman?" He caught the quickening of Miss
Armytage's eye. "The prospect interests you, I see."
Miss Armytage admitted it, and thus they made
conversation for a while, what time the great soldier
sipped his wine and water to wash the dust of his morn-
ing ride from his throat. When at last he set down an
empty glass Sir Terence took this as the intimation of
his readiness to deal with official matters, and, rising,
he announced himself entirely at his lordship's service.
Lord Wellington claimed his attention for a full hour
with the details of several matters that are not imme-
diately concerned with this narrative. Having done,
he rose at last from Sir Terence's desk, at which he had
been sitting, and took up his riding-crop and cocked
hat from the chair where he had placed them.
"And now," he said, "I think I will ride into Lisbon
188 The Snare
and endeavour to come to an understanding with
Count Redondo and Don Miguel For j as."
Sir Terence advanced to open the door. But Wel-
lington checked him with a sudden sharp inquiry.
" You published my order against duelling, did you
not?"
"Immediately upon receiving it, sir."
"Ha! It does n't seem to have taken long for the
order to be infringed, then." His manner was severe,
his eyes stern.
Sir Terence was conscious of a quickening of his
pulses. Nevertheless his answer was calmly regretful :
"I am afraid not."
' The great man nodded. "Disgraceful! I heard of
it from Fletcher this morning. Captain What's-his-
name had just reported himself under arrest, I under-
stand, and Fletcher had received a note from you giv-
ing the grounds for this. The deplorable part of these
things is that they always happen in the most trouble-
some manner conceivable. In Berkeley's case the vic-
tim was a nephew of the Patriarch's. Samoval, now,
was a person of even greater consequence, a close friend
of several members of the Council. His death will be
deeply resented, and may set up fresh difficulties. It
is monstrous vexatious." And abruptly he asked:
"What did they quarrel about?"
O'Moy trembled, and his glance avoided the other's
gimlet eye. "The only quarrel that I am aware of
between them," he said, "was concerned with this
very enactment of your lordship's. Samoval pro-
claimed it infamous, and Tremayne resented the term.
Hot words passed between them, but the altercation
was allowed to go no further at the time by myself
and others who were present."
The Champion 189
His lordship had raised his brows. "By gad, sir,"
he ejaculated, " there almost appears to be some justi-
fication for the captain. He was one of your military
secretaries, was he not?"
"He was."
"Ha! Pity! Pity!" His lordship was thoughtful
for a moment. Then he dismissed the matter. "But
then orders are orders, and soldiers must learn to obey
implicitly. British soldiers of all degrees seem to find
the lesson difficult. We must inculcate it more sternly,
that is all."
O'Moy 's honest soul was in torturing revolt against
the falsehoods he had implied and to this man of all
men, to this man whom he reverenced above all others,
who stood to him for the very fount of military honour
and lofty principle! He was in such a mood that one
more question on the subject from Wellington and the
whole ghastly truth must have come pouring from his
lips. But no other question came. Instead his lordship
turned on the threshold and held out his hand.
" Not a step farther, O'Moy. I Ve left you a mass of
work, and you are short of a secretary. So don't waste
any of your time on courtesies. I shall hope still to find
the ladies in the garden so that I may take my leave
without inconveniencing them."
And he was gone, stepping briskly with clicking
spurs, leaving O'Moy hunched now in his chair, his
body the very expression of the dejection that filled
his soul.
In the garden his lordship came upon Miss Army-
tage alone, still seated by the table under the trellis,
from which the cloth had by now been removed. She
rose at his approach and in spite of gesture to her to
remain seated.
190 The Snare
"I was seeking Lady O'Moy," said he, "to take my
leave of her. I may not have the pleasure of coming
to Monsanto again."
"She is on the terrace, I think," said Miss Army-
tage. "I will find her for your lordship."
"Let us find her together," he said amiably, and so
turned and went with her towards the archway. " You
said your name is Armytage, I think?" he commented.
"Sir Terence said so."
His eyes twinkled. "You possess an exceptional
virtue," said he. "To be truthful is common; to be ac-
curate rare. Well, then, Sir Terence said so. Once I
had a great friend of the name of Armytage. I have
lost sight of him these many years. We were at school
together in Brussels."
"At Monsieur Goubert's," she surprised him by
saying. "That would be John Armytage, my uncle."
"God bless my soul, ma'am!" he ejaculated. "But
I gathered you were Irish, and Jack Armytage came
from Yorkshire."
"My mother is Irish, and we live in Ireland now
I was born there. But father, none the less, was John
Armytage's brother."
He looked at her with increased interest, marking
the straight, supple lines of her, and the handsome,
high-bred face. His lordship, remember, never lacked
an appreciative eye for a fine woman. "So you 're Jack
Armytage's niece. Give me news of him, my dear."
She did so. Jack Armytage was well and prospering,
had made a rich marriage and retired from the Blues
many years ago to live at Northampton. He listened
with interest, and thus out of his boyhood friendship
for her uncle, which of late years he had had no oppor-
tunity to express, sprang there and then a kindness for
The Champion 191
the niece. Her own personal charms may have con-
tributed to it, for the great soldier was intensely re-
sponsive to the appeal of beauty.
They reached the terrace. Lady O'Moy was no-
where in sight. But Lord Wellington was too much
engrossed in his discovery to be troubled.
" My dear," he said, "if I can serve you at any time,
both for Jack's sake and your own, I hope that you
will let me know of it."
She looked at him a moment, and he saw her colour
come and go, arguing a sudden agitation.
" You tempt me, sir," she said, with a wistful smile.
"Then yield to the temptation, child," he urged her
kindly, those keen, penetrating eyes of his perceiving
trouble here.
" It is n't for myself," she responded. "Yet there is
something I would ask you if I dare something I had
intended to ask you in any case if I could find the op-
portunity. To be frank, that is why I was waiting
there in the garden just now. It was to waylay you. I
hoped for a word with you."
"Well, well," he encouraged her. "It should be the
easier now, since in a sense we find that we are old
friends."
He was so kind, so gentle, despite that stern, strong
face of his, that she melted at once to his persuasion.
" It is about Lieutenant Richard Butler," she began.
"Ah," said he lightly, "I feared as much when you
said it was not for yourself you had a favour to ask."
But, looking at him, she instantly perceived how he
had misunderstood her.
"Mr. Butler," she said, " is the officer who was guilty
of the affair at Tavora."
He knit his brow in thought. "Butler Tavora?"
192 The Snare
he muttered questioningly. Suddenly his memory
found what it was seeking. "Oh yes, the violated nun-
nery." His thin lips tightened ; the sternness of his face
increased. "Yes?" he inquired, but the tone was now
forbidding.
Nevertheless she was not deterred. "Mr. Butler is
Lady O'Moy's brother," she said.
He stared a moment, taken aback. "Good God!
Ye don't say so, child ! Her brother! O'Moy's brother-
in-law! And O'Moy never said a word to me about
it."
"What should he say? Sir Terence himself pledged
his word to the Council of Regency that Mr. Butler
would be shot when taken."
"Did he, egad!" He was still further surprised out
of his sternness. "Something of a Roman this O'Moy
in his conception of duty! Hum! The Council no
doubt demanded this?"
"So I understand, my lord. Lady O'Moy, realising
her brother's grave danger, is very deeply troubled."
"Naturally," he agreed. "But what can I do, Miss
Armytage? What were the actual facts, do you happen
to know?"
She recited them, putting the case bravely for the
scapegrace Mr. Butler, dwelling particularly upon the
error under which he was labouring, that he had im-
agined himself to be knocking at the gates of a monas-
tery of Dominican friars, that he had broken into the
convent because denied admittance, and because he
suspected some treacherous reason for that denial.
He heard her out, watching her with those keen eyes
of his the while.
"Hum! You make out so good a case for him that
one might almost believe you instructed by the gentle-
The Champion 193
man himself. Yet I gather that nothing has since been
heard of him?' 1
"Nothing, sir, since he vanished from Tavora,
nearly two months ago. And I have only repeated to
your lordship the tale that was told by the sergeant and
the troopers who reported the matter to Sir Robert
Craufurd on their return."
He was very thoughtful. Leaning on the balustrade,
he looked out across the sunlit valley, turning his
boldly chiselled profile to his companion. At last he
spoke slowly, reflectively: "But if this were really so
a mere blunder I see no sufficient grounds to
threaten him with capital punishment. His subse-
quent desertion, if he has deserted I mean if
nothing has happened to him is really the graver
matter of the two."
"I gathered, sir, that he was to be sacrificed to the
Council of Regency a sort of scapegoat."
He swung round sharply, and the sudden blaze of
his eyes almost terrified her. Instantly he was cold
again and inscrutable. "Ah! You are oddly well
informed throughout. But of course you would be,"
he added, with an appraising look into that intelligent
face in which he now caught a faint likeness of Jack
Armytage. "Well, well, my dear, I am very glad you
have told me of this. If Mr. Butler is ever taken and
in danger there will be a court-martial, of course
send me word of it, and I will see what I can do,
both for your sake and for the sake of strict justice."
"Oh, not for my sake," she protested, reddening
slightly at the gentle imputation. "Mr. Butler is
nothing to me that is to say, he is just my cousin.
It is for Una's sake that I am asking this."
"Why, then, for Lady O'Moy's sake, since you ask
194 The Snare
it," he replied readily. "But," he warned her, "say
nothing of it until Mr. Butler is found." It is possible
he believed that Butler never would be found. "And
remember, I promise only to give the matter my at-
tention. If it is as you represent it, I think you may be
sure that the worst that will befall Mr. Butler will be
dismissal from the service. He deserves that. But I
hope I should be the last man to permit a British officer
to be used as a scapegoat or a burnt-offering to the mob
or to any Council of Regency. By the way, who told
you this about a scapegoat?"
"Captain Tremayne."
"Captain Tremayne? Oh, the man who killed Sa-
moval?"
"He did n't," she cried.
On that almost fierce denial his lordship looked at
her, raising his eyebrows in astonishment.
"But I am told that he did, and he is under arrest
for it this moment for that, and for breaking my
order against duelling."
"You were not told the truth, my lord. Captain
Tremayne says that he did n't, and if he says so it is so."
"Oh, of course, Miss Armytage!" He was a man
of unparalleled valour and boldness, yet so fierce was
she in that moment that for the life of him he dared not
have contradicted her.
"Captain Tremayne is the most honourable man I
know," she continued, "and if he had killed Samoval
he would never have denied it; he would have pro-
claimed it to all the world."
"There is no need for all this heat, my dear," he re-
assured her. "The point is not one that can remain in
doubt. The seconds of the duel will be forthcoming,
and they will tell us who were the principals."
The Champion 195
"There were no seconds," she informed him.
" No seconds ! " he cried in horror. " D' ye mean they
just fought a rough and tumble fight?"
" I mean they never fought at all. As for this tale of
a duel, I ask your lordship: Had Captain Tremayne
desired a secret meeting with Count Samoval, would
he have chosen this of all places in which to hold it?"
"This?"
"This. The fight whoever fought it took place
in the quadrangle there at midnight."
He was overcome with astonishment, and he showed
it.
"Upon my soul," he said, "I do not appear to have
been told any of the facts. Strange that O'Moy should
never have mentioned that," he muttered, and then
inquired suddenly: "Where was Tremayne arrested?"
"Here," she informed him.
"Here? He was here, then, at midnight? What was
he doing here?"
"I don't know. But whatever he was doing, can
your lordship believe that he would have come here to
fight a secret duel?"
" It certainly puts a monstrous strain upon belief,"
said he. "But what can he have been doing here?"
" I don't know," she repeated. She wanted to add a
warning of O'Moy. She was tempted to tell his lord-
ship of the odd words that O'Moy had used to her last
night concerning Tremayne. But she hesitated, and
her courage failed her. Lord Wellington was so great
a man, bearing the destinies of nations on his shoulders,
and already he had wasted upon her so much of the
time that belonged to the world and history, that she
feared to trespass further; and whilst she hesitated
came Colquhoun Grant clanking across the quadrangle.
196 The Snare
looking for his lordship. He had come up, he an-
nounced, standing straight and stiff before them, to
see O'Moy, but hearing of Lord Wellington's presence,
had preferred to see his lordship in the first instance.
"And indeed you arrive very opportunely, Grant,"
his lordship confessed.
He turned to take his leave of Jack Armytage's
niece.
"I'll not forget either Mr. Butler or Captain Tre-
mayne," he promised her, and his stern face softened
into a gentle, friendly smile. "They are very fortunate
in their champion."
CHAPTER XV
THE WALLET
"A QUEER, mysterious business this death of Samo-
val," said Colonel Grant.
" So I was beginning to perceive, " Wellington agreed,
his brow dark.
They were alone together in the quadrangle under
the trellis, through which the sun, already high, was
dappling the table at which his lordship sat.
" It would be easier to read if it were not for the duel-
ling swords. Those and the nature of Samovars wound
certainly point unanswerably to a duel. Otherwise
there would be considerable evidence that Samoval
was a spy caught in the act and dealt with out of hand
as he deserved."
"How? Count Samoval a spy? "
"In the French interest," answered the colonel with-
out emotion, "acting upon the instructions of the
Souza faction, whose tool he had become." And Colo-
nel Grant proceeded to relate precisely what he knew
of Samoval.
Lord Wellington sat awhile in silence, cogitating.
Then he rose, and his piercing eyes looked up at the
colonel, who stood a good head taller than himself.
" Is this the evidence of which you spoke?"
"By no means," was the answer. "The evidence I
have secured is much more palpable. I have it here."
He produced a little wallet of red morocco bearing
the initial "S " surmounted by a coronet. Opening it,
he selected from it some papers, speaking the while.
" I thought it as well before I left last night to make an
198 The Snare
examination of the body. This is what I found, and it
contains, among other lesser documents, these to
which I would draw your lordship's attention. First
this." And he placed in Lord Wellington's hand a
holograph note from the Prince of Esslingen introduc-
ing the bearer, M. de la Fleche, his confidential agent,
who would consult with the Count, and thanking the
Count for the valuable information already received
from him.
His lordship sat down again to read the letter. "It
is a full confirmation of what you have told me," he
said calmly.
"Then this," said Colonel Grant, and he placed upon
the table a note in French of the approximate number
and disposition of the British troops in Portugal at the
time. "The handwriting is Samoval's own, as those
who know it will have no difficulty in discerning. And
now this, sir." He unfolded a small sketch map, bear-
ing the title also in French: Probable position and ex-
tent of the fortifications north of Lisbon.
"The notes at the foot," he added, "are in cipher,
and it is the ordinary cipher employed by the French,
which in itself proves how deeply Samoval was in-
volved. Here is a translation of it." And he placed
before his chief a sheet of paper on which Lord Wel-
lington read:
" This is based upon my own personal knowledge of the
country, odd scraps of information received from time to
time, and my personal verification of the roads closed to
traffic in that region. It is intended merely as a guide to
the actual locale of the fortifications, an exact plan of
which I hope shortly to obtain. 11
His lordship considered it very attentively, but with-
out betraying the least discomposure.
The Wallet 199
"For a man working upon such slight data as he
himself confesses,'* was the quiet comment, "he is
damnably accurate. It is as well, I think, that this
did not reach Marshal Mass6na."
"My own assumption is that he put off sending it,
intending to replace it by the actual plan which he
here confesses to the expectation of obtaining shortly."
"I think he died at the right moment. Anything
else?"
" Indeed," said Colonel Grant, " I have kept the best
for the last." And unfolding yet another document,
he placed it in the hands of the Commander-in-Chief.
It was Lord Liverpool's note of the troops to be em-
barked for Lisbon in June and July the note ab-
stracted from the dispatch carried by Captain Gar-
field.
His lordship's lips tightened as he considered it.
"His death was timely indeed, damned timely; and
the man who killed him deserves to be mentioned in
dispatches. Nothing else, I suppose?"
"The rest is of little consequence, sir."
"Very well." He rose. "You will leave these with
me, and the wallet as well, if you please. I am on my
way to confer with the members of the Council of Re-
gency, and I am glad to go armed with so stout a wea-
pon as this. Whatever may be the ultimate finding of
the court-martial, the present assumption must be
that Samoval met the death of a spy caught in the act,
as you suggested. That is the only conclusion the
Portuguese Government can draw when I lay these
papers before it. They will effectively silence all pro-
tests."
"Shall I tell O'Moy?" inquired the colonel.
"Oh, certainly," answered his lordship, instantly
200 The Snare
to change his mind. "Stay!" He considered, his chii,
in his hand, his eyes dreamy. " Better not, perhaps.
Better not tell anybody. Let us keep this to ourselves
for the present. It has no direct bearing on the mat-
ter to be tried. By the way, when does the court-mar-
tial sit?"
"I have just heard that Marshal Beresford has
ordered it to sit on Thursday here at Monsanto."
His lordship considered. " Perhaps I shall be present.
I may be at Torres Vedras until then. It is a very odd
affair. What is your own impression of it, Grant?
Have you formed any?"
Grant smiled darkly. "I have been piecing things
together. The result is rather curious, and still very
mystifying, still leaving a deal to be explained, and
somehow this wallet does n't fit into the scheme at
all."
"You shall tell me about it as we ride into Lisbon.
I want you to come with me. Lady O'Moy must for-
give me if I take French leave, since she is nowhere to
be found."
The truth was, that her ladyship had purposely gone
into hiding, after the fashion of suffering animals that
are denied expression of their pain. She had gone off
with her load of sorrow and anxiety into the thicket
on the flank of Monsanto, and there Sylvia found her
presently, dejectedly seated by a spring on a bank
that was thick with flowering violets. Her ladyship
was in tears, her mind swollen to bursting-point by the
secret which it sought to contain but felt itself certainly
unable to contain much longer.
"Why, Una dear," cried Miss Armytage, kneeling
beside her and putting a motherly arm about that
full-grown child, "what is this?"
The Wallet 201
Her ladyship wept copiously, the springs of her grief
gushing forth in response to that sympathetic touch.
"Oh, my dear, I am so distressed. I shall go mad, I
think. I am sure I have never deserved all this trouble.
I have always been considerate of others. You know I
would n't give pain to any one. And and Dick has
always been so thoughtless."
"Dick?" said Miss Armytage, and there was less
sympathy in her voice. "It is Dick you are thinking
about at present?"
"Of course. All this trouble has come through Dick.
I mean," she recovered, "that all my troubles began
with this affair of Dick's. And now there is Ned under
arrest and to be court-martialled."
"But what has Captain Tremayne to do with
Dick?"
"Nothing, of course," her ladyship agreed, with
more than usual self-restraint. "But it's one trouble
on another. Oh, it's more than I can bear."
"I know, my dear, I know," Miss Armytage said
soothingly, and her own voice was not so steady.
"You don't know! How can you? It isn't your
brother or your friend. It is n't as if you cared very
much for either of them. If you did, if you loved Dick
or Ned, you might realise what I am suffering."
Miss Armytage's eyes looked straight ahead into
the thick green foliage, and there was an odd smile,
half wistful, half scornful, on her lips.
"Yet I have done what I could," she said presently.
" I have spoken to Lord Wellington about them both."
Lady O'Moy checked her tears to look at her com-
panion, and there was dread in her eyes.
"You have spoken to Lord Wellington?"
"Yes. The opportunity came, and I took it."
2O2 The Snare
"And whatever did you tell him?" She was all
a- tremble now, as she clutched Miss Armytage's hand.
Miss Armytage related what had passed; how she
had explained the true facts of Dick's case to his lord-
ship; how she had protested her faith that Tremayne
was incapable of lying, and that if he said he had not
killed Samoval it was certain that he had not done so;
and, finally, how his lordship had promised to bear
both cases in his mind.
"That does n't seem very much," her ladyship com-
plained.
"But he said that he would never allow a British
officer to be made a scapegoat, and that if things
proved to be as I stated them he would see that the
worst that happened to Dick would be his dismissal
from the army. He asked me to let him know imme-
diately if Dick were found/'
More than ever was her ladyship on the very edge
of confiding. A chance word might have broken down
the last barrier of her will. But that word was not
spoken, and so she was given the opportunity of first
consulting her brother.
He laughed when he heard the story.
"A trap to take me, that's all," he pronounced it.
"My dear girl, that stiff-necked martinet knows noth-
ing of forgiveness for a military offence. Discipline is
the god at whose shrine he worships." And he afforded
her anecdotes to illustrate and confirm his assertion of
Lord Wellington's ruthlessness. "I tell you," he con-
cluded, "it's nothing but a trap to catch me. And if
you had been fool enough to yield, and to have blabbed
of my presence to Sylvia, you would have had it proved
to you."
She was terrified and of "course convinced, for she
The Wallet 203
was easy of conviction, believing always the last person
to whom she spoke. She sat down on one of the boxes
that furnished that cheerless refuge of Mr. Butler's.
"Then what's to become of Ned?" she cried. "Oh,
I had hoped that we had found a way out at last."
He raised himself on his elbow on the camp-bed
they had fitted up for him.
' ' Be easy now, ' ' he bade her impatiently. ' ' They can't
do anything to Ned until they find him guilty ; and how
are they going to find him guilty when he 's innocent?"
"Yes; but the appearances!"
"Fiddlesticks!" he answered her and the expres-
sion chosen was a mere concession to her sex, and not
at all what Mr. Butler intended. "Appearances can't
establish guilt. Do be sensible, and remember that
they will have to prove that he killed Samoval. And
you can't prove a thing to be what it is n't. You can't ! "
"Are you sure?"
"Certain sure," he replied with emphasis.
"Do you know that I shall have to give evidence
before the court?" she announced resentfully.
It was an announcement that gave him pause.
Thoughtfully he stroked his abominable tuft of red
beard. Then he dismissed the matter with a shrug and
a smile.
"Well, and what of it?" he cried. "They are not
likely to bully you or cross-examine you. Just tell
them what you saw from the balcony. Indeed you
can't very well say anything else, or they will see that
you are lying, and then heaven alone knows what may
happen to you, as well as to me."
She got up in a pet. "You're callous, Dick cal-
lous!" she told him. "Oh, I wish you had never come
to me for shelter."
2O4 The Snare
He looked at her and sneered. "That's a matter
you can soon mend," he told her. "Call up Terence
and the others and have me shot. I promise I shall
make no resistance. You see, I'm not able to resist
even if I would."
"Oh, how can you think it?" She was indignant.
"Well, what is a poor devil to think? You blow hot
and cold all in a breath. I 'm sick and ill and feverish,"
he continued with self-pity, "and now even you find
me a trouble. I wish to God they 'd shoot me and make
an end. I 'm sure it would be best for everybody."
And now she was on her knees beside him, soothing
him; protesting that he had misunderstood her; that
she had meant oh, she did n't know what she had
meant, she was so distressed on his account.
"And there's never the need to be," he assured her.
"Surely you can be guided by me if you want to help
me. As soon as ever my leg gets well again I '11 be after
fending for myself, and trouble you no further. But if
you want to shelter me until then, do it thoroughly,
and don't give way to fear at every shadow without
substance that falls across your path."
She promised it, and on that promise left him; and,
believing him, she bore herself more cheerfully for the
remainder of the day. But that evening after they had
dined her fears and anxieties drove her at last to seek
her natural and legal protector.
Sir Terence had sauntered off towards the house,
gloomy and silent as he had been throughout the meal.
She ran after him now, and came tripping lightly at his
side up the steps. She put her arm through his.
"Terence dear, you are not going back to work
again?" she pleaded.
He stopped, and from his fine height looked down
The Wallet 205
upon her with a curious smile. Slowly he disengaged
his arm from the clasp of her own. "I am afraid I
must/' he answered coldly. "I have a great deal to
do, and I arn short of a secretary. When this inquiry
is over I shall have more time to myself, perhaps."
There was something so repellent in his voice, in his
manner of uttering those last words, that she stood
rebuffed and watched him vanish into the building.
Then she stamped her foot and her pretty mouth
trembled.
" Oaf !" she said aloud.
CHAPTER XVI
THE EVIDENCE
THE board of officers convened by Marshal Beresford
to form the court that was to try Captain Tremayne,
was presided over by General Sir Harry Staple ton,
who was in command of the British troops quartered
in Lisbon. It included, amongst others, the adjutant-
general, Sir Terence O'Moy; Colonel Fletcher of the
Engineers, who had come in haste from Torres Vedras,
having first desired to be included in the board chiefly
on account of his friendship for Tremayne ; and Major
Carruthers. The judge-advocate's task of conducting
the case against the prisoner was deputed to the quar-
termaster of Tremayne's own regiment, Major Swan.
The court sat in a long, cheerless hall, once the
refectory of the Franciscans, who had been the first
tenants of Monsanto. It was stone-flagged, the win-
dows set at a height of some ten feet from the ground,
the bare, whitewashed walls hung with very wooden
portraits of long-departed kings and princes of Portu-
gal who had been benefactors of the order.
The court occupied the abbot's table, which was
set on a shallow dais at the end of the room a table
of stone with a covering of oak, over which a green
cloth had been spread ; the officers twelve in num-
ber, besides the president sat with their backs to
the wall, immediately under the inevitable picture of
the Last Supper.
The court being sworn, Captain Tremayne was
brought in by the provost-marshal's guard and given
a stool placed immediately before and a few paces
The Evidence 207
from the table. Perfectly calm and imperturbable, he
saluted the court, and sat down, his guards remaining
some paces behind him.
He had declined all offers of a friend to represent
him, on the grounds that the court could not possibly
afford him a case to answer.
The president, a florid, rather pompous man, who
spoke with a faint lisp, cleared his throat and read the
charge against the prisoner from the sheet with which
he had been supplied the charge of having violated
the recent enactment against duelling made by the
Commander-in-Chief of his Majesty's forces in the
Peninsula, in so far as he had fought a duel with Count
Jeronymo de Samoval, and of murder in so far as that
duel, conducted in an insular manner, and without
any witnesses, had resulted in the death of the said
Count Jeronymo de Samoval.
"How say you, then, Captain Tremayne?" the
judge-advocate challenged him. "Are you guilty of
these charges or not guilty?"
"Not guilty."
The president sat back and observed the prisoner
with an eye that was officially benign. Tremayne 's
glance considered the court and met the concerned
and grave regard of his colonel, of his friend Carruthers
and of two other friends of his own regiment, the cold
indifference of three officers of the Fourteenth then
stationed in Lisbon with whom he was unacquainted,
and the utter inscrutability of O'Moy's rather lower-
ing glance, which profoundly intrigued him, and, lastly,
the official hostility of Major Swan, who was on his feet
setting forth the case against him. Of the remaining
members of the court he took no heed.
From the opening address it did not seem to Captain
208 The Snare
Tremayne as if this case which had been hurriedly
prepared by Major Swan, chiefly that same morning
would amount to very much. Briefly the major an-
nounced his intention of establishing to the satisfac-
tion of the court how, on the night of the 28th of May,
the prisoner, in flagrant violation of an enactment in a
general order of the 26th of that same month, had en-
gaged in a duel with Count Jeronymo de Samoval, a
peer of the realm of Portugal.
Followed a short statement of the case from the
point of view of the prosecution, an anticipation of the
evidence to be called, upon which the major thought
rather sanguinely, opined Captain Tremayne to
convict the accused. He concluded with an assurance
that the evidence of the prisoner's guilt was as nearly
direct as evidence could be in a case of murder.
The first witness called was the butler, Mullins. He
was introduced by the sergeant-major stationed by the
double doors at the end of the hall from the ante-room
where the witnesses commanded to be present were in
waiting.
Mullins, rather less venerable than usual, as a con-
sequence of agitation and affliction on behalf of Cap-
tain Tremayne, to whom he was attached, stated nerv-
ously the facts within his knowledge. He was occupied
with the silver in his pantry, having remained up in
case Sir Terence, who was working late in his study,
should require anything before going to bed. Sir
Terence called him, and
" At what time did Sir Terence call you?" asked the
major.
" It was ten minutes past twelve, sir, by the clock in
my pantry."
"You are sure that the clock was right?"
The Evidence 209
"Quite sure, sir; I had put it right that same eve-
ning."
"Very well, then. Sir Terence called you at ten
minutes past twelve. Pray continue."
"He gave me a letter addressed to the Commissary-
General. * Take that,' says he, 'to the sergeant of the
guard at once, and tell him to be sure that it is for-
warded to the Commissary-General first thing in the
morning.' I went out at once, and on the lawn in the
quadrangle I saw a man lying on his back on the grass
and another man kneeling beside him. I ran across to
them. It was a bright, moonlight night bright as
day it was, and you could see quite clear. The gentle-
man that was kneeling looks up at me, and I sees it
was Captain Tremayne, sir. 'What's this, Captain
dear?' says I. 'It's Count Samoval, and he's kilt,'
says he; 'for God's sake, go and fetch somebody. 1 So
I ran back to tell Sir Terence, and Sir Terence he came
out with me, and mighty startled he was at what he
found there. ' What 's happened? ' says he, and the cap-
tain answers him just as he had answered me: 'It's
Count Samoval, and he 's kilt. ' But how did it happen ? '
says Sir Terence. ' Sure and that 's just what I want to
know,' says the captain; 'I found him here.' And then
Sir Terence turns to me, and 'Mullins,' says he, 'just
fetch the guard,' and of course I went at once."
"Was there any one else present?" asked the pros-
ecutor.
"Not in the quadrangle, sir. But Lady O'Moy was
on the balcony of her room all the time."
"Well, then, you fetched the guard. What hap-
pened when you returned?"
"Colonel Grant arrived, sir, and I understood him
to say that he had been following Count Samoval."
2io The Snare
"Which way did Colonel Grant come?" put in the
president.
"By the gate from the terrace."
"Was it open?"
"No, sir. Sir Terence himself went to open the
wicket when Colonel Grant knocked."
Sir Harry nodded and Major Swan resumed the
examination.
"What happened next?"
"Sir Terence ordered the captain under arrest."
"Did Captain Tremayne submit at once?"
"Well, not quite at once, sir. He naturally made some
bother. ' Good God ! ' he says, ' ye'll never be after think-
ing I kilt him? I tell you I just found him here like this.'
1 What were ye doing here, then? * says Sir Terence. * I
was coming to see you/ says the captain. ' What about? '
says Sir Terence, and with that the captain got angry,
said he refused to be cross-questioned and went off
to report himself under arrest as he was bid."
That closed the butler's evidence, and the judge-ad-
vocate looked across at the prisoner.
"Have you any questions for the witness?" he in-
quired.
" None," replied Captain Tremayne. " He has given
his evidence very faithfully and accurately."
Major Swan invited the court to question the wit-
ness in any manner it considered desirable. The only
one to avail himself of the invitation was Carruthers,
who, out of his friendship and concern for Tremayne
and a conviction of Tremayne 's innocence begotten
chiefly by that friendship desired to bring out any-
thing that might tell in his favour.
"What was Captain Tremayne's bearing when he
spoke to you and to Sir Terence?"
The Evidence 211
"Quite as usual, sir."
"He was quite calm, not at all perturbed?"
"Devil a bit; not until Sir Terence ordered him un-
der arrest, and then he was a little hot."
" Thank you, Mullins." -
Dismissed by the court, Mullins would have de-
parted, but that upon being told by the sergeant-ma-
jor that he was at liberty to remain if he chose he found
a seat on one of the benches ranged against the wall.
The next witness was Sir Terence, who gave his
evidence quietly from his place at the board immedi-
ately on the president's right. He was pale, but other-
wise composed, and the first part of his evidence was
no more than a confirmation of what Mullins had said,
an exact and strictly truthful statement of the circum-
stances as he had witnessed them from the moment
when Mullins had summoned him.
"You were present, I believe, Sir Terence," said
Major Swan, "at an altercation that arose on the pre-
vious day between Captain Tremayne and the de-
ceased?"
"Yes. It happened at lunch here at Monsanto."
"What was the nature of it?"
"Count Samoval permitted himself to criticise ad-
versely Lord Wellington's enactment against duelling,
and Captain Tremayne defended it. They became a
little heated, and the fact was mentioned that Samoval
himself was a famous swordsman. Captain Tremayne
made the remark that famous swordsmen were re-
quired by Count Samoval's country to save it from
invasion. The remark was offensive to the deceased,
and although the subject was abandoned out of regard
for the ladies present, it was abandoned on a threat
from Count Samoval to continue it later."
212 The Snare
11 Was it so continued?"
"Of that I have no knowledge. "
Invited to cross-examine the witness, Captain Tre-
mayne again declined, admitting freely that all that
Sir Terence had said was strictly true. Then Carruth-
ers, who appeared to be intent to act as the prisoner's
friend, took up the examination of his chief.
"It is of course admitted that Captain Tremayne
enjoyed free access to Monsanto practically at all hours
in his capacity as your military secretary, Sir Terence?"
"Admitted," said Sir Terence.
"And it is therefore possible that he might have
come upon the body of the deceased just as Mullins
came upon it?"
" It is possible, certainly. The evidence to come will
no doubt determine whether it is a tenable opinion."
"Admitting this, then, the attitude in which Cap-
tain Tremayne was discovered would be a perfectly
natural one? It would be natural that he should in-
vestigate the identity and hurt of the man he found
there?"
"Certainly."
"But it would hardly be natural that he should lin-
ger by the body of a man he had himself slain, thereby
incurring the risk of being discovered?"
"That is a question for the court rather than tot
me."
"Thank you, Sir Terence." And, as no one else de-
sired to question him, Sir Terence resumed his seat,
and Lady O'Moy was called.
She came in very white and trembling, accompanied
by Miss Armytage, whose admittance was suffered
by the court, since she would not be called upon to
give evidence. One of the officers of the Fourteenth
The Evidence 213
seated on the extreme right of the table made gallant
haste to set a chair for her ladyship, which she accepted
gratefully.
The oath administered, she was invited gently by
Major Swan to tell the court what she knew of the case
before them.
"But but I know nothing," she faltered in evi*
dent distress, and Sir Terence, his elbow leaning on the
table, covered his mouth with his hand that its move-
ments might not betray him. His eyes glowered upon
her with a ferocity that was hardly dissembled.
"If you will take the trouble to tell the court what
you saw from your balcony/' the major insisted, "the
court will be grateful."
Perceiving her agitation, and attributing it to nerv-
ousness, moved also by that delicate loveliness of hers,
and by deference to the adjutant-general's lady, Sir
Harry Staple ton intervened.
"Is Lady O'Moy's evidence really necessary?" he
asked. "Does it contribute any fresh fact regarding
the discovery of the body?"
"No, sir," Major Swan admitted. "It is merely a
corroboration of what we have already heard from
Mullins and Sir Terence."
"Then why unnecessarily distress this lady?"
"Oh, for my own part, sir " the prosecutor was
submitting, when Sir Terence cut in :
" I think that in the prisoner's interest perhaps Lady
O'Moy will not mind being distressed a little." It was
at her he looked, and for her and Tremayne alone that
he intended the cutting lash of sarcasm concealed from
the rest of the court by his smooth accent. "Mullins
has said, I think, that her ladyship was on the balcony
when he came into the quadrangle. Her evidence,
214 3PA0 Snare
therefore, takes us further back in point of time than
does Mullins's." Again the sarcastic double meaning
was only for those two. " Considering that the prisoner
is being tried for his life, I do not think we should miss
anything that may, however slightly, affect our judg-
ment."
"Sir Terence is right, I think, sir," the judge-advo-
cate supported.
"Very well, then," said the president. "Proceed, if
you please."
"Will you be good enough to tell the court, Lady
O'Moy, how you came to be upon the balcony?"
Her pallor had deepened, and her eyes looked more
than ordinarily large and child-like as they turned this
way and that to survey the members of the court.
Nervously she dabbed her lips with a handkerchief be-
fore answering mechanically as she had been schooled :
" I heard a cry, and I ran out "
"You were in bed at the time, of course?" quoth her
husband, interrupting.
"What on earth has that to do with it, Sir Terence?"
the president rebuked him, out of his earnest desire to
cut this examination as short as possible.
"The question, sir, does not seem to me to be with-
out point," replied O'Moy. He was judicially smooth
and self-contained. "It is intended to enable us to
form an opinion as to the lapse of time between her
ladyship's hearing the cry and reaching the balcony."
Grudgingly the president admitted the point, and
the question was repeated.
"Ye-es," came Lady O'Moy's tremulous, faltering
answer, "I was in bed."
"But not asleep or were you asleep?" rapped
O'Moy again, and in answer to the president's impa-
The Evidence 215
tient glance again explained himself: "We should know
whether perhaps the cry might not have been repeated
several times before her ladyship heard it. That is of
value."
"It would be more regular," ventured the judge-ad-
vocate, "if Sir Terence would reserve his examination
of the witness until she has given her evidence."
"Very well," grumbled Sir Terence, and he sat back,
foiled for the moment in his deliberate intent to torture
her into admissions that must betray her if made.
"I was not asleep," she told the court, thus answer-
ing her husband's last question. " I heard the cry, and
ran to the balcony at once. That that is all."
"But what did you see from the balcony?" asked
Major Swan.
"It was night, and of course it it was dark,"
she answered.
"Surely not dark, Lady O'Moy? There was a moon,
I think a full moon?"
"Yes; but but there was a good deal of
shadow in the garden, and and I could n't see any-
thing at first."
"But you did eventually?"
"Oh, eventually! Yes, eventually." Her fingers
were twisting and untwisting the handkerchief they
held, and her distressed loveliness was very piteous to
see. Yet it seems to have occurred to none of them
that this distress and the minor contradictions into
which it led her were the result of her intent to conceal
the truth, of her terror lest it should nevertheless be
wrung from her. Only O'Moy, watching her and read-
ing in her every word and glance and gesture the signs
of her falsehood, knew the hideous thing she strove to
hide, even, it seemed, at the cost of her lover's life. To
216 The Snare
his lacerated soul her torture was a balm. Gloating, he
watched her, then, and watched her lover, marvelling
at the blackguard's complete self-mastery and impas-
sivity even now.
Major Swan was urging her gently.
"Eventually, then, what was it that you saw?*'
"I saw a man lying on the ground, and another
kneeling over him, and then almost at once Mul-
lins came out, and "
" I don't think we need take this any further, Major
Swan," the president again interposed. "We have
heard what happened after Mullins came out."
"Unless the prisoner wishes " began the judge-
advocate.
"By no means," said Tremayne composedly.
Although outwardly impassive, he had been watch-
ing her intently, and it was his eyes that had perturbed
her more than anything in that court. It was she who
must determine for him how to proceed ; how far to de-
fend himself. He had hoped that by now Dick Butler
might have been got away, so that it would have been
safe to tell the whole truth, although he began to
doubt how far that could avail him, how far, indeed, it
would be believed in the absence of Dick Butler. Her
evidence told him that such hopes as he may have en-
tertained had been idle, and that he must depend for
his life simply upon the court's inability to bring the
guilt home to him. In this he had some confidence, for,
knowing himself innocent, it seemed to him incredible
that he could be proven guilty. Failing that, nothing
short of the discovery of the real slayer of Samoval
could save him and that was a matter wrapped in
the profoundest mystery. The only man who could
conceivably have fought Samoval in such a place was
The Evidence 217
Sir Terence himself. But then it was utterly inconceiv-
able that in that case Sir Terence, who was the very
soul of honour, should not only keep silent and allow
another man to suffer, but actually sit there in judg-
ment upon that other ; and, besides, there was no quarrel,
nor ever had been, between Sir Terence and Samoval.
"There is," Major Swan was saying, "just one other
matter upon which I should like to question Lady
O'Moy." And thereupon he proceeded to do so: "Your
ladyship will remember that on the day before the
event in which Count Samoval met his death he was
one of a small luncheon-party at your house here in
Monsanto."
"Yes," she replied, wondering fearfully what might
be coming now.
"Would your ladyship be good enough to tell the
court who were the other members of that party?"
"It it was hardly a party, sir," she answered,
with her unconquerable insistence upon trifles. "We
were just Sir Terence and myself, Miss Armytage,
Count Samoval, Colonel Grant, Major Carruthers and
Captain Tremayne."
" Can your ladyship recall any words that passed be-
tween the deceased and Captain Tremayne on that oc-
casion words of disagreement, I mean?"
She knew that there had been something, but in her
benumbed state of mind she was incapable of remem-
bering what it' was. All that remained in her memory
was Sylvia's warning after shs and her cousin had left
the table, Sylvia's insistence that she should call Cap-
tain Tremayne away to avoid trouble between himself
and the Count. But, search as she would, the actual
subject of disagreement eluded her. Moreover, it oc-
curred to her suddenly, and sowed fresh terror in her
21 8 The Snare
soul, that, whatever it was, it would tell against Cap-
tain Tremayne.
" I I am afraid I don't remember/' she faltered at
last.
"Try to think, Lady O'Moy."
" I I have tried. But I I can't. " Her voice had
fallen almost to a whisper.
"Need we insist?" put in the president compassion-
ately. "There are sufficient witnesses as to what
passed on that occasion without further,harassing her
ladyship."
"Quite so, sir," the major agreed in his dry voice.
"It only remains for the prisoner to question the wit-
ness if he so wishes."
Tremayne shook his head. " It is quite unnecessary,
sir," he assured the president, and never saw the swift,
grim smile that flashed across Sir Terence's stern face.
Of the court Sir Terence was the only member who
could have desired to prolong the painful examination
of her ladyship. But he perceived from the president's
attitude that he could not do so without betraying the
vindictiveness actuating him; and so he remained si-
lent for the present. He would have gone so far as to
suggest that her ladyship should be invited to remain
in court against the possibility of further evidence be-
ing presently required from her but that he perceived
there was no necessity to do so. Her deadly anxiety
concerning the prisoner must in itself be sufficient to
determine her to remain, as indeed it proved. Accom-
panied and half supported by Miss Armytage, who was
almost as pale as herself, but otherwise very steady in
her bearing, Lady O'Moy made her way, with faltering
steps to the benches ranged against the side wall, and
sat there to hear the remainder of the proceedings.
The Evidence 219
After the uninteresting and perfunctory evidence of
the sergeant of the guard who had been present when
the prisoner was ordered under arrest, the next witness
called was Colonel Grant. His testimony was strictly
in accordance with the facts which we know him to
have witnessed, but when he was in the middle of his
statement an interruption occurred.
At the extreme right of the dais on which the table
stood there was a small oaken door set in the wall and
giving access to a small ante-room that was known,
rightly or wrongly, as the abbot's chamber. That ante-
room communicated directly with what was now the
guard-room, which accounts for the new-comer being
ushered in that way by the corporal at the time.
At the opening of that door the members of the
court looked round in sharp annoyance, suspecting
here some impertinent intrusion. The next moment,
however, this was changed to respectful surprise.
There was a scraping of chairs and they were all on
their feet in token of respect for the slight man in the
grey undress frock who entered. It was Lord Welling-
ton.
Saluting the members of the court with two fingers
to his cocked hat, he immediately desired them to sit,
peremptorily waving his hand, and requesting the
president not to allow his entrance to interrupt or in-
terfere with the course of the inquiry.
"A chair here for me, if you please, sergeant," he
called and, when it was fetched, took his seat at the
end of the table, with his back to the door through
which he had come and immediately facing the prose-
cutor. He retained his hat, but placed his riding-crop
on the table before him ; and the only thing he would
accept was an officer's notes of the proceedings as far
220 The Snare
as they had gone, which that officer himself was
prompt to offer. With a repeated injunction to the
court to proceed, Lord Wellington became instantly
absorbed in the study of these notes.
Colonel Grant, standing very straight and stiff in the
originally red coat which exposure to many weathers
had faded to an autumnal brown, continued and con-
cluded his statement of what he had seen and heard on
the night of the 28th of May in the garden at Mon-
santo.
The judge-advocate now invited him to turn his
memory back to the luncheon-party at Sir Terence's
on the 27th, and to tell the court of the altercation
that had passed on that occasion between Captain
Tremayne and Count Samoval.
"The conversation at table/' he replied, " turned,
as was perhaps quite natural, upon the recently pub-
lished general order prohibiting duelling and making it
a capital offence for officers in his Majesty's service
in the Peninsula. Count Samoval stigmatised the
order as a degrading and arbitrary one, and spoke in
defence of single combat as the only honourable
method of settling differences between gentlemen.
Captain Tremayne dissented rather sharply, and ap-
peared to resent the term ' degrading ' applied by the
Count to the enactment. Words followed, and then
some one Lady O'Moy, I think, and as I imagine
with intent to soothe the feelings of Count Samoval,
which appeared to be ruffled appealed to his vanity
by mentioning the fact that he was himself a famous
swordsman. To this Captain Tremayne's observation
was a rather unfortunate one, although I must confess
that I was fully in sympathy with it at the time. He
said, as nearly as I remember, that at the moment
The Evidence 221
Portugal was in urgent need of famous swords to defend
her from invasion and not to increase the disorders
at home."
Lord Wellington looked up from the notes and
thoughtfully stroked his high-bridged nose. His stern,
handsome face was coldly impassive, his fine eyes rest-
ing upon the prisoner, but his attention all to what
Colonel Grant was saying.
"It was a remark of which Samoval betrayed the
bitterest resentment. He demanded of Captain Tre-
mayne that he should be more precise, and Tremayne
replied that, whilst he had spoken generally, Samoval
was welcome to the cap if he found it fitted him. To
that he added a suggestion that, as the conversation
appeared to be tiresome to the ladies, it would be bet-
ter to change its topic. Count Samoval consented, but
with the promise, rather threateningly delivered, that
it should be continued at another time. That, sir, is all,
I think."
"Have you any questions for the witness, Captain
Tremayne? " inquired the judge-advocate.
As before, Captain Tremayne 's answer was in the
negative, coupled with the now usual admission that
Colonel Grant's statement accorded perfectly with his
own recollection of the facts.
The court, however, desired enlightenment on sev-
eral subjects. Came first of all Carruthers's inquiries
as to the bearing of the prisoner when ordered under
arrest, eliciting from Colonel Grant a variant of the
usual reply.
"It was not inconsistent with innocence," he said.
It was an answer which appeared to startle the
court, and perhaps Carruthers would have acted best
in Tremayne 's interest had he left the question there.
222 The Snare
But having obtained so much he eagerly sought for
more.
"Would you say that it was inconsistent with
guilt?" he cried.
Colonel Grant smiled slowly, and slowly shook his
head. "I fear I could not go so far as that," he an-
swered, thereby plunging poor Carruthers into despair.
And now Colonel Fletcher voiced a question agitat-
ing the minds of several members of the court.
"Colonel Grant," he said, "you have told us that on
the night in question you had Count Samoval under
observation, and that upon word being brought to you
of his movements by one of your agents you yourself
followed him to Monsanto. Would you be good enough
to tell the court why you were watching the deceased's
movements at the time?"
Colonel Grant glanced at Lord Wellington. He
smiled a little reflectively and shook his head.
"I am afraid that the public interest will not allow
me to answer your question. Since, however, Lord
Wellington himself is present, I would suggest that
you ask his lordship whether I am to give you the in-
formation you require."
"Certainly not," said his lordship crisply, without
awaiting further question. " Indeed, one of my reasons
for being present is to ensure that nothing on that score
shall transpire."
There followed a moment's silence. Then the presi-
dent ventured a question. "May we ask, sir, at least
whether Colonel Grant's observation of Count Samo-
val resulted from any knowledge of, or expectation of,
this duel that was impending?"
"Certainly you may ask that," Lord Wellington
consented.
The Evidence 223
" It did not, sir," said Colonel Grant in answer to the
question.
"What grounds had you, Colonel Grant, for assum-
ing that Count Samoval was going to Monsanto?"
the president asked.
"Chiefly the direction taken."
"And nothing else?"
"I think we are upon forbidden ground again," said
Colonel Grant, and again he looked at Lord Wellington
for direction.
"I do not see the point of the question," said Lord
Wellington, replying to that glance. "Colonel Grant
has quite plainly informed the court that his observa-
tion of Count Samoval had no slightest connection
with this duel, nor was inspired by any knowledge or
suspicion on his part that any such duel was to be
fought. With that I think the court should be content.
It has been necessary for Colonel Grant to explain to
the court his own presence at Monsanto at midnight
on the 28th. It would have been better, perhaps, had
he simply stated that it was fortuitous, although I can
understand that the court might have hesitated to
accept such a statement. That, however, is really all
that concerns the matter. Colonel Grant happened to
be there. That is all that the court need remember.
Let me add the assurance that it would not in the least
assist the court to know more, so far as the case under
consideration is concerned."
In view of that the president notified that he had
nothing further to ask the witness, and Colonel Grant
saluted and withdrew to a seat near Lady O'Moy.
There followed the evidence of Major Carruthers
with regard to the dispute between Count Samoval
and Captain Tremayne, which substantially bore out
224 The Snare
what Sir Terence and Colonel Grant had already said,
notwithstanding that it manifested a strong bias in fa-
vour of the prisoner.
"The conversation which Samoval threatened to
resume does not appear to have been resumed," he
added in conclusion.
"How can you say that?" Major Swan asked him.
"I may state my opinion, sir," flashed Carruthers,
his chubby face reddening.
"Indeed, sir, you may not," the president assured
him. u You are upon oath to give evidence of facts
directly within your own personal knowledge."
"It is directly within my own personal knowledge
that Captain Tremayne was called away from the table
by Lady O'Moy, and that he did not have another op-
portunity of speaking with Count Samoval that day.
I saw the Count leave shortly after, and at the time
Captain Tremayne was still with her ladyship as her
ladyship can testify if necessary. He spent the re-
mainder of the afternoon with me at work, and we
went home together in the evening. We share the same
lodging in Alcantara."
"There was still all of the next day," said Sir Harry.
" Do you say that the prisoner was never out of your
sight on that day too?"
" I do not; but I can't believe "
" I am afraid you are going to state opinions again,"
Major Swan interposed.
"Yet it is evidence of a kind," insisted Carruthers,
with the tenacity of a bull-dog. He looked as if he
would make it a personal matter between himself and
Major Swan if he were not allowed to proceed. "I
can't believe that Captain Tremayne would have em-
broiled himself further with Count Samoval. Captain
The Evidence 225
Tremayne has too high a regard for discipline and for
orders, and he is the least excitable man I have ever
known. Nor do I believe that he would have consented
to meet Samoval without my knowledge."
"Not perhaps unless Captain Tremayne desired to
keep the matter secret, in view of the general order,
which is precisely what it is contended that he did.*'
"Falsely contended, then," snapped Major Carruth-
ers, to be instantly rebuked by the president.
He sat down in a huff, and the judge-advocate called
Private Bates, who had been on sentry duty on the
night of the 28th, to corroborate the evidence of the
sergeant of the guard as to the hour at which the
prisoner had driven up to Monsanto in his curricle.
Private Bates having been heard, Major Swan an-
nounced that he did not propose to call any further
witnesses, and resumed his seat. Thereupon, to the
president's invitation, Captain Tremayne replied that
he had no witnesses to call at all.
"In that case, Major Swan," said Sir Harry, "the
court will be glad to hear you further."
And Major Swan came to his feet again to address
the court for the prosecution.
CHAPTER XVII
BITTER WATER
MAJOR SWAN may or may not have been a gifted
soldier. History is silent on the point. But the surviv-
ing records of the court-martial with which we are con-
cerned go to show that he was certainly not a gifted
speaker. His vocabulary was limited, his rhetoric
clumsy, and Major Carruthers denounces his delivery
as halting, his very voice dull and monotonous ; also his
manner, reflecting his mind on this occasion, appears
to have been perfectly unimpassioned. He had been
saddled with a duty and he must perform it. He would
do so conscientiously to the best of his ability, for he
seems to have been a conscientious man ; but he could
not be expected to put his heart into the matter, since
he was not inflamed by any zeal born of conviction,
nor had he any of the incentives of a civil advocate to
sway his audience by all possible means.
Nevertheless the facts themselves, properly mar-
shalled, made up a dangerous case against the prisoner.
Major Swan began by dwelling upon the evidence of
motive: there had been a quarrel, or the beginnings of
a quarrel, between the deceased and the accused; the
deceased had shown himself affronted, and had been
heard quite unequivocally to say that the matter could
not be left at the stage at which it was interrupted at
Sir Terence's luncheon-table. Major Swan dwelt for
a moment upon the grounds of the quarrel. They were
by no means discreditable to the accused, but it was
singularly unfortunate, ironical almost, that he should
have involved himself in a duel as a result of his out-
Bitter Water 227
spoken defence of a wise measure which made duelling
in the British army a capital offence. With that, how-
ever, he did not think that the court was immediately
concerned. By the duel itself the accused had offended
against the recent enactment, and, moreover, the irreg-
ular manner in which the encounter had been con-
ducted, without seconds or witnesses, rendered the
accused answerable to a charge of murder, if it could
be proved that he actually did engage and kill the de-
ceased. Major Swan thought this could be proved.
The irregularity of the meeting must be assigned to
the enactment against which it offended. A matter
which, under other circumstances, considering the
good character borne by Captain Tremayne, would
have been quite incomprehensible, was, he thought,
under existing circumstances, perfectly clear. Because
Captain Tremayne could not have found any friend to
act for him, he was forced to forgo witnesses to the en-
counter, and because of the consequences to himself of
the encounter's becoming known, he was forced to con-
trive that it should be held in secret. They knew, from
the evidence of Colonel Grant and Major Carruth-
ers, that the meeting was desired by Count Samoval,
and they were therefore entitled to assume that, recog-
nising the conditions arising out of the recent enact-
ment, the deceased had consented that the meeting
should take place in this irregular fashion, since other-
wise it could not have been held at all, and he would
have been compelled to forgo the satisfaction he de-
sired.
He passed to the consideration of the locality chosen,
and there he confessed that he was confronted with a
mystery. Yet the mystery would have been no less in
the case of any other opponent than Captain Tre-
228 The Snare
mayne, since it was clear beyond all doubt that a duel
had been fought and Count Samoval killed, and no less
clear that it was a premeditated combat, and that the
deceased had gone to Monsanto expressly to engage in
it, since the duelling swords found had been identified
as his property and must have been carried by him to
the encounter.
The mystery, he repeated, would have been no less
in the case of any other opponent than Captain Tre-
mayne; indeed, in the case of some other opponent it
might even have been deeper. It must be remembered,
after all, that the place was one to which the accused
had free access at all hours.
And it was clearly proven that he availed himself of
that access on the night in question. Evidence had
been placed before the court showing that he had come
to Monsanto in a curricle at twenty minutes to twelve
at the latest, and there was abundant evidence to show
that he was found kneeling beside the body of the dead
man at ten minutes past twelve the body being
quite warm at the time and the breath hardly out of
it, proving that he had fallen but an instant before the
arrival of Mullins and the other witnesses who had
testified.
Unless Captain Tremayne could account to the sat-
isfaction of the court for the manner in which he had
spent that half-hour, Major Swan did not perceive,
when all the facts of motive and circumstance were
considered, what conclusion the court could reach
other than that Captain Tremayne was guilty of the
death of Count Jeronymo de Samoval in a single com-
bat fought under clandestine and irregular conditions,
transforming the deed into technical murder.
Upon that conclusion the major sat down to mop
Bitter Water 229
a brow that was perspiring freely. From Lady O'Moy
in the background came faintly the sound of a half-
suppressed moan. Terrified, she clutched the hand of
Miss Armytage, and found that hand to lie like a thing
of ice in her own, yet she suspected nothing of the deep
agitation under her companion's outward appearance
of calm.
Captain Tremayne rose slowly to address the court
in reply to the prosecution. As he faced his judges now
he met the smouldering eyes of Sir Terence considering
him with such malevolence that he was shocked and
bewildered. Was he prejudged already, and by his best
friend? If so, what must be the attitude of the others?
But the kindly, florid countenance of the president was
friendly and encouraging; there was eager anxiety for
him in the gaze of his friend Carruthers. He glanced
at Lord Wellington sitting at the table's end sternly
inscrutable, a mere spectator, yet one whose habit of
command gave him an air that was authoritative and
judicial.
At length he began to speak. He had considered his
defence, and he had based it mainly upon a falsehood
since the strict truth must have proved ruinous to
Richard Butler.
"My answer, gentlemen," he said, "will be a very
brief one as brief, indeed, as the prosecution merits
for I entertain the hope that no member of this
court is satisfied that the case made out against me is
by any means complete." He spoke easily, fluently,
and calmly: a man supremely self -con trolled. "It
amounts, indeed, to throwing upon me the onus of
proving myself innocent, and that is a burden which
no British laws, civil or military, would ever commit
the injustice of imposing upon an accused.
230 The Snare
11 That certain words of disagreement passed be-
tween Count Samoval and myself on the eve of the
affair in which the Count met his death, as you have
heard from various witnesses, I at once and freely
admitted. Thereby I saved the court time and trouble,
and some other witnesses who might have been caused
the distress of having to testify against me. But that
the dispute ever had any sequel, that the further sub-
sequent discussion threatened at the time by Count
Samoval ever took place, I most solemnly deny. From
the moment that I left Sir Terence's luncheon-table on
the Saturday I never set eyes on Count Samoval again
until I discovered him dead or dying in the garden here
at Monsanto on Sunday night. I can call no witnesses
to support me in this, because it is not a matter suscep-
tible to proof by evidence. Nor have I troubled to call
the only witnesses I might have called witnesses as
to my character and my regard for discipline who
might have testified that any such encounter as that
of which I am accused would be utterly foreign to my
nature. There are officers in plenty in his Majesty's
service who could bear witness that the practice of
duelling is one that I hold in the utmost abhorrence,
since I have frequently avowed it, and since in all
my life I have never fought a single duel. My serv-
ice in his Majesty's army has happily afforded me the
means of dispensing with any such proof of courage
as the duel is supposed to give. I say I might have
called witnesses to that fact and I have not done so.
This is because, fortunately, there are several among
the members of this court to whom I have been known
for many years, and who can themselves, when this
court comes to consider its finding, support my present
assertion.
Bitter Water 231
"Let me ask you, then, gentlemen, whether it is
conceivable that, entertaining such feelings as these
towards single combat, I should have been led to de-
part from them under circumstances that might very
well have afforded me an ample shield for refusing
satisfaction to a too eager and pressing adversary? It
was precisely because I hold the duel in such contempt
that I spoke with such asperity to the deceased when
he pronounced Lord Wellington's enactment a degrad-
ing one to men of birth. The very sentiments which
I then expressed proclaimed my antipathy to the prac-
tice. How, then, should I have committed the incon-
sistency of accepting a challenge upon such grounds
from Count Samoval? There is even more irony than
Major Swan supposes in a situation which himself has
called ironical.
"So much, then, for the motives that are alleged to
have actuated me. I hope you will conclude that I
have answered the prosecution upon that matter.
"Coming to the question of fact, I cannot find that
there is anything to answer, for nothing has been
proved against me. True, it has been proved that I
arrived at Monsanto at half-past eleven or twenty
minutes to twelve on the night of the 28th, and it has
been further proved that half-an-hour later I was
discovered kneeling beside the dead body of Count
Samoval. But to say that this proves that I killed him
is more, I think, if I understood him correctly, than
Major Swan himself dares to assert.
"Major Swan is quite satisfied that Samoval came
to Monsanto for the purpose of fighting a duel that had
been prearranged; and I admit that the two swords
found, which have been proven the property of Count
Samoval, and which, therefore, he must have brought
232 The Snare
with him, are a prima-facie proof of such a contention.
But if we assume, gentlemen, that I had accepted a
challenge from the Count, let me ask you, can you
think of any place less likely to have been appointed
or agreed to by me for the encounter than the garden
of the adjutant-general's quarters? Secrecy is urged
as the reason for the irregularity of the meeting. What
secrecy was ensured in such a place, where interruption
and discovery might come at any moment, although
the duel was held at midnight? And what secrecy did
I observe in my movements, considering that I drove
openly to Monsanto in a curricle, which I left standing
at the gates in full view of the guard, to await my re-
turn? Should I have acted thus if I had been upon
such an errand as is alleged? Common sense, I think,
should straightway acquit me on the grounds of the
locality alone, and I cannot think that it should even
be necessary for me, so as to complete my answer to
an accusation entirely without support in fact or in
logic, to account for my presence at Monsanto and my
movements during the half-hour in question."
He paused. So far his clear reasoning had held and
impressed the court. This he saw plainly written on
the faces of all with one single exception. Sir Ter-
ence alone the one man from whom he might have
looked for the greatest relief watched him ever
malevolently, sardonically, with curling lip. It gave
him pause now that he stood upon the threshold of
falsehood ; and because of that inexplicable but obvious
hostility, that attitude of expectancy to ensnare and
destroy him, Captain Tremayne hesitated to step from
the solid ground of reason, upon which he had confi-
dently walked thus far, on to the uncertain bogland of
mendacity.
Bitter Water 233
"I cannot think,*' he said, "that the court should
consider it necessary for me to advance an alibi, to
make a statement in proof of my innocence where I
contend that no proof has been offered of my guilt."
" I think it will be better, sir, in your own interests,
so that you may be the more completely cleared," the
president replied, and so compelled him to continue.
"There was," he resumed, then, "a certain matter
connected with the Commissary-General's department
which was of the greatest urgency, yet which, under
stress of work, had been postponed until the mor-
row. It was concerned with some tents for General
Picton's division at Celorico. It occurred to me that
night that it would be better dealt with at once, so
that the documents relating to it could go forward
early on Monday morning to the Commissary-General.
Accordingly, I returned to Monsanto, entered the
official quarters, and was engaged upon that task when
a cry from the garden reached my ears. That cry in the
dead of night was sufficiently alarming, and I ran out
at once to see what might have occasioned it. I found
Count Samoval either just dead or just dying, and I had
scarcely made the discovery when Mullins, the butler,
came out of the residential wing, as he has testified.
"That, sirs, is all that I know of the death of Count
Samoval, and I will conclude with my solemn affirma-
tion, on my honour as a soldier, that I am as innocent
of having procured it as I am ignorant of how it came
about.
"I leave myself with confidence in your hands,
gentlemen," he ended, and resumed his seat.
That he had favourably impressed the court was
clear. Miss Armytage whispered it to Lady O'Moy,
exultation quivering in her whisper.
234 The Snare
"He is safe!" And she added: "He was magnifi-
cent."
Lady O'Moy pressed her hand in return. "Thank
God! Oh, thank God!" she murmured under her
breath.
"I do," said Miss Armytage.
There was silence, broken only by the rustle of the
president's notes as he briefly looked them over as a
preliminary to addressing the court. And then sud-
denly, grating harshly upon that silence, came the
voice of O'Moy.
"Might I suggest, Sir Harry, that before we hear
you three of the witnesses be recalled? They are
Sergeant Flynn, Private Bates and Mullins."
The president looked round in surprise, and Car-
ruthers took advantage of the pause to interpose an
objection.
"Is such a course regular, Sir Harry?" He too had
become conscious at last of Sir Terence's relentless
hostility to the accused. "The court has been given
an opportunity of examining those witnesses, the ac-
cused has declined to call any on his own behalf, and
the prosecution has already closed its case."
Sir Harry considered a moment. He had never been
very clear upon matters of procedure, which he looked
upon as none of a soldier's real business. Instinctively
in this difficulty he looked at Lord Wellington as if
for guidance; but his lordship's face told him abso-
lutely nothing, the Commander-in-Chief remaining
an impassive spectator. Then, whilst the president
coughed and pondered, Major Swan came to the rescue.
"The court," said the judge-advocate, "is entitled
at any time before the finding to call or recall any
witnesses, provided that the prisoner is afforded an
Bitter Water 235
opportunity of answering anything further that may
be elicited in re-examination of these witnesses."
"That is the rule," said Sir Terence, "and rightly
so, for, as in the present instance, the prisoner's own
statement may make it necessary."
The president gave way, thereby renewing Miss
Armytage's terrors and shaking at last even the pris-
oner's calm.
Sergeant Flynn was the first of the witnesses re-
called at Sir Terence's request, and it was Sir Terence
who took up his re-examination.
"You said, I think, that you were standing in the
guard-room doorway when Captain Tremayne passed
you at twenty minutes to twelve on the night of the
28th?"
"Yes, sir. I had turned out upon hearing the cur-
ricle draw up. I had come to see who it was."
" Naturally. Well, now, did you observe which way
Captain Tremayne went? whether he went along
the passage leading to the garden or up the stairs to
the offices?"
The sergeant considered for a moment, and Captain
Tremayne became conscious for the first time that
morning that his pulses were throbbing. At last his
dreadful suspense came to an end.
"No, sir. Captain Tremayne turned the corner,
and was out of my sight, seeing that I did n't go be-
yond the guard-room doorway."
Sir Terence's lips parted with a snap of impatience.
"But you must have heard," he insisted. "You must
have heard his steps whether they went upstairs or
straight on."
*' I am afraid I did n't take notice, sir."
" But even without taking notice it seems impossible
236 The Snare
that you should not have heard the direction of his
steps. Steps going up stairs sound quite differently
from steps walking along the level. Try to think."
The sergeant considered again. But the president
interposed. The testiness which Sir Terence had been
at no pains to conceal annoyed Sir Harry, and this
insistence offended his sense of fair play.
"The witness has already said that he did n't take
notice. I am afraid it can serve no good purpose to
compel him to strain his memory. The court could
hardly rely upon his answer after what he has said al-
ready."
"Very well," said Sir Terence curtly. " We will pass
on. After the body of Count Samoval had been re-
moved from the courtyard, did Mullins, my butler,
come to you?"
"Yes, Sir Terence."
"What was his message? Please tell the court."
"He brought me a letter with instructions that it
was to be forwarded first thing in the morning to the
Commissary-Generars office."
" Did he make any statement beyond that when he
delivered that letter?"
The sergeant pondered a moment. " Only that he had
been bringing it when he found Count Samovars body."
"That is all I wish to ask, Sir Harry," O'Moy in-
timated, and looked round at his fellow-members of
that court as if to inquire whether they had drawn any
inference from the sergeant's statements.
"Have you any questions to ask the witness, Cap-
tain Tremayne?" the president inquired.
"None, sir," replied the prisoner.
Came Private Bates next, and Sir Terence proceeded
to question him.
Bitter Water 237
" You said in your evidence that Captain Tremayne
arrived at Monsanto between half -past eleven and
twenty minutes to twelve?"
"Yes, an"
"You told us, I think, that you determined this by
the fact that you came on duty at eleven o 'clock, and
that it would be half an-hour or a little more after that
when Captain Tremayne arrived?"
"Yes, sir."
"That is quite in agreement with the evidence of
your sergeant. Now tell the court where you were
during the half-hour that followed until you heard
the guard being turned out by the sergeant."
"Pacing in front of quarters, sir."
"Did you notice the windows of the building at all
during that time?"
" I can 't say that I did, sir."
"Why not?"
"Why not?" echoed the private.
"Yes why not? Don't repeat my words. How
did it happen that you did n't notice the windows?"
"Because they were in darkness, sir/
O'Moy's eyes gleamed. "All of them?"
"Certainly, sir, all of them."
"You are quite certain of that?"
"Oh, quite certain, sir. If a light had shown from
one of them I could n't have failed to notice it."
"That will do."
"Captain Tremayne " began the president.
"I have no questions for the witness, sir," Tre-
mayne announced.
Sir Harry's face expressed surprise. "After the
statement he has just made? " he exclaimed, and there-
upon he again invited the prisoner, in a voice that was
238 The Snare
as grave as his countenance, to cross-examine the wit-
ness; he did more than invite he seemed almost to
plead. But Tremayne, preserving by a miracle his
outward calm, for all that inwardly he was filled with
despair and chagrin to see what a pit he had dug
for himself by his falsehood, declined to ask any ques-
tions.
Private Bates retired, and Mullins was recalled. A
gloom seemed to have settled now upon the court. A
moment ago their way had seemed fairly clear to its
members, and they had been inwardly congratulating
themselves that they were relieved from the grim neces-
sity of passing sentence upon a brother officer esteemed
by all who knew him. But now a subtle change had
crept in. The statement drawn by Sir Terence from
the sentry appeared flatly to contradict Captain Tre-
mayne's own account of his movements on the night in
question.
41 You told the court," O'Moy addressed the witness
Mullins, consulting his notes as he did so, "that on the
night on which Count Samoval met his death, I sent
you at ten minutes past twelve to take a letter to the
sergeant of the guard, an urgent letter which was to be
forwarded to its destination first thing on the following
morning. And it was in fact in the course of going upon
this errand that you discovered the prisoner kneeling
beside the body of Count Samoval. This is correct, is
it not?"
"It is, sir."
"Will you now inform the court to whom that letter
was addressed?"
" It was addressed to the Commissary-General."
"You read the superscription?"
" I am not sure whether I did that, but I clearly re-
Bitter Water 239
member, sir, that you told me at the time that it was
for the Commissary-General/ 1
Sir Terence signified that he had no more to ask, and
again the president invited the prisoner to question the
witness, to receive again the prisoner's unvarying re-
fusal.
And now O'Moy rose in his place to announce that
he had himself a further statement to make to the
court, a statement which he had not conceived neces-
sary until he had heard the prisoner's account of his
movements during the half-hour he had spent at
Monsanto on the night of the duel.
" You have heard from Sergeant Flynn and my but-
ler Mullins that the letter carried from me by the latter
to the former on the night of the 28th was a letter for
the Commissary-General of an urgent character, to be
forwarded first thing in the morning. If the prisoner
insists upon it, the Commissary-General himself may
be brought before this court to confirm my assertion
that that communication concerned a complaint from
headquarters on the subject of the tents supplied to the
third division Sir Thomas Picton's at Celorico.
The documents concerning that complaint that is
to say, the documents upon which we are to presume
that the prisoner was at work during the half-hour in
question were at the time in my possession in my
own private study and in another wing of the building
altogether."
Sir Terence sat down amid a rustling stir that ran
through the court, but was instantly summoned to his
feet again by the president.
"A moment, Sir Terence. The prisoner will no
doubt desire to question you on that statement." And
he looked with serious eyes at Captain Tremayne*
24 The Snare
"I have no questions for Sir Terence, sir," was his
answer.
Indeed, what question could he have asked? The
falsehoods he had uttered had woven themselves into
a rope about his neck, and he stood before his brother
officers now in an agony of shame, a man discredited,
as he believed.
"But no doubt you will desire the presence of
the Commissary-General?" This was from Colonel
Fletcher his own colonel and a man who esteemed
him and it was asked in accents that were plead-
ingly insistent.
"What purpose could it serve, sir? Sir Terence's
words are partly confirmed by the evidence he has just
elicited from Sergeant Flynn and his butler Mullins.
Since he spent the night writing a letter to the Com-
missary, it is not to be doubted that the subject would
be such as he states, since from my own knowledge it
was the most urgent matter in our hands. And, natu-
rally, he would not have written without having the
documents at his side. To summon the Commissary-
General would be unnecessarily to waste the time of
the court. It follows that I must have been mistaken,
and this I admit."
"But how could you be mistaken?" broke from the
president.
"I realise your 'difficulty in crediting it. But there
it is. Mistaken I was."
"Very well, sir." Sir Harry paused and then added:
"The court will be glad to hear you in answer to the
further evidence adduced to refute your statement in
your own defence."
" I have nothing further to say, sir," was Tremayne's
answer.
Bitter Water 241
"Nothing further?" The president seemed aghast.
" Nothing, sir."
And now Colonel Fletcher leaned forward to exhort
him. " Captain Tremayne," he said, "let me beg you
to realise the serious position in which you are placed."
"I assure you, sir, that I realise it fully."
" Do youVealise that the statements you have made
to account for your movements during the half-hour
that you were at Monsanto have been disproved? You
have heard Private Bates's evidence to the effect that
at the time when you say you were at work in the
offices, those offices remained in darkness. And you
have heard Sir Terence 's statement that the docu-
ments upon which you claim to have been at work
were at the time in his own hands. Do you realise
what inference the court will be compelled to draw
from this?"
"The court must draw whatever inference it
pleases," answered the captain without heat.
Sir Terence stirred. "Captain Tremayne," said he,
"I wish to add my own exhortation to that of your
colonel ! Your position has become extremely perilous.
If you are concealing anything that may extricate you
from it, let me enjoin you to take the court frankly and
fully into your confidence."
The words in themselves were kindly, but through
them ran a note of bitterness, of cruel derision, that
was faintly perceptible to Tremayne and to one or two
others.
Lord Wellington's piercing eyes looked a moment at
O'Moy, then turned upon the prisoner. Suddenly he
spoke, his voice as calm and level as his glance.
"Captain Tremayne if the president will permit
me to address you in the interests of truth and justice
242 The Snare
you bear, to my knowledge, the reputation of an
upright, honourable man. You are a man so unaccus-
tomed to falsehood that when you adventure upon it,
as you have obviously just done, your performance is
a clumsy one, its faults easily distinguished. That you
are concealing something the court must have per-
ceived. If you are not concealing something other than
that Count Samoval fell by your hand, let me enjoin
you to speak out. If you are shielding any one per-
haps the real perpetrator of this deed let me assure
you that your honour as a soldier demands, in the in-
terests of truth and justice, that you should not con-
tinue silent."
Tremayne looked into the stern face of the great
soldier, and his glance fell away. He made a little ges-
ture of helplessness, then drew himself stiffly up.
"I have nothing more to say."
"Then, Captain Tremayne," said the president,
"the court will pass to the consideration of its finding.
And if you cannot account for the half-hour that you
spent at Monsanto while Count Samoval was meeting
his death, I am afraid that, in view of all the other evi-
dences against you, your position is likely to be one of
extremest gravity.
"For the last time, sir, before I order your removal,
let me add my own to the exhortations already ad-
dressed to you, that you should speak. If still you elect
to remain silent, the court, I fear, will be unable to
draw any conclusion but one from your attitude."
For a long moment Captain Tremayne stood there
in tense, expectant silence. Yet he was not consider-
ing; he was waiting. Lady O'Moy he knew to be in
court, behind him. She had heard, even as he had
heard, that his fate hung perhaps upon whether Rich-
Bitter Water 243
ard Butler's presence were to be betrayed or not. Not
for him to break faith with her. Let her decide. And,
awaiting that decision, he stood there, silent, like a
man considering. And then, because no woman's voice
broke the silence to proclaim at once his innocence,
and the alibi that must ensure his acquittal, he spoke
at last.
" I thank you, sir. Indeed, I am very grateful to the
court for the consideration it has shown me. I appre-
ciate it deeply, but I have nothing more to say/'
And then, when all seemed lost, a woman's voice
rang out at last:
" But I have!"
Its sharp, almost strident note acted like an electric
discharge upon the court; but no member of the assem-
bly was more deeply stricken than Captain Tremayne.
For though the voice was a woman's, yet it was not the
voice for which he had been waiting.
In his excitement he turned, to see Miss Armytage
standing there, straight and stiff, her white face
stamped with purpose; and beside her, still seated,
clutching her arm in an agony of fear, Lady O'Moy,
murmuring for all to hear her:
"No, no, Sylvia. Be silent, for God's sake!"
But Sylvia had risen to speak, and speak she did, and
though the words she uttered were such as a virgin
might wish to whisper with veiled countenance and
averted glance, yet her utterance of them was bold to
the point of defiance.
"I can tell you why Captain Tremayne is silent. I
can tell you whom he shields."
" Oh God ! " gasped Lady O'Moy, wondering through
her anguish how Sylvia could have become possessed
of her secret.
244 The Snare
"Miss Armytage I implore you!" cried Tre-
mayne, forgetting where he stood, his voice shaking at
last, his hand flung out to silence her.
And then the heavy voice of O'Moy crashed in:
" Let her speak. Let us have the truth the truth ! "
And he smote the table with his clenched fist.
"And you shall have it," answered Miss Armytage.
"Captain Tremayne keeps silent to shield a woman
his mistress."
Sir Terence sucked in his breath with a whistling
sound. Lady O'Moy desisted from her attempts to
check the speaker and fell to staring at her in stony
astonishment, whilst Tremayne was too overcome by
the same emotion to think of interrupting. The others
preserved a watchful, unbroken silence.
"Captain Tremayne spent that half-hour at Mon-
santo in her room. He was with her when he heard the
cry that took him to the window. Thence he saw the
body in the courtyard, and in alarm went down at
once without considering the consequences to the
woman. But because he has considered them since,
he now keeps silent."
"Sir, sir," Captain Tremayne turned in wild appeal
to the president, "this is not true." .He conceived at
once the terrible mistake that Miss Armytage had
made. She must have seen him climb down from Lady
O'Moy's balcony, and she had come to the only pos-
sible, horrible conclusion. "This lady is mistaken, I am
ready to "
"A moment, sir. You are interrupting," the presi-
dent rebuked.
And then the voice of O'Moy on the note of terrible
triumph sounded again like a trumpet through the long
room.
Bitter Water 245
"Ah, but it is the truth at last. We have it now,
Her name! Her name!" he shouted. "Who was this
wanton?"
Miss Armytage's answer was as a bludgeon-stroke
to his ferocious exultation.
"Myself. Captain Tremayne was with me."
CHAPTER XVIII
FOOL'S MATE
WRITING years afterwards of this event in the rather
tedious volume of reminiscences which he has left us
Major Carruthers ventures the opinion that the
court should never have been deceived ; that it should
have perceived at once that Miss Armytage was lying.
He argues this opinion upon psychological grounds,
contending that the lady's deportment in that moment
of self -accusation was the very last that in the circum-
stances she alleged would have been natural to such a
character as her own.
"Had she indeed," he writes, "been Tremayne's
mistress, as she represented herself, it was not in her
nature to have announced it after the manner in which
she did so. She bore herself before us with all the ef-
frontery of a harlot; and it was well known to most of
us that a more pure, chaste, and modest lady did not
live. There was here a contradiction so flagrant that
it should have rendered her falsehood immediately
apparent. 1 '
Major Carruthers, of course, is writing in the light
of later knowledge, and even, setting that aside, I am
very far from agreeing with his psychological deduc-
tion. Just as a shy man will so overreach himself in his
efforts to dissemble his shyness as to assume an air of
positive arrogance, so might a pure lady who had suc-
cumbed as Miss Armytage pretended, upon finding
herself forced to such self -accusation, bear herself with
a boldness which was no more than a mask upon the
shame and anguish of her mind.
FooVs Mate 247
And this, I think, was the view that was taken by
those present. The court it was being composed of
honest gentlemen that felt the shame which she
dissembled. There were the eyes that fell away before
the spurious effrontery of her own glance. They were
disconcerted one and all by this turn of events, with-
out precedent in the experience of any, and none more
disconcerted though not in the same sense than
Sir Terence. To him this was checkmate fool's
mate indeed. An unexpected yet ridiculously simple
move had utterly routed him at the very outset of the
deadly game that he was playing. He had sat there
determined to have either Tremayne's life or the truth,
publicly avowed, of Tremayne's dastardly betrayal.
He could not have told you which he preferred. But
one or the other he was fiercely determined to have,
and now the springs of the snare in which he had so
cunningly taken Tremayne had been forced apart
by utterly unexpected hands.
"It's a lie!" he bellowed angrily. But he bellowed,
it seemed, upon deaf ears. The court just sat and
stared, utterly and hopelessly at a loss how to proceed.
And then the dry voice of Wellington followed Sir
Terence, cutting sharply upon the dismayed silence.
"How can you know that?" he asked the adjutant.
"The matter is one upon which few would be qualified
to contradict Miss Armytage. You will observe, Sir
Harry, that even Captain Tremayne has not thought
it worth his while to do so."
Those words pulled the captain from the spell of
sheer horrified amazement in which he had stood,
stricken dumb, ever since Miss Armytage had spoken.
"I I am so overwhelmed by the amazing false-
hood with which Miss Armytage has attempted to
248 The Snare
save me from the predicament in which I stand. For it
is that, gentlemen. On my oath as a soldier and a
gentleman, there is not a word of truth in what Miss
Armytage has said."
"But if there were," said Lord Wellington, who
seemed the only person present to retain a cool com-
mand of his wits, "your honour as a soldier and a
gentleman and this lady's honour must still de-
mand of you the perjury."
"But, my lord, I protest "
"You are interrupting me, I think," Lord Welling-
ton rebuked him coldly, and under the habit of obe-
dience and the magnetic eye of his lordship the cap-
tain lapsed into anguished silence.
" I am of opinion, gentlemen," his lordship addressed
the court, "that this affair has gone quite far enough.
Miss Armytage's testimony has saved a deal of trouble.
It has shed light upon much that was obscure, and it
has provided Captain Tremayne with an unanswerable
alibi. In my view and without wishing unduly to
influence the court in its decision it but remains
to pronounce Captain Tremayne's acquittal, thereby
enabling him to fulfil towards this lady a duty which
the circumstances would seem to have rendered some-
what urgent."
They were words that lifted an intolerable burden
from Sir Harry's shoulders.
In immense relief, eager now to make an end, he
looked to right and left. Everywhere he met nodding
heads and murmurs of "Yes, yes." Everywhere with
one exception. Sir Terence, white to the lips, gave no
sign of assent, and yet dared give none of dissent. The
eye of Lord Wellington was upon him, compelling him
by its eagle glance.
Fool's Mate 249
"We are clearly agreed," the president began, but
Captain Tremayne interrupted him.
"But you are wrongly agreed."
"Sir, sir!"
"You shall listen. It is infamous that I should
owe my acquittal to the sacrifice of this lady's good
name."
" Damme ! That is a matter that any parson can put
right," said his lordship.
"Your lordship is mistaken," Captain Tremayne
insisted, greatly daring. "The honour of this lady is
more dear to me than my life."
"So we perceive," was the dry rejoinder. "These
outbursts do you a certain credit, Captain Tremayne.
But they waste the time of the court."
And then the president made his announcement:
" Captain Tremayne, you are acquitted of the charge
of killing Count Samoval, and you are at liberty to
depart and to resume your usual duties. The court
congratulates you and congratulates itself upon hav-
ing reached this conclusion in the case of an officer so
estimable as yourself."
"Ah, but, gentlemen, hear me yet a moment. You,
my lord "
"The court has pronounced. The matter is at an
end," said Wellington, with a shrug, and immediately
upon the words he rose, and the court rose with him.
Immediately, with rattle of sabres and sabretaches, the
officers who had composed the board fell into groups
and broke into conversation out of a spirit of considera-
tion for Tremayne, and definitely to mark the conclu-
sion of the proceedings.
Tremayne, white and trembling, turned in time to
see Miss Armytage leaving the hall and assisting Colo-
250 The Snare
nel Grant to support Lady O'Moy, who was in a half-
swooning condition.
He stood irresolute, prey to a torturing agony of
mind, cursing himself now for his silence, for not hav-
ing spoken the truth and taken the consequences to-
gether with Dick Butler. What was Dick Butler to
him, what was his own life to him if they should de-
mand it for the grave breach of duty he had committed
by his readiness to assist a proscribed offender to
escape compared with the honour of Sylvia Army-
tage? And she, why had she done this for him? Could
it be possible that she cared, that she was concerned so
much for his life as to immolate her honour to deliver
him from peril? The event would seem to prove it.
Yet the overmastering joy that at any other time, and
in any other circumstances, such a revelation must
have procured him, was stifled now by his agonised con-
cern for the injustice to which she had submitted her-
self.
And then, as he stood there, a suffering, bewildered
man, came Carruthers to grasp his hand and in terms
of warm friendship to express satisfaction at his ac-
quittal.
"Sooner than have such a price as that paid "
he said bitterly, and with a shrug left his sentence
unfinished.
O'Moy came stalking past him, pale-faced, with
eyes that looked neither to right nor left.
"O'Moy!' 1 he cried.
Sir Terence checked, and stood stiffly as if to atten-
tion, his handsome blue eyes blazing into the captain's
own. Thus a moment. Then:
"We will talk of this again, you and I," he said
grimly, and passed on and out with clanking step,
Fool's Mate 251
leaving Tremayne to reflect that the appearances cer-
tainly justified Sir Terence's resentment.
"My God, Carruthers! What must he think of
me?" he ejaculated.
"If you ask me, I think that he has suspected this
from the very beginning. Only that could account for
the hostility of his attitude towards you, for the per-
sistence with which he has sought either to convict or
wring the truth from you."
Tremayne looked askance at the major. In such a
tangle as this it was impossible to keep the attention
fixed upon any single thread.
" His mind must be disabused at once/' he answered.
" I must go to him."
O'Moy had already vanished.
There were one or two others would have checked
the adjutant's departure, but he had heeded none. In
the quadrangle he nodded curtly to Colonel Grant, who
would have detained him. But he passed on and
went to shut himself up in his study with his mental
anguish that was compounded of so many and so di-
verse emotions. He needed above all things to be alone
and to think, if thought were possible to a mind so dis-
traught as his own. There were now so many things to
be faced, considered, and dealt with. First and fore-
most and this was perhaps the product of inevitable
reaction was the consideration of his own duplicity,
his villainous betrayal of trust undertaken deliberately,
but with an aim very different from that which would
appear. He perceived how men must assume now,
when the truth of Samoval's death became known
as become known it must that he had deliberately
fastened upon another his own crime. The fine edifice
of vengeance he had been so skilfully erecting had
252 The Snare
toppled about his ears in obscene ruin, and he was a
man not only broken, but dishonoured. Let him pro-
claim the truth now and none would believe it. Sylvia
Armytage's mad and inexplicable self -accusation was
a final bar to that. Men of honour would scorn him,
his friends would turn from him in disgust, and Wel-
lington, that great soldier whom he worshipped, and
whose esteem he valued above all possessions, would
be the first to cast him out. He would appear as a vul-
gar murderer who, having failed by falsehood to fasten
the guilt upon an innocent man, sought now by false-
hood still more damnable, at the cost of his wife's
honour, to offer some mitigation of his unspeakable
offence.
Conceive this terrible position in which his justifiable
jealousy his naturally vindictive rage had so irre-
trievably ensnared him. He had been so intent upon
the administration of poetic justice, so intent upon
condignly punishing the false friend who had dis-
honoured him, upon finding a balm for his lacerated
soul in the spectacle of Tremayne's own ignominy,
that he had never paused to see whither all this might
lead him.
He had been a fool to have adopted these subtle,
tortuous ways; a fool not to have obeyed the earlier
and honest impulse which had led him to take that
case of pistols from the drawer. And he was served as
a fool deserves to be served. His folly had recoiled
upon him to destroy him. Fool's mate had checked his
perfidious vengeance at a blow.
Why had Sylvia Armytage discarded her honour to
make of it a cloak for the protection of Tremayne?
Did she love Tremayne and take that desperate way
to save a life she accounted lost, or was it that she
Fool's Mate 253
knew the truth, and out of affection for Una had chosen
to immolate herself?
Sir Terence was no psychologist. But he found it
difficult to believe in so much of self-sacrifice from a
woman for a woman's sake, however dear. Therefore
he held to the first alternative. To confirm it came the
memory of Sylvia's words to him on the night of Tre-
mayne's arrest. And it was to such a man that she
gave the priceless treasure of her love ; for such a man,
and in such a sordid cause, that she sacrificed the in-
estimable jewel of her honour! He laughed through
clenched teeth at a situation so bitterly ironical. Pres-
ently he would talk to her. She should realise what
she had done, and he would wish her joy of it. First,
however, there was something else to do. He flung
himself wearily into the chair at his writing-table, took
up a pen and began to write.
CHAPTER XIX
THE TRUTH
To Captain Tremayne, fretted with impatience in the
dining-room, came, at the end of a long hour of waiting,
Sylvia Armytage.
She entered unannounced, at a moment when for
the third time he was on the point of ringing for Mul-
lins, and for a moment they stood considering each
other mutually ill at ease. Then Miss Armytage closed
the door and came forward, moving with that grace
peculiar to her, and carrying her head erect, facing
Captain Tremayne now with some lingering signs of
the defiance she had shown the members of the court-
martial.
"Mullins tells me that you wish to see me," she said
the merest conventionality to break the disconcert-
ing, uneasy silence.
"After what has happened that should not surprise
you," said Tremayne. His agitation was clear to be-
hold, his usual imperturbability all departed. "Why,"
he burst out suddenly, "why did you do it?"
She looked at him with the faintest ghost of a smile
on her lips, as if she found the question amusing. But
before she could frame any answer he was speaking
again, quickly and nervously.
"Could you suppose that I should wish to purchase
my life at such a price? Could you suppose that your
honour was not more precious to me than my life? It
was infamous that you should have sacrificed yourself
in this manner."
" Infamous of whom? " she asked him coolly.
The Truth 255
The question gave him pause. "I don't know!" he
cried desperately. "Infamous of the circumstances, I
suppose."
She shrugged. "The circumstances were there, and
they had to be met. I could think of no other way of
meeting them."
Hastily he answered her out of his anger for her sake :
11 It should not have been your affair to meet them at
all."
He saw the scarlet flush sweep over her face and
leave it deathly white, and instantly he perceived how
horribly he had blundered.
"I'm sorry to have been interfering," she answered
stiffly, "but, after all, it is not a matter that need
trouble you." And on the words she turned to depart
again. "Good-day, Captain Tremayne."
"Ah, wait!" He flung himself between her and the
door. "We must understand each other, Miss Army-
tage."
"I think we do, Captain Tremayne," she answered,
fire dancing in her eyes. And she added: "You are
detaining me."
"Intentionally." He was calm again; and he was
masterful for the first time in all his dealings with her.
"We are very far from any understanding. Indeed, we
are overhead in a misunderstanding already. You
misconstrue my words. I am very angry with you. I
do not think that in all my life I have ever been so
angry with anybody. But you are not to mistake the
source of my anger. I am angry with you for the great
wrong you have done yourself."
"That should not be your affair," she answered him,
thus flinging back the offending phrase.
"But it is. I make it mine," he insisted.
256 The Snare
"Then I do not give you the right. Please let me
pass." She looked him steadily in the face, and her
voice was calm to coldness. Only the heave of her
bosom betrayed the agitation under which she was
labouring.
" Whether you give me the right or not, I intend
to take it," he insisted.
"You are very rude," she reproved him.
He laughed. "Even at the risk of being rude, then.
I must make myself clear to you. I would suffer any-
thing sooner than leave you under any misapprehen-
sion of the grounds upon which I should have preferred
to face a firing party rather than have been rescued at
the sacrifice of your good name."
"I hope," she said, with faint but cutting irony,
"you do not intend to offer me the reparation of mar-
riage."
It took his breath away for a moment. It was a
solution that in his confused and irate state of mind he
had never even paused to consider. Yet now that it
was put to him in this scornfully reproachful manner
he perceived not only that it was the only possible
course, but also that on that very account it might be
considered by her impossible.
Her testiness was suddenly plain to him. She feared
that he was come to her with an offer of marriage out
of a sense of duty, as an amende, to correct the false
position into which, for his sake, she had placed her-
self. And he himself by his blundering phrase had
given colour to that hideous fear of hers.
He considered a moment whilst he stood there meet-
ing her defiant glance. Never had she been more
desirable in his eyes; and hopeless as his love for her
had always seemed, never had it been in such danger
The Truth 257
of hopelessness as at this present moment, unless he
proceeded here with the utmost care. And so Ned
Tremayne became subtle for the first time in his hon
est, straightforward, soldierly life.
"No," he answered boldly, "I do not intend it. 9 "
"I am glad that you spare me that," she answered
him, yet her pallor seemed to deepen under his glance.
"And that," he continued, "is the source of all my
anger, against you, against myself, and against circum-
stances. If I had deemed myself remotely worthy of
you," he continued, "I should have asked you weeks
ago to be my wife. Oh, wait, and hear me out. I have
more than once been upon the point of doing so the
last time was that night on the balcony at Count
Redondo's. I would have spoken then; I would have
taken my courage in my hands, confessed my unwor-
thiness and my love. But I was restrained because,
although I might confess, there was nothing I could
ask. I am a poor man, Sylvia, you are the daughter of
a wealthy one; men speak of you as an heiress. To
ask you to marry me " He broke off. "You realise
that I could not; that I should have been deemed a
fortune-hunter, not only by the world, which matters
nothing, but perhaps by yourself, who matter every-
thing. I I " he faltered, fumbling for words to
express thoughts of an overwhelming intricacy. "It
was not perhaps that so much as the thought that, if
my suit should come to prosper, men would say you
had thrown yourself away on a fortune-hunter. To
myself I should have accounted the reproach well
earned, but it seemed to me that it must contain some-
thing slighting to you, and to shield you from all
slights must be the first concern of my deep worship
for you. That," he ended fiercely, "is why I am so
258 The Snare
angry, so desperate at the slight you have put upon
yourself for my sake for me, who would have sac-
rificed life and honour and everything I hold of an>
account, to keep you up there, enthroned not only in
my own eyes, but in the eyes of every man."
He paused, and looked at her and she at him. She
was still very white, and one of her long, slender hands
was pressed to her bosom as if to contain and repress
tumult. But her eyes were smiling, and yet it was a
smile he could not read ; it was compassionate, wistful,
and yet tinged, it seemed to him, with mockery.
" I suppose," he said, "it would be expected of me in
the circumstances to seek words in which to thank you
for what you have done. But I have no such words.
I am not grateful. How could I be grateful? You have
destroyed the thing that I most valued in this world."
"What have I destroyed?" she asked him.
"Your own good name; the respect that was your
due from all men."
"Yet if I retain your own?"
"What is that worth?" he asked almost resentfully.
"Perhaps more than all the rest." She took a step
forward and set her hand upon his arm. There was no
mistaking now her smile. It was all tenderness, and her
eyes were shining. " Ned, there is only one thing to be
done."
He looked down at her who was only a little less tall
than himself, and the colour faded from his own face
now.
"You have n't understood me after all," he said. " I
was afraid you would not. I have no clear gift of words,
and if I had, I am trying to say something that would
overtax any gift."
"On the contrary, Ned, I understand you perfectly.
The Truth 259
I don't think I have ever understood you until now.
Certainly never until now could I be sure of what I
hoped."
"Of what you hoped?" His voice sank as if in awe.
"What? "he asked.
She looked away, and her persisting, yet ever-chang-
ing smile grew slightly arch.
"You do not then intend to ask me to marry you?"
she said.
"How could I?" It was an explosion almost of
anger. "You yourself suggested that it would be an
insult; and so it would. It is to take advantage of the
position into which your foolish generosity has be-
trayed you. Oh ! " he clenched his fists and shook them
a moment at his sides.
"Very well," she said. " In that case I must ask you
to marry me."
"You?" He was thunderstruck.
"What alternative do you leave me? You say that I
have destroyed my good name* You must provide me
with a new one. At all costs I must become an honest
woman. Is n't that the phrase?"
"Don't!" he cried, and pain quivered in his voice.
"Don't jest upon it."
"My dear," she said, and now she held out both
hands to him, "why trouble yourself with things of no
account, when the only thing that matters to us is
within our grasp? We love each other, and "
Her glance fell away, her lip trembled, and her smile
at last took flight. He caught her hands, holding them
in a grip that hurt her; he bent his head, and his eyes
sought her own, but sought in vain.
"Have you considered " he was beginning, when
she interrupted him. Her face flushed upward, sur-
260 The Snare
rendering to that questing glance of his, and its ex-
pression was now between tears and laughter.
"You will be forever considering, Ned. You con-
sider too much, where the issues are plain and simple.
For the last time will you marry me?"
The subtlety he had employed had been greater than
he knew, and it had achieved something beyond his
utmost hopes.
He murmured incoherently and took her to his arms.
I really do not see that he could have done anything
else. It was a plain and simple issue, and she herself
had protested that the issue was plain and simple.
And then the door opened abruptly and Sir Terence
came in. Nor did he discreetly withdraw as a man
of feeling should have done before the intimate and
touching spectacle that met his eyes. On the contrary,
he remained like the infernal marplot that he intended
to be.
"Very proper," he sneered. "Very fit and proper
that he should put right in the eyes of the world the
reputation you have damaged for his sake, Sylvia. I
suppose you're to be married."
They moved apart, and each stared at O'Moy
Sylvia in cold anger, Tremayne in chagrin.
"You see, Sylvia," the captain cried, at this voicing
of the world's opinion he feared so much on her behalf.
"Does she?" said Sir Terence, misunderstanding.
"I wonder? Unless you've made all plain."
The captain frowned.
" Made what plain ? " he asked. " There is something
here I don't understand, O'Moy. Your attitude to-
wards me ever since you ordered me under arrest has
been entirely extraordinary. It has troubled me more
than anything else in all this deplorable affair."
The Truth 261
" I believe you," snorted O'Moy, as with his hands
behind his back he strode forward into the room. He
was pale, and there was a set, malignant sneer upon
his lip, a malignant look in the blue eyes that were
habitually so clear and honest.
"There have been moments," said Tremayne,
"when I have almost felt you to be vindictive."
"D'ye wonder?" growled O'Moy. "Has no suspi-
cion crossed your mind that I may know the whole
truth?"
Tremayne was taken aback. "That startles you,
eh?" cried O'Moy, and pointed a mocking finger at the
captain's face, whose whole expression had changed to
one of apprehension.
"What is it?" cried Sylvia. Instinctively she felt
that under this troubled surface some evil thing was
stirring, that the issues perhaps were not quite as
simple as she had deemed them.
There was a pause. O'Moy, with his back to the
window now, his hands still clasped behind him, looked
mockingly at Tremayne and waited.
"Why don't you answer her? " he said at last. " You
Were confidential enough when I came in. Can it be
that you are keeping something back, that you have
secrets from the lady who has no doubt promised by
now to become your wife as the shortest way to mend-
ing her recent folly?"
Tremayne was bewildered. His answer, appar-
ently an irrelevance, was the mere enunciation of
the thoughts O'Moy's announcement had provoked.
" Do you mean to say that you have known through-
out that I did not kill Samoval?" he asked.
"Of course. How could I have supposed you killed
him when I killed him myself?"
262 The Snare
"You? You killed him!" cried Tremayne, more and
more intrigued. And
"You killed Count Samoval?" exclaimed Miss
Armytage.
"To be sure I did," was the answer, cynically de-
livered, accompanied by a short, sharp laugh. "When
I have settled other accounts, and put all my affairs in
order, I shall save the provost-marshal the trouble of
further seeking the slayer. And you did n't know then,
Sylvia, when you lied so glibly to the court, that your
future husband was innocent of that?"
"I was always sure of it," she answered, and
looked at Tremayne for explanation.
O'Moy laughed again. " But he had not told you so.
He preferred that you should think him guilty of
bloodshed, of murder even, rather than tell you the
real truth. Oh, I can understand. He is the very soul
of honour, as you remarked yourself, I think, the other
night. He knows how much to tell and how much to
withhold. He is master of the art of discreet suppres-
sion. He will carry it to any lengths. You had an in-
stance of that before the court this morning. You may
come to regret, my dear, that you did not allow him to
have his own obstinate way; that you should have
dragged your own spotless purity in the mud to pro-
vide him with an alibi. But he had an alibi all the
time, my child; an unanswerable alibi which he pre-
ferred to withhold. I wonder would you have been so
ready to make a shield of your honour could you have
known what you were really shielding?"
"Ned!" she cried. "Why don't you speak? Is he
to go on in this fashion? Of what is he accusing you?
If you were not with Samoval that night, where were
you?"
The Truth 263
"In a lady's room, as you correctly informed the
court," came O'Moy's bitter mockery. "Your only
mistake was in the identity of the lady. You imagined
that the lady was yourself. A delusion purely. But
you and I may comfort each other, for we are fellow-
sufferers at the hands of this man of honour. My wife
was the lady who entertained this gallant in her room
that night."
"My God, O'Moy!" It was a strangled cry from
Tremayne. At last he saw light; he understood, and,
understanding, there entered his heart a great com-
passion for O'Moy, a conception that he must have
suffered all the agonies of the damned in these last few
days. "My God, you don't believe that I "
"Do you deny it?"
"The imputation? Utterly."
"And if I tell you that myself with these eyes I saw
you at the window of her room with her; if I tell you
that I saw the rope ladder dangling from her balcony;
if I tell you that crouching there after I had killed
Samoval killed him, mark me, for saying that you
and my wife betrayed me; killed him for telling me
the filthy truth if I tell you that I heard her attempt-
ing to restrain you from going down to see what had
happened if I tell you all this, will you still deny it,
will you still lie?"
"I will still say that all that you imply is false
false as hell and your own senseless jealousy can make
it."
"All that I imply? But what I state the facts
themselves, are they true?"
"They are true. But"
"True!" cried Miss Armytage in horror.
"Ah, wait," O'Moy bade her with his heavy sneer.
264 The Snare
"You interrupt him. He is about to construe those
facts so that they shall wear an innocent appearance.
He is about to prove himself worthy of the great sac-
rifice you made to save his life. Well?" And he looked
expectantly at Tremayne.
Miss Armytage looked at him too, with eyes from
which the dread passed almost at once. The captain
was smiling, wistfully, tolerantly, confidently, almost
scornfully. Had he been guilty of the thing imputed
he could not have stood so in her presence.
"O'Moy," he said slowly, "I should tell you that
you have played the knave in this were it not clear to
me that you have played the fool." He spoke entirely
without passion. He saw his way quite clearly. Things
had reached a pass in which for the sake of all con-
cerned, and perhaps for the sake of Miss Army-
tage more than any one, the whole truth must be
spoken without regard to its consequences to Richard
Butler.
"You dare to take that tone?" began O'Moy in a
voice of thunder.
"Yourself shall be the first to justify it presently. I
should be angry with you, O'Moy, for what you have
done. But I find my anger vanishing in regret. I
should scorn you for the lie you have acted, for your
scant regard to your oath in the court-martial, for
your attempt to combat an imagined villainy by a real
villainy. But I realise what you have suffered, and in
that suffering lies the punishment you fully deserve
for not having taken the straight course, for not hav-
ing taxed me there and then with the thing that you
suspected."
"The gentleman is about to lecture me upon morals,
Sylvia."
The Truth 265
But Tremayne let pass the interruption.
" It is quite true that I was in Una's room while you
were killing Samoval. But I was not alone with her,
as you have so rashly assumed. Her brother Richard
was there, and it was on his behalf that I was present.
She had been hiding him for a fortnight. She begged
me, as Dick's friend and her own, to save him; and I
undertook to do so. I climbed to her room to assist him
to descend by the rope ladder you saw, because he was
wounded and could not climb without assistance. At
the gates I had the curricle waiting in which I had
driven up. In this I was to have taken him on board
a ship that was leaving that night for England, having
made arrangements with her captain. You should
have seen, had you reflected, that as I told the court
had I been coming to a clandestine meeting, I should
hardly have driven up in so open a fashion, and left
the curricle to wait for me at the gates.
" The death of Samoval and my own arrest thwarted
our plans and prevented Dick's escape. That is the
truth. Now that you have it I hope you like it, and I
hope that you thoroughly relish your own behaviour
in the matter."
There was a fluttering sigh of relief from Miss Army-
tage. Then silence followed, in which O'Moy stared
at Tremayne, emotion after emotion sweeping across
his mobile face.
"Dick Butler?" he said at last, and cried out: "I
don't believe a word of it! Ye 're lying, Tremayne."
" You have cause enough to hope so."
The captain was faintly scornful.
"If it were true, Una would not have kept it from
me. It was to me she would have come."
"The trouble with you, O'Moy, is that jealousy
266 The Snare
seems to have robbed you of the power of coherent
thought, or else you would remember that you were the
last man to whom Una could confide Dick's presence
here. I warned her against doing so. I told her of the
promise you had been compelled to give the secretary,
For j as, and I was even at pains to justify you to her
when she was indignant with you for that. It would
perhaps be better," he concluded, "if you were to send
for Una."
"It's what I intend," said Sir Terence in a voice
that made a threat of the statement. He strode stiffly
across the room and pulled open the door. There was
no need to go farther.
Lady O'Moy, white and tearful, was discovered on
the threshold. Sir Terence stood aside, holding the
door for her, his face very grim.
She came in slowly, looking from one to another with
her troubled glance, and finally accepting the chair
that Captain Tremayne made haste to offer her. She
had so much to say to each person present that it was
impossible to know where to begin. It remained for
Sir Terence to give her the lead she needed, and this
he did so soon as he had closed the door again. Planted
before it like a sentry, he looked at her between anger
and suspicion.
"How much did you overhear?" he asked her.
"All that you said about Dick," she answered with-
out hesitation.
"Then you stood listening?"
"Of course. I wanted to know what you were say-
ing."
"There are other ways of ascertaining that without
stooping to keyholes," said her husband.
"I did n't stoop," she said, taking him literally. "I
The Truth 267
could hear what was said without that especially
what you said, Terence. You will raise your voice so
on the slightest provocation."
" And the provocation in this instance was, of course,
of the slightest. Since you have heard Captain Tre-
mayne's story of course you'll have no difficulty in
confirming it."
"If you still can doubt, O'Moy," said Tremayne,
"it must be because you wish to doubt; because you
are afraid to face the truth now that it has been placed
before you. I think, Una, it will spare a deal of trouble,
and save your husband from a great many expressions
that he may afterwards regret, if you go and fetch
Dick. God knows, Terence has enough to overwhelm
him already."
At the suggestion of producing Dick, O'Moy's anger,
which had begun to simmer again, was stilled. He
looked at his wife almost in alarm, and she met his
look with one of utter blankness.
"I can't," she said plaintively. "Dick's gone."
"Gone?" cried Tremayne.
"Gone?" said O'Moy, and then he began to laugh.
"Are you quite sure that he was ever here?"
" But " She was a little bewildered, and a frown
puckered her perfect brow. "Hasn't Ned told you,
then?"
"Oh, Ned has told me. Ned has told!" His face was
terrible.
1 ' And don't you believe him ? Don't you believe me ? "
She was more plaintive than ever. It was almost as if
she called heaven to witness what manner of husband
she was forced to endure. "Then you had better call
Mullins and ask him. He saw Dick leave."
"And no doubt," said Miss Armytage mercilessly,
268 The Snare
"Sir Terence will believe his butler where he can be-
lieve neither his wife nor his friend."
He looked at her in a sort of amazement. "Do you
believe them, Sylvia?" he cried.
"I hope I am not a fool," said she impatiently.
"Meaning " he began, but broke off. "How long
do you say it is since Dick left the house?"
"Ten minutes at most," replied her ladyship.
He turned and pulled the door open again. "Mul-
lins?" he called. "Mullins!"
"What a man to live with!" sighed her ladyship,
appealing to Miss Armytage. "What a man!" And
she applied a vinaigrette delicately to her nostrils.
Tremayne smiled, and sauntered to the window.
And then at last came Mullins.
"Has any one left the house within the last ten
minutes, Mullins?" asked Sir Terence.
Mullins looked ill at ease.
"Sure, sir, you'll not be after "
"Will you answer my question, man?" roared Sir
Terence.
"Sure, then, there's nobody left the house at all but
Mr. Butler, sir."
"How long had he been here?" asked O'Moy, after
a brief pause.
" 'T is what I can't tell ye, sir. I never set eyes on
him until I saw him coming downstairs from her lady-
ship's room as it might be."
"You can go, Mullins."
"I hope, sir-
"You can go." And Sir Terence slammed the door
upon the amazed servant, who realised that some un-
happy mystery was perturbing the adjutant's house-
hold.
The Truth 269
Sir Terence stood facing them again. He was a
changed man. The fire had all gone out of him. His
head was bowed and his face looked haggard and sud-
denly old. His lip curled into a sneer.
"Pantaloon in the comedy," he said, remembering
in that moment the bitter gibe that had cost Samoval
his life.
"What did you say?" her ladyship asked him.
"I pronounced my own name," he answered lugu-
briously.
"It did n't sound like it, Terence."
"It's the name I ought to bear," he said. "And I
killed that liar for it the only truth he spoke."
He came forward to the table. The full sense of his
position suddenly overwhelmed him, as Tremayne had
said it would. A groan broke from him and he col-
lapsed into a chair, a stricken, broken man.
CHAPTER XX
THE RESIGNATION
AT once, as he sat there, his elbows on the table, his
head in his hands, he found himself surrounded by
those three, against each of whom he had sinned under
the spell of the jealousy that had blinded him and led
him by the nose.
His wife put an arm about his neck in mute comfort
of a grief of which she only understood the half for
of the heavier and more desperate part of his guilt she
was still in ignorance. Sylvia spoke to him kindly
words of encouragement where no encouragement
could avail. But what moved him most was the touch
of Tremayne's hand upon his shoulder, and Tremayne's
voice bidding him brace himself to face the situation
and count upon them to stand by him to the end.
He looked up at his friend and secretary in an
amazement that overcame his shame.
"You can forgive me, Ned?"
Ned looked across at Sylvia Armytage. "You have
been the means of bringing me to such happiness as I
should never have reached without these happenings,"
he said. "What resentment can I bear you, O'Moy?
Besides, I understand, and who understands can never
do anything but forgive. I realise how sorely you have
been tried. No evidence more conclusive that you were
being wronged could have been placed before you."
"But the court-martial," said O'Moy in horror. He
covered his face with his hand. "Oh, my God! I am
dishonoured. I I " He rose, shaking off the arm
of his wife and the hand of the friend he had wronged
The Resignation 271
so terribly. He broke away from them and strode to
the window, his face set and white. "I think I was
mad," he said. " I know I was mad. But to have done
what I did "He shuddered in very horror of himself
now that he was bereft of the support of that evil jeal-
ousy that had fortified him against conscience itself and
the very voice of honour.
Lady O'Moy turned to them, pleading for explana-
tion.
"What does he mean? What has he done?"
Himself he answered her: "I killed Samoval. It
was I who fought that duel. And then bejieving what
1 did, I fastened the guilt upon Ned, and went the
lengths of perjury in my blind effort to avenge myself.
That is what I have done. Tell me, one of you, of
your charity, what is there left for me to do?"
"Oh!" It was an outcry of horror and indignation
from Una, instantly repressed by the tightening grip
of Sylvia's hand upon her arm. Miss Armytage saw
and understood, and sorrowed for Sir Terence. She
must restrain his wife from adding to his present an-
guish. Yet, "How could you, Terence! Oh, how could
you!" cried her ladyship, and so gave way to tears,
easier than words to express such natures.
"Because I loved you, I suppose," he answered on a
note of bitter self-mockery. "That was the justifica-
tion I should have given had I been asked; that was
the justification I accounted sufficient."
" But then," she cried, a new horror breaking on her
mind "if this is discovered Terence, what will
become of you?"
He turned and came slowly back until he stood
beside her. Facing now the inevitable, he recovered
some of his calm.
272 The Snare
"It must be discovered," he said quietly. "For the
sake of everybody concerned it must -
"Oh, no, no!" She sprang up and clutched his arm
in terror. "They may fail to discover the truth."
"They must not, my dear," he answered her, strok-
ing the fair head that lay against his breast. "They
must not fail. I must see to that."
"You? You?" Her eyes dilated as she looked at
him. She caught her breath on a gasping sob. "Ah no,
Terence," she cried wildly. "You must not; you must
not. You must say nothing for my sake, Terence, if
you love me, oh, for my sake, Terence!"
"For honour's sake, I must," he answered her.
"And for the sake of Sylvia and of Tremayne, whom I
have wronged, and '
" Not for my sake, Terence," Sylvia interrupted him.
He looked at her, and then at Tremayne,
"And you, Ned what do you say?" he asked.
"Ned could not wish " began her ladyship.
"Please let him speak for himself, my dear," her
husband interrupted her.
"What can I say?" cried Tremayne, with a gesture
that was almost of anger. "How can I advise? I
scarcely know. You realise what you must face if you
confess?"
"Fully, and the only part of it I shrink from is the
shame and scorn I have deserved. Yet it is inevitable.
You agree, Ned?"
" I am not sure. None who understands as I under-
stand can feel anything but regret. Oh, I don't know.
The evidence of what you suspected was overwhelm-
ing, and it betrayed you into this mistake. The punish-
ment you would have to face is surely too heavy, and
you have suffered far more already than you can ever
The Resignation 273
be called upon to suffer again, no matter what is done
to you. Oh, I don't know! The problem is too deep
for me. There is Una to be considered, too. You owe
a duty to her, and if you keep silent it may be best
for all. You can depend upon us to stand by you in
this."
" Indeed, indeed," said Sylvia.
He looked at them and smiled very tenderly.
"Never was a man blessed with nobler friends who
deserved so little of them," he said slowly. " You heap
coals of fire upon my head. You shame me through
and through. But have you considered, Ned, that all
may not depend upon my silence? What if the provost-
marshal, investigating now, were to come upon the real
facts?"
" It is impossible that sufficient should be discovered
to convict you."
"How can you be sure of that? And if it were pos-
sible, if it came to pass, what then would be my posi-
tion? You see, Ned! I must accept the punishment
I have incurred lest a worse overtake me to put it
at its lowest. I must voluntarily go forward and de-
nounce myself before another denounces me. It is the
only way to save some rag of honour."
There was a tap at the door, and Mullins came to
announce that Lord Wellington was asking to see Sir
Terence.
"He is waiting in the study, Sir Terence."
"Tell his lordship I will be with him at once."
Mullins departed, and Sir Terence prepared to fol-
low. Gently he disengaged himself from the arms her
ladyship now flung about him.
"Courage, my dear," he said. "Wellington may
show me more mercy than I deserve."
274 2%0 Snare
"You are going to tell him?" she questioned
brokenly.
"Of course, sweetheart. What else can I do? And
since you and Tremayne find it in your hearts to for-
give me, nothing else matters very much." He kissed
her tenderly and put her from him. He looked at Syl-
via standing beside her and at Tremayne beyond the
table. " Comfort her," he implored them, and, turning,
went out quickly.
Awaiting him in the study he found not only Lord
Wellington, but Colonel Grant, and by the cold gravity
of both their faces he had an inspiration that in some
mysterious way the whole hideous truth was already
known to them.
The slight figure of his lordship in its grey frock was
stiff and erect, his booted leg firmly planted, his hands
behind him clutching his riding-crop and cocked hat.
His face was set and his voice as he greeted O'Moy
sharp and staccato.
"Ah, O'Moy, there are one or two matters to bs
discussed before I leave Lisbon."
"I had written to you, sir," replied O'Moy. "Per-
haps you will first read my letter." And he went to
fetch it from the writing-table, where he had left it
when completed an hour earlier.
His lordship took the letter in silence, and after one
piercing glance at O'Moy broke the seal. In the back-
ground, near the window, the tall figure of Colquhoun
Grant stood stiffly erect, his hawk face inscrutable.
"Ah! Your resignation, O'Moy. But you give no
reasons." Again his keen glance stabbed into the ad-
jutant's face. "Why this?" he asked sharply.
"Because," said Sir Terence, "I prefer to tender it
before it is asked of me." He was very white, yet by an
The Resignation 275
effort those deep blue eyes of his met the terrible gaze
of his chief without flinching.
"Perhaps you'll explain," said his lordship coldly.
"In the first place," said O'Moy, "it was myself
killed Samoval, and since your lordship was a witness
of what followed, you will realise that that was the
least part of my offence."
The great soldier jerked his head sharply backward,
tilting forward his chin. "So!" he said. "Ha! I beg
your pardon, Grant, for having disbelieved you."
Then, turning to O'Moy again: "Well," he demanded*
his voice hard, "have you nothing to add?"
"Nothing that can matter," said O'Moy, with a
shrug, and they stood facing each other in silence for
a long moment.
At last when Wellington spoke his voice had as-
sumed a gentler note.
"O'Moy," he said, "I have known you these fifteen
years, and we have been friends. Once you carried
your friendship, appreciation, and understanding of
me so far as nearly to ruin yourself on my behalf.
You '11 not have forgotten the affair of Sir Harry Bur-
rard. In all these years I have known you for a man of
shining honour, an honest, upright gentleman, whom
I would have trusted when I should have distrusted
every other living man. Yet you stand there and con-
fess to me the basest, the most dishonest villainy that
I have ever known a British officer to commit, and you
tell me that you have no explanation to offer for your
conduct. Either I have never known you, O'Moy, or
I do not know you now. Which is it?"
O'Moy raised his arms, only to let them fall heavily
to his sides again.
" What explanation can there be? " he asked. " How
276 The Snare
can a man who has been as I hope I have a man
of honour in the past explain such an act of madness?
It arose out of your order against duelling," he went on.
"Samoval offended me mortally. He said such things
to me of my wife's honour that no man could suffer,
and I least of any man. My temper betrayed me. I
consented to a clandestine meeting without seconds.
It took place here, and I killed him. And then I had,
as I imagined quite wrongly, as I know now over-
whelming evidence that what he had told me was true,
and I went mad." Briefly he told the story of Tre-
mayne's descent from Lady O'Moy's balcony and the
rest.
"I scarcely know," he resumed, "what it was I
hoped to accomplish in the end. I do not know for
I never stopped to consider whether I should have
allowed Captain Tremayne to have been shot if it had
come to that. All that I was concerned to do was to
submit him to the ordeal which I conceived he must
undergo when he saw himself confronted with the
choice of keeping silence and submitting to his fate, or
saving himself by an avowal that could scarcely be less
bitter than death itself."
"You fool, O'Moy you damned, infernal fool!"
his lordship swore at him. "Grant overheard more
than you imagined that night outside the gates. His
conclusions ran the truth very close indeed. But I
could not believe him, could not believe this of you."
"Of course not," said O'Moy gloomily. "I can't
believe it of myself."
"When Miss Armytage intervened to afford Tre-
mayne an alibi, I believed her, in view of what Grant
had told me; I concluded that hers was the window
from which Tremayne had climbed down. Because of
The Resignation 277
what I knew I was there to see that the case did not go
to extremes against Tremayne. If necessary Grant
must have given full evidence of all he knew, and there
and then left you to your fate. Miss Armytage saved
us from that, and left me convinced, but still not under-
standing your own attitude. And now comes Richard
Butler to surrender to me and cast himself upon my
mercy with another tale which completely gives the
lie to Miss Armytage's, but confirms your own."
"Richard Butler!'* cried O'Moy. "He has surren-
dered to you?"
"Half-an-hourago."
Sir Terence turned aside with a weary shrug. A
little laugh that was more a sob broke from him.
"Poor Una!" he muttered.
"The tangle is a shocking one lies, lies every-
where, and in the places where they were least to be
expected." Wellington's anger flashed out. "Do you
realise what awaits you as a result of all this damned
insanity?"
"I do, sir. That is why I place my resignation in
your hands. The disregard of a general order punish-
able in any officer is beyond pardon in your adjutant-
general."
"But that is the least of it, you fool."
"Sure, don't I know? I assure you that I realise it
all."
"And you are prepared to face it?" Wellington was
almost savage in an anger proceeding from the conflict
that went on within him. There was his duty as com-
mander-in-chief, and there was his friendship for
O'Moy and his memory of the past in which O'Moy's
loyalty had almost been the ruin of him.
"What choice have I?"
278 The Snare
His lordship turned away, and strode the length
of the room, his head bent, his lips twitching. Sud-
denly he stopped and faced the silent intelligence
officer.
"What is to be done, Grant? "
"That is a matter for your lordship. But if I might
venture "
"Venture and be damned/' snapped Wellington.
"The signal service rendered the cause of the Allies
by the death of Samoval might perhaps be per-
mitted to weigh against the offence committed by
O'Moy."
"How could it?" snapped his lordship. "You
don't know, O'Moy, that upon Samoval's body were
found certain documents intended for Massna. Had
they reached him, or had Samoval carried out the full
intentions that dictated his quarrel with you, and no
doubt sent him here depending upon his swordsman-
ship to kill you, all my plans for the undoing of the
French would have been ruined. Ay, you may stare.
That is another matter in which you have lacked dis-
cretion. You may be a fine engineer, O'Moy, but I
don't think I could have found a less judicious adju-
tant-general if I had raked the ranks of the army on
purpose to find an idiot. Samoval was a spy the
cleverest spy that we have ever had to deal with. Only
his death revealed how dangerous he was. For killing
him when you did you deserve the thanks of his Ma-
jesty's Government, as Grant suggests. But before
you can receive those you will have to stand a court-
martial for the manner in which you killed him, and
you will probably be shot. I can't help you. I hope
you don't expect it of me."
"The thought had not so much as occurred to me.
The Resignation 279
Yet what you tell me, sir, lifts something of the load
from my mind."
" Does it? Well, it lifts no load from mine," was the
angry retort. He stood considering. Then with an im-
patient gesture he seemed to dismiss his thoughts. " I
can do nothing," he said, "nothing without being false
to my duty and becoming as bad as you have been,
O'Moy, and without any of the sentimental justifi-
cation that existed in your case. I can 't allow the mat-
ter to be dropped, stifled. I have never been guilty of
such a thing, and I refuse to become guilty of it now.
I refuse do you understand? O'Moy, you have
acted; and you must take the consequences, and be
damned to you."
"Faith, I've never asked you to help me, sir/' Sir
Terence protested.
"And you don't intend to, I suppose?"
"I do not."
"I am glad of that." He was in one of those rages
which were as terrible as they were rare with him. " I
would n't have you suppose that I make laws for the
sake of rescuing people from the consequences of dis-
obeying them. Here is this brother-in-law of yours,
this fellow Butler, who has made enough mischief in
the country to imperil our relations with our allies.
And I am half pledged to condone his adventure at
Tavora. There 's nothing for it, O'Moy. As your friend,
I am infernally angry with you for placing yourself in
this position; as your commanding officer I can only
order you under arrest and convene a court-martial to
deal with you."
Sir Terence bowed his head. He was a little sur-
prised by all this heat. "I never expected anything
else," he said. "And it's altogether at a loss I am to
280 The Snare
understand why your lordship should be vexing your-
self in this manner."
"Because I've a friendship for you, O'Moy. Be-
cause I remember that you've been a loyal friend to
me. And because I must forget all this and remember
only that my duty is absolutely rigid and inflexible.
If I condoned your offence, if I suppressed inquiry, I
should be in duty and honour bound to offer my own
resignation to his Majesty's Government. And I have
to think of other things besides my personal feelings,
when at any moment now the French may be over the
Agueda and into Portugal. M
Sir Terence's face flushed, and his glance brightened.
"From my heart I thank you that you can even
think of such things at such a time and after what I
have done."
"Oh, as to what you have done I understand that
you are a fool, O'Moy. There's no more to be said.
You are to consider yourself under arrest. I must do
it if you were my own brother, which, thank God,
you're not. Come, Grant. Good-bye, O'Moy." And
he held out his hand to him.
Sir Terence hesitated, staring.
" It's the hand of your friend, Arthur Wellesley, I 'm
offering you, not the hand of your commanding officer,"
said his lordship savagely.
Sir Terence took it, and wrung it in silence, perhaps
more deeply moved than he had yet been by anything
that had happened to him that morning.
There was a knock at the door, and Mullins opened
it to admit the adjutant's orderly, who came stiffly to
attention.
"Major Carruthers's compliments, sir," he said to
O'Moy, "and his Excellency the Secretary of the
The Resignation 281
Council of Regency wishes to see you very urgently."
There was a pause. O'Moy shrugged and spread his
hands. This message was for the adjutant-general and
he no longer filled the office.
" Pray tell Major Carruthers that I "he was begin-
ning, when Lord Wellington intervened.
" Desire his Excellency to step across here. I will
see him myself."
CHAPTER XXI
SANCTUARY
"I WILL withdraw, sir," said Terence.
But Wellington detained him. "Since Dom Miguel
asked for you, you had better remain, perhaps."
"It is the adjutant-general Dom Miguel desires to
see, and I am adjutant-general no longer."
"Still, the matter may concern you. I have a notion
that it may be concerned with the death of Count
Samoval, since I have acquainted the Council of Re-
gency with the treason practised by the Count. You
had better remain."
Gloomy and downcast, Sir Terence remained as he
was bidden.
The sleek and supple Secretary of State was ushered
in. He came forward quickly, clicked his heels together
and bowed to the three men present.
"Sirs, your obedient servant," he announced himself,
with a courtliness almost out of fashion, speaking in
his extraordinarily fluent English. His sallow coun-
tenance was extremely grave. He seemed even a little
ill at ease.
" I am fortunate to find you here, my lord. The mat-
ter upon which I seek your adjutant-general is of con-
siderable gravity so much that of himself he might
be unable to resolve it. I feared you might already
have departed for the north."
"Since you suggest that my presence may be of
service to you, I am happy that circumstances should
have delayed my departure," was his lordship's cour-
teous answer. "A chair, Dom Miguel."
Sanctuary 283
Dom Miguel For j as accepted the proffered chair,
whilst Wellington seated himself at Sir Terence's desk.
Sir Terence himself remained standing with his shoul-
ders to the overmantel, whence he faced them both as
well as Grant, who, according to his self-effacing habit,
remained in the background by the window.
"I have sought you," began Dom Miguel, stroking
his square chin, "on a matter concerned with the late
Count Samoval, immediately upon hearing that the
court-martial pronounced the acquittal of Captain
Tremayne."
His lordship frowned, and his eagle glance fastened
upon the Secretary's face.
" I trust, sir, you have not come to question the find-
ing of the court-martial."
"Oh, on the contrary on the contrary!" Dom
Miguel was emphatic. " I represent not only the Coun-
cil, but the Samoval family as well. Both realise that
it is perhaps fortunate for all concerned that in arrest-
ing Captain Tremayne the military authorities ar-
rested the wrong man, and both have reason to dread
the arrest of the right one."
He paused, and the frown deepened between Wel-
lington's brows.
"I am afraid," he said slowly, "that I do not quite
perceive their concern in this matter."
"But is it not clear?" cried Dom Miguel.
"If it were I should perceive it," said his lordship
dryly.
"Ah, but let me explain, then. A further investi-
gation of the manner in which Count Samoval met his
death can hardly fail to bring to light the deplorable
practices in which he was engaged ; for no doubt Colo-
nel Grant, here, would consider it his duty in the in-
284 The Snare
terests of justice to place before the court the docu-
ments found upon the Count's dead body. If I may
permit myself an observation," he continued, looking
round at Colonel Grant, "it is that I do not quite un-
derstand how this has not already happened. "
There was a pause in which Grant looked at Wel-
lington as if for direction. But his lordship himself as-
sumed the burden of the answer.
"It was not considered expedient in the public in-
terest to do so at present," he said. "And the circum-
stances did not place us under the necessity of divulg-
ing the matter."
"There, my lord, if you will allow me to say so, you
acted with a delicacy and wisdom which the circum-
stances may not again permit. Indeed any further in-
vestigation must almost inevitably bring these matters
to light, and the effect of such revelation would be de-
plorable."
"Deplorable to whom?" asked his lordship.
"To the Count's family and to the Council of Re-
gency."
" I can sympathise with the Count's family, but not
with the Council."
"Surely, my lord, the Council as a body deserves
your sympathy in that it is in danger of being utterly
discredited by the treason of one or two of its mem-
bers."
Wellington manifested impatience. "The Council
has been warned time and again. I am weary of warn-
ing, and even of threatening, the Council with the
consequences of resisting my policy. I think that ex-
posure is not only what it deserves, but the surest
means of providing a healthier government in the fu-
ture. I am weary of picking my way through the web
Sanctuary 285
of intrigue with which the Council entangles my move-
ments and my dispositions. Public sympathy has
enabled it to hamper me in this fashion. That sym-
pathy will be lost to it by the disclosures which you
fear."
"My lord, I must confess that there is much reason
in what you say." He was smoothly conciliatory. "I
understand your exasperation. But may I be permit-
ted to assure you that it is not the Council as a body
that has withstood you, but certain self-seeking mem-
bers, one or two friends of Principal Souza, in whose
interests the unfortunate and misguided Count Samo-
val was acting. Your lordship will perceive that the
moment is not one in which to stir up public indigna-
tion against the Portuguese Government. Once the
passions of the mob are inflamed, who can say to what
lengths they may not go, who can say what disastrous
consequences may not follow? It is desirable to apply
the cautery, but not to burn up the whole body."
Lord Wellington considered a moment, fingering an
ivory paper-knife. He was partly convinced.
"When I last suggested the cautery, to use your own
very apt figure, the Council did not keep faith with
me."
'My lord!"
" It did not, sir. It removed Antonio de Souza, but
it did not take the trouble to go further and remove his
friends at the same time. They remained to carry on
his subversive treacherous intrigues. What guaran-
tees have I that the Council will behave better on this
occasion?"
"You have our solemn assurances, my lord, that all
those members suspected of complicity in this business
or of attachment to the Souza faction, shall be com-
286 The Snare
pelled to resign, and you may depend upon the recon-
stituted Council loyally to support your measures."
"You give me assurances, sir, and I ask for guar-
antees."
"Your lordship is in possession of the documents
found upon Count Samoval. The Council knows this,
and this knowledge will compel it to guard against
further intrigues on the part of any of its members
which might naturally exasperate you into publishing
those documents. Is not that some guarantee?"
His lordship considered, and nodded slowly. "I ad-
mit that it is. Yet I do not see how this publicity is to
be avoided in the course of the further investigations
into the manner in which Count Samoval came by his
death."
"My lord, that is the pivot of the whole matter. All
further investigation must be suspended."
Sir Terence trembled, and his eyes turned in eager
anxiety upon the inscrutable, stern face of Lord >Wel-
lington.
"Must!" cried his lordship sharply.
"What else, my lord, in all our interests?" exclaimed
the Secretary, and he rose in his agitation.
"And what of British justice, sir?" demanded his
lordship in a forbidding tone.
" British justice has reason to consider itself satisfied.
British justice may assume that Count Samoval met
his death in the pursuit of his treachery. He was a spy
caught in the act, and there and then destroyed a
very proper fate. Had he been taken, British justice
would have demanded no less. It has been anticipated.
Cannot British justice, for the sake of British interests
as well as Portuguese interests, be content to leave the
matter there?"
Sanctuary 287
"An argument of expediency, eh? " said Wellington.
"Why not, my lord! Does not expediency govern
politicians?"
"I am not a politician."
"But a wise soldier, my lord, does not lose sight of
the political consequences of his acts." And he sat
down again.
"Your Excellency may be right," said his lordship.
"Let us be quite clear, then. You suggest, speaking in
the name of the Council of Regency, that I should sup-
press all further investigations into the manner in
which Count Samoval met his death, so as to save his
family the shame and the Council of Regency the dis-
credit which must overtake one and the other if the
facts are disclosed as disclosed they would be
that Samoval was a traitor and a spy in the pay of the
French. That is what you ask me to do. In return
your Council undertakes that there shall be no further
opposition to my plans for the military defence of Por-
tugal, and that all my measures however harsh and
however heavily they may weigh upon the landowners,
shall be punctually and faithfully carried out. That is
your Excellency's proposal, is it not?"
"Not so much my proposal, my lord, as my most
earnest intercession. We desire to spare the innocent
the consequences of the sins of a man who is dead, and
well dead." He turned to O'Moy, standing there tense
and anxious. It was not for Dom Miguel to know that
it was the adjutant's fate that was being decided. "Sir
Terence," he cried, "you have been here for a year,
and all matters connected with the Council have been
treated through you. You cannot fail to see the wis-
dom of my recommendation."
v His lordship's eyes flashed round upon O'Moy. "Ah
288 The Snare
yes!" he said. "What is your feeling in this matter,
O'Moy?" he inquired, his tone and manner void of all
expression.
Sir Terence faltered; then stiffened. "I The
matter is one that only your lordship can decide. I
have no wish to influence your decision."
"I see. Ha! And you, Grant? No doubt you agree
with Dom Miguel?"
"Most emphatically upon every count, sir,"
replied the intelligence officer without hesitation. "I
think Dom Miguel offers an excellent bargain. And,
as he says, we hold a guarantee of its fulfilment."
"The bargain might be improved," said Wellington
slowly.
" If your lordship will tell me how, the Council, I am
sure, will be ready to do all that lies in its power to
satisfy you."
Wellington shifted his chair round a little, and
crossed his legs. He brought his finger-tips together,
and over the top of them his eyes considered the Sec-
retary of State.
"Your Excellency has spoken of expediency po-
litical expediency. Sometimes political expediency
can overreach itself and perpetrate the most grave
injustices. Individuals at times are unnecessarily
called upon to suffer in the interests of a cause. Your
Excellency will remember a certain affair at Tavora
some two months ago the invasion of a convent by
a British officer with rather disastrous consequences
and the loss of some lives."
" I remember it perfectly, my lord. I had the honour
of entertaining Sir Terence upon that subject on the
occasion of my last visit here."
"Quite so," said his lordship. "And on the grounds
Sanctuary 289
of political expediency you made a bargain then with
Sir Terence, I understand, a bargain which entailed
the perpetration of an injustice."
" I am not aware of it, my lord."
"Then let me refresh your Excellency's memory
upon the facts. To appease the Council of Regency,
or rather to enable me to have my way with the Coun-
cil and remove the Principal Souza, you stipulated for
the assurance so that you might lay it before your
Council that the offending officer should be shot
when taken."
"I could not help myself in the matter, and "
"A moment, sir. That is not the way of British jus-
tice, and Sir Terence was wrong to have permitted
himself to consent ; though I profoundly appreciate the
loyalty to me, the earnest desire to assist me, which
led him into an act the cost of which to himself your
Excellency can hardly appreciate. But the wrong lay
in that by virtue of this bargain a British officer was
prejudged. He was to be made a scapegoat. He was
to be sent to his death when taken, as a peace-offering
to the people, demanded by the Council of Regency.
"Since all this happened I have had the facts of the
case placed before me. I will go so far as to tell you,
sir, that the officer in question has been in my hands
for the past hour, that I have closely questioned him,
and that I am satisfied that whilst he has been guilty of
conduct which might compel me to deprive him of his
Majesty's commission and dismiss him from the army,
yet that conduct is not such as to merit death. He has
chiefly sinned in folly and want of judgment. I reprove
it in the sternest terms, and I deplore the consequences
it had. But for those consequences the nuns of Tavora
are almost as much to blame as he is himself. His in-
290 The Snare
vasion of their convent was a pure error, committed in
the belief that it was a monastery and as a result of the
porter's foolish conduct.
"Now, Sir Terence's word, given in response to
your absolute demands, has committed us to an unjust
course, which I have no intention of following. I will
stipulate, sir, that your Council, in addition to the
matters undertaken, shall relieve us of all obligation
in this matter, leaving it to our discretion to punish
Mr. Butler in such manner as we may consider con-
dign. In return, your Excellency, I will undertake that
there shall be no further investigation into the manner
in which Count Samoval came by his death, and con-
sequently, no disclosures of the shameful trade in
which he was engaged. If your Excellency will give
yourself the trouble of taking the sense of your Coun-
cil upon this, we may then reach a settlement."
The grave anxiety of Dom Miguel's countenance
was instantly dispelled. In his relief he permitted him-
self a smile.
"My lord, there is not the need to take the sense of
the Council. The Council has given me carte blanche
to obtain your consent to a suppression of the Samoval
affair. And without hesitation I accept the further
condition that you make. Sir Terence may consider
himself relieved of his parole in the matter of Lieuten-
ant Butler."
"Then we may look upon the matter as concluded."
"As happily concluded, my lord." Dom Miguel
rose to make his valedictory oration. "It remains for
me only to thank your lordship in the name of the
Council for the courtesy and consideration with which
you have received my proposal and granted our peti-
tion. Acquainted as I am with the crystalline course
Sanctuary 291
of British justice, knowing as I do how it seeks ever to
act in the full light of day, I am profoundly sensible
of the cost to your lordship of the concession you make
to the feelings of the Samoval family and the Portu-
guese Government, and I can assure you that they will
be accordingly grateful."
"That is very gracefully said, Dom Miguel/' replied
his lordship, rising also.
The Secretary placed a hand upon his heart, bowing.
4 ' It is but the poor expression of what I think and feel."
And so he took his leave of them, escorted by Colonel
Grant, who discreetly volunteered for the office.
Left alone with Wellington, Sir Terence heaved a
great sigh of supreme relief.
" In my wife's name, sir, I should like to thank you.
But she shall thank you herself for what you have done
for me."
"What I have done for you, O'Moy?" Wellington's
slight figure stiffened perceptibly, his face and glance
were cold and haughty. "You mistake, I think, or else
you did not hear. What I have done, I have done
solely upon grounds of political expediency. I had no
choice in the matter, and it was not to favour you, or
out of disregard for my duty, as you seem to imagine,
that I acted as I did."
O'Moy bowed his head, crushed under that rebuff.
He clasped and unclasped his hands a moment in his
desperate anguish.
"I understand," he muttered in a broken voice,
"I I beg your pardon, sir."
And then Wellington's slender, firm fingers took him
by the arm.
"But I am glad, O'Moy, that I had no choice," he
added more gently. "As a man, I suppose I may be
292 The Snare
glad that my duty as Commander-in-Chief placed me
under the necessity of acting as I have done."
Sir Terence clutched the hand in both his own and
wrung it fiercely, obeying an overmastering impulse.
"Thank you," he cried. "Thank you for that!"
"Tush!" said Wellington, and then abruptly:
"What are you going to do, O'Moy?" he asked.
"Do?" said O'Moy, and his blue eyes looked plead-
ingly down into the sternly handsome face of his chief.
" I am in your hands, sir."
"Your resignation is, and there it must remain,
O'Moy. You understand?"
"Of course, sir. Naturally you could not after
this " He shrugged and broke off. "But must I
go home?" he pleaded.
"What else? And, by God, sir, you should be thank-
ful, I think."
"Very well," was the dull answer, and then he flared
out. " Faith, it's your own fault for giving me a job of
this kind. You knew me. You know that I am just a
blunt, simple soldier that my place is at the head of
a regiment, not at the head of an administration. You
should have known that by putting me out of my
proper element I was bound to get into trouble sooner
or later."
"Perhaps I do/ 1 said Wellington. "But what am I
to do with you now?" He shrugged, and strode to-
wards the window. " You had better go home, O'Moy.
Your health has suffered out here, and you are not
equal to the heat of summer that is now increasing.
That is the reason of this resignation. You under-
stand?"
"I shall be shamed for ever," said O'Moy. "To go
home when the army is about to take the field!"
Sanctuary 293
But Wellington did not hear him, or did not seem to
hear him. He had reached the window and his eye was
caught by something that he saw in the courtyard.
"What the devil's this now?" he rapped out.
"That is one of Sir Robert Craufurd's aides."
He turned and went quickly to the door. He opened
it as rapid steps approached along the passage, accom-
panied by the jingle of spurs and the clatter of sabre-
tache and trailing sabre. Colonel Grant appeared,
followed by a young officer of Light Dragoons who
was powdered from head to foot with dust. The youth
he was little more lurched forward wearily, yet
at sight of Wellington he braced himself to attention
and saluted.
"You appear to have ridden hard, sir," the Com-
mander greeted him.
"From Almeida in forty-seven hours, my lord," was
the answer. "With these from Sir Robert." And he
proffered a sealed letter.
"What is your name?" Wellington inquired, as he
took the package.
" Hamilton, my lord," was the answer; " Hamilton of
the Sixteenth, aide-de-camp to Sir Robert Craufurd."
Wellington nodded. "That was great horseman-
ship, Mr. Hamilton," he commended him; and a faint
tinge in the lad's haggard cheeks responded to that
rare praise.
"The urgency was great, my lord," replied Mr.
Hamilton.
"The French columns are in movement. Ney and
Junot advanced to the investment of Ciudad Rodrigo
on the first of the month."
"Already!" exclaimed Wellington, and his coun-
tenance set.
294 The Snare
"The commander, General Herrasti, has sent an
urgent appeal to Sir Robert for assistance."
"And Sir Robert?" The question came on a sharp
note of apprehension, for his lordship was fully aware
that valour was the better part of Sir Robert Crau-
furd's discretion.
"Sir Robert asks for orders in this dispatch, and re-
fuses to stir from Almeida without instructions from
your lordship."
"Ah!" It was a sigh of relief . He broke the seal and
spread the dispatch. He read swiftly. "Very well,"
was all he said, when he had reached the end of Sir
Robert's letter. " I shall reply to this in person and at
once. You will be in need of rest, Mr. Hamilton. You
had best take a day to recuperate, then follow me to
Almeida. Sir Terence no doubt will see to your imme-
diate needs."
"With pleasure, Mr. Hamilton," replied Sir Terence
mechanically for his own concerns weighed upon
him at this moment more heavily than the French ad-
vance. He pulled the bell-rope, and into the fatherly
hands of Mullins, who came in response to the sum-
mons, the young officer was delivered.
Lord Wellington took up his hat and riding-crop
from Sir Terence's desk. " I shall leave for the frontier
at once," he announced. "Sir Robert will need the en-
couragement of my presence to keep him within the pru-
dent bounds I have imposed. And I do not know how
long Ciudad Rodrigo may be able to hold out. At any
moment we may have the French upon the Agueda,
and the invasion may begin. As for you, O'Moy,
this has changed everything. The French and the
needs of the case have decided. For the present no
change is possible in the administration here in Lisbon.
Sanctuary 295
You hold the threads of your office and the moment is
not one in which to appoint another adjutant to take
them over. Such a thing might be fatal to the success
of the British arms. You must withdraw this resigna-
tion." And he proffered the document.
Sir Terence recoiled. He went deathly white.
"I cannot," he stammered. " After what has hap-
pened, I "
Lord Wellington's face became set and stern. His
eyes blazed upon the adjutant.
"O'Moy," he said, and the concentrated anger of his
voice was terrifying, "if you suggest that any consid-
erations but those of this campaign have the least
weight with me in what I now do, you insult me. I
yield to no man in my sense of duty, and I allow no
private considerations to override it. You are saved
from going home in disgrace by the urgency of the cir-
cumstances, as I have told you. By that and by noth-
ing else. Be thankful, then; and in loyally remaining
at your post efface what is past. You know what is
doing at Torres Vedras. The works have been under
your direction from the commencement. See that they
are vigorously pushed forward and that the lines are
ready to receive the army in a month's time from now
if necessary. I depend upon you the army and
England's honour depend upon you. I bow to the in-
evitable and so shall you." Then his sternness relaxed.
"So much as your commanding officer. Now as your
friend," and he held out his hand, " I congratulate you
upon your luck. After this morning's manifestations
of it, it should pass into a proverb. Good-bye, O'Moy.
I trust you, remember."
"And I shall not fail you," gulped O'Moy, who,
strong man that he was, found himself almost on
296 The Snare
the verge of tears. He clutched the extended hand.
"I shall fix my headquarters for the present at Ce-
lorico. Communicate with me there. And now one
other matter: the Council of Regency will no doubt
pester you with representations that I should if
time still remains advance to the relief of Ciudad
Rodrigo. Understand, that is no part of my plan of
campaign. I do not stir across the frontier of Portugal.
Here let the French come and find me, and I shall be
ready to receive them. Let the Portuguese Govern-
ment have no illusions on that point, and stimulate the
Council into doing all possible to carry out the destruc-
tion of mills and the laying waste of the country in the
valley of the Mondego and wherever else I have re-
quired.
"Oh, and by the way, you will find your brother-in-
law, Mr. Butler, in the guard-room yonder, awaiting
my orders. Provide him with a uniform and bid him re-
join his regiment at once. Recommend him to be more
prudent in future if he wishes me to forget his esca-
pade at Tavora. And in future, O'Moy, trust your wife.
Again, good-bye. Come, Grant! I have instructions
for you too. But you must take them as we ride."
And thus Sir Terence O'Moy found sanctuary at the
altar of his country's need. They left him incredu-
lously to marvel at the luck which had so enlisted
circumstances to save him where all had seemed so
surely lost an hour ago.
He sent a servant to fetch Mr. Butler, the prime
cause of all this pother for all of it can be traced to
Mr. Butler's invasion of the Tavora nunnery and
with him went to bear the incredible tidings of their
joint absolution to the three who waited so anxiously
in the dining-room.
POSTSCRIPTUM
THE particular story which I have set myself to relate,
of how Sir Terence O'Moy was taken in the snare of his
own jealousy, may very properly be concluded here.
But the greater story in which it is enshrined and with
which it is interwoven, the story of that other snare in
which my Lord Viscount Wellington took the French,
goes on. This story is the history of the war in the Pen-
insula. There you may pursue it to its very end and
realise the iron will and inflexibility of purpose which
caused men ultimately to bestow upon him who guided
that campaign the singularly felicitous and fitting so-
briquet of the Iron Duke.
Ciudad Rodrigo's Spanish garrison capitulated on
the loth of July of that year 1810, and a wave of in-
dignation such as must have overwhelmed any but a
man of almost superhuman mettle swept up against
Lord Wellington for having stood inactive within the
frontiers of Portugal and never stirred a hand to aid
the Spaniards. It was not only from Spain that bitter
invective was hurled upon him; British journalism
poured scorn and rage upon his incompetence, French
journalism held his pusillanimity up to the ridicule of
the world. His own officers took shame in their general,
and expressed it. Parliament demanded to know how
long British honour was to be imperilled by such a
man. And finally the Emperor's great marshal, Mas-
sena, gathering his hosts to overwhelm the kingdom of
Portugal, availed himself of all this to appeal to the
Portuguese nation in terms which the facts would
seem to corroborate.
298 The Snare
He issued his proclamation denouncing the British
for the disturbers and mischief-makers of Europe,
warning the Portuguese that they were the cat's-paw
of a perfidious nation that was concerned solely with
the serving of its own interests and the gratification
of its predatory ambitions, and finally summoning
them to receive the French as their true friends and
saviours.
The nation stirred uneasily. So far no good had
come to them of their alliance with the British. Indeed
Wellington's policy of devastation had seemed to those
upon whom it fell more horrible than any French in-
vasion could have been.
But Wellington held the reins, and his grip never
relaxed or slackened. And here let it be recorded that
he was nobly and stoutly served in Lisbon by Sir Ter-
ence O'Moy. Pressure upon the Council resulted in the
measures demanded being carried out. But much time
had been lost through the intrigues of the Souza fac-
tion, with the result that those measures, although
prosecuted now more vigorously, never reached the full
extent which Wellington had desired. Treachery, too,
stepped in to shorten the time still further. Almeida,
garrisoned by Portuguese and commanded by Colonel
Cox and a British staff, should have held a month.
But no sooner had the French appeared before it, on
the 26th August, than a powder magazine traitorously
fired exploded and breached the wall, rendering the
place untenable.
To Wellington this was perhaps the most vexatious
of all things in that vexatious time. He had hoped to
detain Massena before Almeida until the rains should
have set in, when the French would have found them-
selves struggling through a sodden, water-logged coun-
Postscriptum 299
try, through bridgeless floods and a land bereft of all
that could sustain the troops. Still, what could be
done Wellington did, and did it nobly. Fighting a rear-
guard action, he fell back upon the grim and naked
ridges of Busaco, where at the end of September he
delivered battle and a murderous detaining wound
upon the advancing hosts of France. That done, he con-
tinued the retreat through Coimbra. And now as he
went he saw to it that the devastation was completed
along the line of march. What corn and provisions
could not be carried off were burnt or buried, and the
people forced to quit their dwellings and march with
the army a pathetic, southward exodus of men and
women, old and young, flocks of sheep, and herds of
cattle, creaking bullock-carts laden with provender
and household goods, leaving behind them a country
bare as the Sahara, where hunger before long should
grip the French army too far committed now to pause.
In advancing and overtaking must lie Mass6na's hope.
Eventually in Lisbon he must bring the British to bay,
and, breaking them, open out at last his way into a
land of plenty.
Thus thought Massna, knowing nothing of the lines
of Torres Vedras; and thus, too, thought the British
Government at home, itself declaring that Wellington
was ruining the country to no purpose, since in the end
the British must be driven out with terrible loss and
infamy that must make their name an opprobrium in
the world.
But Wellington went his relentless way, and at the
end of the first week of October brought his army and
the multitude of refugees safely within the amazing
lines. The French, pressing hard upon their heels and
confident that the end was near, were brought up
300 The Snare
sharply before those stupendous, unsuspected, impreg-
nable fortifications
After spending best part of a month in vain recon-
noitring, Massena took up his quarters at Santarem,
and thence the country was scoured for what scraps of
victuals had been left to relieve the dire straits of the
famished host of France. How the great marshal con-
trived to hold out so long in Santarem against the on-
slaught of famine and concomitant disease remains
something of a mystery. An appeal to the Emperor
for succour eventually brought Drouetwith provisions,
but these were no more than would keep his men alive
on a retreat into Spain, and that retreat he commenced
early in the following March, by when no less than ten
thousand of his army had fallen sick.
Instantly Wellington was up and after him. The
French retreat became a flight. They threw away bag-
gage and ammunition that they might travel the
lighter. Thus they fled towards Spain, harassed by the
British cavalry and scarcely less by the resentful peas-
antry of Portugal, their line of march defined by an
unbroken trail of carcasses, until the tattered remnants
of that once splendid army found shelter across the
Coira. Beyond this Wellington could not continue the
pursuit for lack of means to cross the swollen river and
also because provisions were running short.
But there for the moment he might rest content,
his immediate object achieved and his stern strategy
supremely vindicated.
On the heights above the yellow, turgid flood rode
Wellington with a glittering staff that included O'Moy
and Murray, the quartermaster-general. Through his
telescope he surveyed with silent satisfaction the
straggling columns of the French that were being ab-
Postscriptum 301
sorbed by the evening mists from the sodden ground.
O'Moy, at his side, looked on without satisfaction.
To him the close of this phase of the campaign which
had justified his remaining in office meant the reopen-
ing of that painful matter that had been left in sus-
pense by circumstances since that June day of last
year at Monsanto. The resignation then refused from
motives of expediency must again be tendered and
must now be accepted.
Abruptly upon the general stillness came a sharply
humming sound. Within a yard of the spot where
Wellington sat his horse a handful of soil heaved itself
up and fell in a tiny scattered shower. Immediately
elsewhere in a dozen places was the phenomenon re-
peated. There was too much glitter about the staff
uniforms and vindictive French sharpshooters were
finding them an attractive mark.
"They are firing on us, sir!" cried O'Moy on a note
of sharp alarm.
"So I perceive," Lord Wellington answered calmly,
and leisurely he closed his glass, so leisurely that
O'Moy, in impatient fear of his chief, spurred forward
and placed himself as a screen between him and the
line of fire.
Lord Wellington looked at him with a faint smile.
He was about to speak when O'Moy pitched forward
and rolled headlong from the saddle.
They picked him up unconscious but alive, and for
once Lord Wellington was seen to blench as he flung
down from his horse to inquire the nature of O'Moy's
hurt. It was not fatal, but, as it afterwards proved, it
was grave enough. He had been shot through the
body, the right lung had been grazed and one of his
ribs broken.
3O2 The Snare
Two days later, after the bullet had been extracted,
Lord Wellington went to visit him in the house where
he was quartered. Bending over him and speaking
quietly, his lordship said that which brought a mois-
ture to the eyes of Sir Terence and a smile to his pale
lips. What actually were his lordship's words may be
gathered from the answer he received.
"Ye 're entirely wrong, then, and it's mighty glad
I am. For now I need no longer hand you my resig-
nation. I can be invalided home."
So he was ; and thus it happens that not until now
when this chronicle makes the matter public does
the knowledge of Sir Terence's single but grievous de-
parture from the path of honour go beyond the few
who were immediately concerned with it. They kept
faith with him because they loved him; and because
they had understood all that went to the making of his
sin, they condoned it.
If I have done my duty as a faithful chronicler, you
who read, understanding too, will take satisfaction in
that it was so.
THE END
PR 6057 ,A2 S6 1922 SMC
Sabatini, Rafael,
The snare
