importance. "Oh, of course we should that it was locked; he had be a small country of no great knocked, and had received no But I must be answer. He had wondered whether, during their search, going now." Where? Back to the uni- they had seen what was beversity?" The monk made a quick movement-it was this that gave him away. Wynterfold, seized with a sudden impulse, laid hold of the hairs of his beard beneath his chin. The man glared at him in utter amazement, and inwardly breathed a prayer that the gum would stick. But his prayer remained unheard, and it didn't. Following this discovery came the false wig. Close-fitting as it was, so as to deceive any but a searching scrutiny, with its accompaniment of skull-cap and tonsure, it fell as easy a prey to Wynterfold as the beard, and Balty, without excuse or palliation, and minus his black moustache, stood speechless and unvindicated before an astonished world. Tarragon was almost the only person there to miss the last stages of this wonderful spectacle. Content that all would be well after witnessing the incident of the beard, he had turned away in order not to draw upon himself too much attention, and to explore another mystery that had been intriguing him. This was a small door hidden behind a screen in the farther corner of the room. There was something about its secretiveness that was particularly arresting. He had tried to open it, and had found yond it. Then he looked out of the window to draw the notice of some one who could answer his question, and was pleased to see that the attention of the crowd was drawn towards the ci-devant monk, who was now the centre of interest. Whatever he did would be far less conspicuous now that they were all engrossed in another matter. So he slipped outside, and, as if making a casual inquiry, said to one of the officers who stood near Wynterfold 66 Come and see the door?" "What door? he said quietly. Come along with me. I will show you." They had the door opened, and went down the flight of stairs that that lay beyond it. Others followed with an escort, and found a disused cellar. There was no wine there, but it was not empty nevertheless. It was the prison. Some minutes later-maybe twenty-eleven people came up the staircase. Ten of them were of the type that you can see anywhere nowadays in one of the cages that are provided for Sinn Feiners-men of a low caste of feature, ugly, stooping most of them, unshaven, shiftyeyed, a mixture of craft and fear written on every line of their faces. They were the kind of men whom Balty and his like had formerly led-or driven-two or three hundred strong, to attack twenty policemen, though now they were fallen into disfavour with the champions of freedom. The eleventh was not of this type. He was tall and erect, and even coming as he did straight from his sordid captivity, neat and point-devise in every detail. His open dignity and manly bearing contrasted startlingly with his strange surroundings. It was not altogether to their satisfaction when they reached Killiney to find that Robert was accompanied by Riordan, so that the car had to cope with six persons, Riordan sitting beside the driver, and the other five inside. This used up some time and all the remaining light, so that night had already come down when they were ready to start again-a night without moon, almost without stars, impenetrable. Here and there, at rare intervals, the merest flicker amid It was General Stewart, kid- the blackness, some light napped a month ago. Tarragon explained to Vardon, the Intelligence officer, in private that Robert had brought him as far as Killiney, and waited for him there. Could they help him on his way back? Certainly they could. If he didn't mind being squeezed into the General's car-he would very likely have to sit on the floor-they would be delighted to take him. Dusk was creeping on. It was the hour the French call so fitly "between dog and wolf." And they must be away before darkness. A crowd waited at the other side of the barrier to watch the passing of the troops. The car, containing the driver, Vardon of the Intelligence on the seat in front beside him, the General with another officer and Tarragon inside, raced swiftly on and over the bridge where Robert and John had experienced their encounter with the police. twinkled in a solitary homestead. Setting out on an expedition, every one is alert, expectant, hoping for the best, yet preparing for the worst. Returning, especially after success, their caution relaxes, they tend to be gay, filled with a sense of security, over-confident, careless of precaution. So perhaps it may have been with this party, and then suddenly "Ping! whiz!" Shots rang out. And the General, calm and collected, the others slightly flurried: "Get out of the car," said he; "we're ambushed. Have any of you got revolvers ? Certainly somebody had, and no mistake. Riordan was firing wildly into the darkness in the direction from which the reports came. They were out in the road: it is the best policy always. Though protected with steel, the car is the mark; and men moving in the dark make no target at all. The combatants are seen only by the flash of in the asylum, that she was a prisoner. their weapons. Tarragon heard a fall and a groan. Groping on the ground round him "Who's that?" he called out. Then he almost stumbled over some one. "It's I, Robert. By God! they've done me in this time. That letter wasn't a joke." A woman came running across the fields from a house near by, screaming out some unintelligible jargon. As she came nearer, her words were audible. "Blessed mother of God! and these be therrible times. And who is it they'd be murthering now, the cowardly spalpeens!" "It's Captain Macghahorn, from Macghahorn," said Tarragon. "Is there a house near? Can you help us?' "Macghahorn! Macghahorn!" she said. "Is it Captain Robert that'd be lying there? Help you! God never help me again in anything if I'd not be helping your honour!" They carried Robert into the house and laid him on a bed. He was weak with loss of blood and almost unconscious, but still able to recognise her. It was Mrs O'Rorke, the widow of the murdered constable. She told him the military had brought her there only an hour before to see her children. She had not dared, she said, to tell them, when they saw her Do you know who he was?" "Yes; he was a tallish man with grey eyes, black hair, and a squint." A pang of self-accusation pierced through Tarragon that forced him to review the past in the sudden light that cured his blindness. He had regarded this man as a vain fool, who all through had been a singlehearted loyalist, faithful to the government that forsakes its supporters, and dying revealed himself a hero. After a long pause, he said— "And Robert; did they really want to kill him too? "They may have, but it was the General they were after. By some unaccountable means they knew that we had rescued him. Probably the post-office," THE JOLLY ROGER. BY DOUGLAS G. BROWNE. "He sang to them of Pyracy, of Wrecks I. as a WHEN Captain Kidd was sen- diversified "the Isle of Doggs, The evil against which these measures were directed was, for a time, a very serious one. It has become strangely transfigured in what is called the popular mind (assisted by eminent novelists) during more recent and orderly generations, ignorant of how unpleasant it is to be robbed and set adrift in an open boat, if not murdered outright, somewhere in midocean. Experiences during the late war may have cured a few beliefs in the romance of piracy. For, in truth, there was little romance in that profession. In its earlier form, as buccaneering, which differed ethically only in degree and not in kind from the later development, it could show at least some arresting figures like Drake or Morgan, some enterprises that were not wholly predatory in design nor brutal in execution, and some startling military exploits; but the genuine pirate of the early eighteenth century had few redeeming qualities. With rare exceptions, he was a mere vulgar ruffian-ignorant, cruel, and often extraordinarily stupid. The romantic and even chivalrous pirate of fiction is as big a myth as the legendary highwayman. In the nature of things he could not have existed: his friends would not have endured him for a moment. The real man was the direct ancestor of the engaging gentleman we have with us in such numbers to-day, who bludgeons old ladies and holds up defenceless post-office girls at the muzzle of a revolver. And it will be found that this type of scoundrel always becomes suddenly prominent, both in numbers and audacity, at certain definite periods of history-at the close, namely, of every prolonged and far-reaching war. For at such times, in addition to in addition to the ordinary criminals who have been absorbed into armies and navies, a peace lets loose also a formidable reinforcement of shiftless men changed by circumstance, rendered unemployable and reckless, inured to hardship and violence, callous, needy, and more or less expert in the use of weapons. For such men opportunities at sea have been cramped by steam and wireless telegraphy; but Europe is cursed ashore with thousands of them at this moment. And the heyday of genuine piracy its few busy and predominant years, whose false glitter, refined by time and ignorance, still shines as a tale for schoolboys-arose immediately after the Peace of Utrecht in 1713. For a generation before there had been warfare all over the globe. Adventurous men, who sought a more free and profitable life than any regular service had to offer, had manned the innumerable privateers sent out during the long conflict by all the belligerents. Licence, excitement, drink, and often money in abundance, were to be found by those who sailed under Letters of Marque and Reprisal. Even a man-of-war might win a prize worth taking. For twenty-five years and more, |